Classic Poem

Über die Berge steigt schon die Sonne

Over the mountains the sun throws his fire;
The bells of the lambs in the distance are low.
My love and my lamb, my own sun of desire,
Once more I would see you before I must go.

I gaze at her window, impatient and muffled —
" My child, fare thee well; I am parting from thee! "
In vain! Nothing moves, not a curtain is ruffled;
For still she lies sleeping and dreaming . . . of me?