The lovely eyes of violet blue, The beauteous cheeks of rosy hue, The hands so like white lilies too,-- All these still sweetly blossom and bloom, The heart alone is cold as the tomb. 33. The earth is so fair, and the heavens so bright, The breezes are breathing with soothing might The blooming fields with flowers are dight, In the morning dew all radiant with light, All men are rejoicing that meet my sight-- My bed in the grave I fain would be pressing, The corpse of my mistress dear caressing. 34. When in the tomb, my mistress fair, The chilly tomb, thou must hide thee. I’ll soon descend to rejoin thee there, And fondly nestle beside thee. I wildly will press thee, embrace thee, and kiss My pale, cold, fearful-to-see love! I’ll tremble, weep, shout with rapturous bliss, And soon be a corpse like thee, love. The dead will arise, when midnight is nigh, And dance in airy troops lightly; But we in the tomb will quietly lie, Thine arms embracing me tightly. The dead will arise, when the loud trump of doom To bliss or to torment is calling; But regardless of all, we’ll remain in the tomb, Still clasp’d in embraces enthralling. 35. A lonely fir tree is standing On a northern barren height; It sleeps, and the ice and snow-drift Cast round it a garment of white. It dreams of a slender palm-tree, Which far in the Eastern land Beside a precipice scorching In silent sorrow doth stand. 36. Fair, bright, golden constellation, Seek my love’s far habitation; Tell her that I still am true, Sick at heart and palefaced too. 37. (_The head speaks._) Ah, were I but the footstool e’en On which my loved one’s foot doth rest, I ne’er to grumble should be seen, However hard I might be press’d. (_The heart speaks._) Ah, were I but the cushion soft Wherein her pins she’s wont to stick, And ’twere her will to prick me oft, I should rejoice at every prick. (_The song speaks._) Ah, were I but the paper dear Wherewith she’s wont her hair to curl, I’d gently whisper in her ear The thoughts that in me live and whirl. 38. Since my darling one has left me, Power of laughing is bereft me; Blockheads fain would raise a joke, But no laughter can provoke. Since I’ve lost my darling one, Power of weeping, too, is gone; Though my heart with sorrow deep Wellnigh breaks, I cannot weep. 39. My little songs do I utter From out of my great, great sorrow; Some tinkling pinions they borrow, And tow’rd her bosom they flutter. They found it, and over it hover’d, But soon return’d they, complaining, And yet to tell me disdaining What they in her bosom discover’d. 40.