Classic Poem

My heart, my heart is weary;
Yet merrily beams the May,
And I lean against the linden,
High up on the terrace gray.

The town-moat far below me
Runs silent and sad and blue;
A boy in a boat floats o'er it,
Still fishing and whistling too.

And a beautiful varied picture
Spreads out beyond the flood:
Fair houses, and gardens, and people,
And cattle, and meadow, and wood.

Young maidens are bleaching the linen:
They laugh as they go and come;
And the mill-wheel is dripping with diamonds —
I list to its far-away hum.

And high on yon old gray castle
A sentry-box peeps o'er,
While a young red-coated soldier
Is pacing beside the door.

He handles his shining musket,
Which gleams in the sunlight red;
He halts, he presents, he shoulders —
I wish that he 'd shoot me dead!