Classic Poem

My heart, my heart is mournful,
Yet joyously shines the May;
I stand by the linden leaning,
High on the bastion gray.

The blue town-moat thereunder
Glides peacefully along;
A boy in a boat is angling,
And whistling a careless song.

Beyond, like a well-known picture,
All small and fair, are strewed
Houses and gardens and people,
Oxen and meadows and wood.

The maidens bleach the linen,
And dance in the grass for glee;
The mill-wheel scatters diamonds,
Its far hum reaches me.

Upon the hoary tower
A sentry-box stands low;
A youth in his coat of scarlet
There passes to and fro.

He trifles with his musket,
Which gleams in the sunshine red,
He shoulders and presents it,—
I would he shot me dead!