Classic Poem

Auf dem Berge steht die Hütte

On the mountain stands a cabin
Wherein lives a mountaineer;
All the evergreens are rustling
And the moon turns golden here.

In the cabin there's an armchair
Curiously carved and high.
He who sits in it is lucky;
And that lucky man am I.

On the footstool there's a maiden,
In my lap her arms repose;
Eyes like two blue stars that sparkle,
And her mouth's a crimson rose.

And those dear blue eyes grow larger
While the wonder in them grows;
And she lays a lily finger
Shyly on the crimson rose.

No, the mother does not see us,
For she spins and spins away;
And the father plays the zither,
Singing some forgotten lay.

And the maiden whispers softly,
Softly, almost breathlessly;
While a host of weighty secrets
Gravely she confides to me.

" But since Auntie died, " she tells me,
" We can never hope to go
To the picnic-grounds at Goslar;
That's the loveliest place I know.

" On the mountains here, it's lonely;
Colder far than down below;
And in Winter we are almost
Lost and buried in the snow.

" Though I'm quite a girl, I tremble
Like a child that's seized with fright,
At the evil mountain spirits
And the things they do by night. "

Suddenly she stops, as though her
Own words chill and terrorize;
And she raises both hands quickly,
Quickly covering her eyes.

In the trees the rustling's louder,
Faster still the wheel is stirred,
And above the tinkling zither
Something of the song is heard:

" Do not fear, my child, my darling,
Fear no spirit's evil might!
Overhead, my child, my darling,
Angels guard thee day and night! "