On night’s secrecy relying, Silently I breathe my woes; From the haunts of mortals flying, Where the cup of pleasure flows. Down my cheeks run tears all burning, Silently, unceasingly; But my bosom’s fiery yearning Quench’ed by tears can never be. When a laughing urchin, gaily Many a merry game I play’d; In life’s sunshine basking daily, Knowing nought of grief or shade. For a garden of enjoyment Was the world I then lived in, Tending flowers my sole employment, Roses, violets, jessamine. By the brook’s side, on the meadow, Sweetly mused I in those days; Now I see a pale thin shadow, When upon the brook I gaze. Pale and thin my grief hath made me, Since mine eyes upon her fell; Secret sorrows now pervade me, Wonderful and hard to tell. Deep within my heart I cherish’d Angel forms of peace and love, Which have fled, their short joys perish’d, To their starry home above. Ghastly shadows rise unbidden, Black night round mine eyes is thrown; In my trembling breast is hidden A sad whisp’ring voice unknown. Unknown sorrows, unknown anguish Toss me wildly to and fro, And I pine away and languish, Tortured by an unknown glow. But the cause why I am lying Rack’d by fiery torments now,-- Why from very grief I’m dying,-- Love, behold!--The cause art thou! 3. YEARNING. With sweetheart on arm, all my comrades with joy Beneath the linden trees move; But I, alas, poor desolate boy, In utter solitude rove Mine eye grows dim, my heart is oppress’d, When happy lovers I see; For a sweetheart by me is also possess’d, But, alas, far distant is she. I have borne it for years, with a heart fit to break, But no longer can bear with the pain; So pack up my bundle, my pilgrim’s staff take, And start on my travels again. And onward I go for hundreds of miles, Till I come to a city renown’d; A noble river beneath it smiles, With three stately towers ’tis crown’d. And now my late sorrows no longer annoy, Made happy at last is my love; For there, with my sweetheart on arm, I with joy Can beneath the sweet linden trees rove. 4. THE WHITE FLOWER In father’s garden there silently grows A flow’ret mournful and pale; The spring-time returns, the winter’s frost goes, Pale flow’ret remaineth as pale. The poor pale flower looks still Like a young bride that’s ill. Pale flow’ret gently saith to me-- “Dear brother, pluck me, I pray!” I answer pale flow’ret--“That must not be, I never will take thee away. I seek with anxious care A purple flow’ret fair.”