Wednesday, April 8, 2009


Dreary the horn sounds in the eve on the hill
Sheepflocks return, stars in their way twinkle still,
Watersprings weep murmuring clear, and i see
Under a tree, love, thou art waiting for me.
Holy and pure passes the moon on the sky,
Moist seem the stars born from the vault clear and high,
Longing thine eyes look from afar to divine,
Heaving thy breast, pensive thy head doth recline.
Clouds drift along, rent by the moonbeams asunder,
Cottages raise old roofs at Moon`s orb to wonder,
Sweeps of you wells creak in the breeze of the gloaming,
Smoke wraps the vale, pipe-songs from pens go a-roaming.
Tired with their toil, peasants come back from the field,
From the old church, labourer`s comfort and shield,
Voices of bells thrill the whole sky high above;
Struck in my heart, trembling and burning with love.
Ah! very soon quietness steals over all,
Ah! very soon hasten shall i to thy call;
Under the tree, there i shall sit the hole night,
Telling thee, love, thou art my only delight.
Cheek pressed to cheek, there is sweet ecstasy we,
Falling asleep under the old locust-tree,
Smiling in dream, seem in a heaven to live,
For such a night who his whole life would not give?

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