No one's hangin' stockin's up,
No one's bakin' pie,
No one's lookin' up to see
A new star in the sky.
No one's talkin' brotherhood,
No one's givin' gifts,
And no one loves a Christmas tree
On March the twenty-fifth.

Men loved wholly beyond wisdom
Have the staff without the banner.
Like a fire in a dry thicket
Rising within women's eyes
Is the love men must return.
Heart, so subtle now, and trembling,
What a marvel to be wise.,
To love never in this manner!
To be quiet in the fern
Like a thing gone dead and still,
Listening to the prisoned cricket
Shake its terrible dissembling
Music in the granite hill.

You say love is this, love is that:
Poplar tassels, willow tendrils
the wind and the rain comb,
tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip--
branches drifting apart. Hagh!
Love has not even visited this country.

Love while you've got
love to give.
Live while you've got
life to live.

My day was happy, fortunate my night.
My People loved me when I struck the lyre
Of Poetry. Passion was my song, and fire:
There it kindled many a lovely light.
My summer’s still ablaze but I’ve already
Dragged to the barn the crop I brought to birth –
And now I have to leave all that the Earth
Made so dear to me and loved so dearly!
The instrument sinks from my hand.
The glass breaks in splinters, that to my lips
Overconfidently, I so cheerfully pressed.
Oh God! How deeply bitter dying is!
How sweet and intimate the life of Man,

'The charm of your limbs I see
in Priyangu creepers.
In the eyes of the frightened Does
I observe your glances.
In the Moon, I find the glamour
of your attractive face.
In the peacock- plumes, beauty
of your hairs I look.
In the thin waves of rivers
I mark the gestures
of your eye-brows.
But alas! O My Warm-spirited Darling!
Similarity of yours in one place
is nowhere seen together.
*
The curse befallen on me will end,
when Lord Vishnu, the wielder of Ś arń ga bow,
will wake up from the bed of serpent.

Hidden by old age awhile
In masker's cloak and hood,
Each hating what the other loved,
Face to face we stood:
'That I have met with such,' said he,
'Bodes me little good.'

'Let others boast their fill,' said I,
'But never dare to boast
That such as I had such a man
For lover in the past;
Say that of living men I hate
Such a man the most.'

'A loony'd boast of such a love,'
He in his rage declared:
But such as he for such as me --
Could we both discard
This beggarly habiliment --

Give me more love or more disdain;
The torrid, or the frozen zone,
Bring equal ease unto my pain;
The temperate affords me none;
Either extreme, of love, or hate,
Is sweeter than a calm estate.

Give me a storm; if it be love,
Like Danae in that golden show'r
I swim in pleasure; if it prove
Disdain, that torrent will devour
My vulture-hopes; and he's possess'd
Of heaven, that's but from hell releas'd.

Then crown my joys, or cure my pain;

Medicate me with a peaceful pile of letters,
And lead me on my way again.
You picked me up when I was down,
And you drowned me with your love again.
Compassion is what you are made up of,
And compassion brought me to live in sin.
Love brightens the darkened shadows in your garden,
That I’ve been pleading for you to let me in.
Winter is climbing quickly,
And laughing in my face again.
Loves are coming and going,
And your heart I will never win;
But you picked me up when I was down,
And you drowned me with friendship again.

Ved Islands Geyser staaer hans Sommertelt,
Han rider paa den afrikanske Løve,
Han, Poesiens unge, tydske Helt,
Med ham det nok er værdt en Dyst at prøve;
Han har en riig Provinds i Kunstens Stat.
Her kommer han, — hans Navn er Freiligrath.