I laugh at all the fools who at me gape, And whom with prying goat-like face I see; I laugh at every fox who knavishly And idly snuffs me like a very grape; I laugh at every vain pretentious ape, Who a proud judge of genius claims to be; I laugh at all the knaves who threaten me With poisonous weapons whence there’s no escape. For when the charming fancies joy once gave Are wrested from us by the hands of fate, And at our feet in thousand atoms cast, And when our very heart is torn at last, All torn and cut and pierced and desolate, A fine shrill laugh we still have power to save. 4. A strange and charming tale still haunts my mind, Wherein a song the leading part assumes, And in the song there lives and twines and blooms A lovely specimen of womankind; And in this maiden is a heart enshrined, And yet no love that little heart illumes; Her loveless frosty disposition dooms Her life to suffer from her pride so blind. Hear’st thou how in my head the tale comes back? And how the song sounds solemnly and sad? And how the maiden titters softly yet? I only fear lest my poor head should crack. Alas! it would indeed be far too bad, If my unlucky reason were upset. 5. At evening’s silent, melancholy hour, Long buried songs around me take their place, And burning tears course swiftly down my face, And my old heart-wounds bleed with greater power. My love’s dear image like a beauteous flower As in a magic glass again I trace; In bodice red she sits and sews apace, And silence reigns around her blissful bower. But on a sudden springs she from her seat, And cuts from her dear head a beauteous lock, And gives it me--the very joy’s a shock. The Evil One soon spoilt my rapture sweet: The hair he twisted in a rope full strong, And many a year has dragg’d me thus along. 6. “When I a year ago again met thee, “No kiss thou gav’st me in that moment blest;”-- Thus spake I, and my love a kiss impress’d With rosy mouth upon my lips with glee. With a sweet smile she from a myrtle tree Hard by us pluck’d a twig, and said in jest: “Take thou this twig, in fresh earth let it rest, “And o’er it place a glass,”--then nodded she. Twas long ago. The twig died in the pot. ’Tis many a year since she hath cross’d my sight; Yet in my head that kiss still burneth hot. Lately returning home, I sought the place Where dwells my love. Before her house all night I stood, and left when morning show’d its face. 7.