O sweetest love, with the eyes so bright, O sweet one, so fair and so biteful! The swearing was doubtless all proper and right But the biting was rather too spiteful! 58. I stand on the brow of the mountain, And sentimentally sigh. “O were I only a bird now!” I many a thousand times cry. O were I only a swallow, My darling, to thee would I fly, And soon a nest would I build me, Thy lattice window hard by. O were I a nightingale only, I would fly, my darling, to thee, And sing my sweet songs by night-time Perch’d high in the green linden tree. O were I only a bullfinch, I would fly straight into thy heart; To the bullfinch thou always wert kindly, And healest the bullfinch’s smart.[7] 59. My carriage is traversing slowly The greenwood merry and bright, Through flowering valleys, like magic Illumed by the sun’s glowing light. I’m sitting and thinking and dreaming, And muse on my mistress dear; When, nodding their heads at the window, Three shadowy figures appear. They skip and they make wry grimaces, So scoffing and yet so shy; And twirling mist-like together, They titter and haste swiftly by. 60. In vision I lately was weeping, I dreamt thou wert laid in thy grave; I awoke, and the tears unceasing My cheeks continued to lave. In vision I lately was weeping, I dreamt I was left, love, by thee; I awoke, and weeping continued Both long and bitterly. In vision I lately was weeping, I dreamt thou wert kind as of yore; I awoke, and my tears in torrents Continued to flow as before. 61. All night in vision behold I thee, And see thee greeting me kindly; And loudly weeping then throw I me Before thy sweet feet blindly. With sorrowing looks thou stand’st in my view, Thy fair locks mournfully shaking; While teardrops bright of pearly hue From thy dear eyes are breaking. A gentle word thou dost secretly say, And givest a cypress-wreath sweetly; I awake, and the wreath has vanish’d away, And the word is forgotten completely. 62. ’tis autumn, the night’s dark and gloomy With rain and tempest above; Where tarries,--O tell it unto me,-- My poor and sorrowing love? By the window I see her reclining, In her chamber lonely and drear, And out in the night, sadly pining, She looks with many a tear. 63. The trees in the autumn wind rustle, The night is humid and cold; I ride all alone in the forest, And round me my grey cloak I fold. And as I am riding, before me My thoughts unrestrainedly roam; They lightly and airily bear me To my own dear mistress’s home.