Often dost thou laugh whilst reading, Yet at intervals thy forehead Solemnly is wrinkled over, And these thoughts then steal across thee: “Sounds it not like those young visions That I dreamt once with Chamisso, And Brentano and Fouqué, In the blue and moonlight evenings?[39] “Is it not the dear notes rising From the long-lost forest chapel? Sound the well-known cap and bells not Roguishly at intervals? “In the nightingale’s sweet chorus Breaks the bear’s deep double-bass, Dull and growling, interchanging In its turn with spirit-whispers! “Nonsense, which pretends to wisdom! Wisdom, which has turn’d quite crazy! Dying sighs, which suddenly Into laughter are converted!”-- Yes, my friend, the sounds indeed ’tis From the long departed dream-time; Save that modern quavers often ’Midst the olden keynotes jingle. Signs of trembling thou’lt discover Here and there, despite the boasting; I commend this little poem To thy well-proved gentleness! Ah! perchance it is the last free Forest-song of the Romantic; In the daytime’s wild confusion Will it sadly die away. Other times and other birds too! Other birds and other music! What a crackling, like the geese’s Who preserved the Capitol! What a twitt’ring! ’Tis the sparrows,. While their claws hold farthing rushlights; Yet they’re strutting like Jove’s eagle With the mighty thunderbolt! What a cooing! Turtledoves ’tis; Sick of love, they now are hating, And henceforward, ’stead of Venus, Draw the chariot of Bellona! What a humming, world-convulsing! ’Tis in fact the big cock-chafers Of the springtime of the people, Smitten with a sudden frenzy! Other times and other birds too! Other birds and other music! They perchance could give me pleasure Had I only other ears! GERMANY.[40] A WINTER TALE. CAPUT I. In the mournful month of November ’twas, The winter days had returnèd, The wind from the trees the foliage tore, When I tow’rds Germany journied. And when at length to the frontier I came I felt a mightier throbbing Within my breast, tears fill’d my eyes, And I wellnigh broke into sobbing. And when I the German language heard, Strange feelings each other succeeding, I felt precisely as though my heart Right pleasantly were bleeding. A little maiden sang to the harp; Real feeling her song was conveying, Though false was her voice, and yet I felt Deep moved at hearing her playing. She sang of love, and she sang of love’s woes, Of sacrifices, and meeting Again on high, in yon better world Where vanish our sorrows so fleeting.