This my love for thee no whim is, That, from mem'ry flown, shall go;
Nor my passion such as hither, Thither, fancy-blown, shall go.

Thine affection in my bosom, In my heart the love of thee,
With my mother's milk did enter And with life alone shall go.

Love's chagrin is an affliction, Which howe'er thou seek to salve,
Still from worse to worse increasing, Ever sharper grown, shall go.

First of lovers in the city, Whose lament for love and dole
Nightly to the sky ascendeth, Still to heav'n my moan shall go.

B Y a lake below the mountain
—Hangs the birch, as if, in glee,
The lake had flung the moon a fountain,
—She had turned it to a tree.

Therefore do her dull leaves glimmer
—Like the waves that mothered them.
Therefore flits a moony shimmer
—Always round her curvèd stem.

B Y a lake below the mountain
—Hangs the birch, as if, in glee,
The lake had flung the moon a fountain,
—She had turned it to a tree.

Therefore do her dull leaves glimmer
—Like the waves that mothered them.
Therefore flits a moony shimmer
—Always round her curvèd stem.

“Old woman, old woman, shall we go a-shearing?”
“Speak a little louder, sir, I'm very hard of hearing.”
“Old woman, old woman, shall I love you dearly?”
“Thank you very kindly, sir, I hear you very clearly.”

In the heart's fire my breast for love Of yonder fair consumeth;
Such fire is in this room the house All everywhere consumeth.

My body, for its severance From yonder charmer, melteth;
My soul, at that her cheek's sun-heat, For love-despair consumeth.

Whoever on the ringlet-chains Hath looked of Peri-faces,
His stricken heart for me, distraught With love and care, consumeth.

See my heart's burning! At the fire Of these my tears, for pity
And love of me, the candle's heart, Moth-like, o rare! consumeth.

Love is a hunter-boy,
Who makes young hearts his prey,
And in his nets of joy
Ensnares them night and day.
In vain concealed they lie—
Love tracks them every where;
In vain aloft they fly—
Love shoots them flying there.

But 't is his joy most sweet,
At early dawn to trace
The print of Beauty's feet,
And give the trembler chase.
And if, thro' virgin snow,
He tracks her footsteps fair,
How sweet for Love to know
None went before him there.

Like him who met his own eyes in the river,
The poet trembles at his own long gaze
That meets him through the changing nights and days
From out great Nature; all her waters quiver
With his fair image facing him for ever;
The music that he listens to betrays
His own heart to his ears; by trackless ways
His wild thoughts tend to him in long endeavour.

His dreams are far among the silent hills;
His vague voice calls him from the darkened plain
With winds at night; strange recognition thrills
His lonely heart with piercing love and pain;

Little vale, with fairy meadows!
Trees, that spread your leafy hands!
Flowers, clothed in softest beauty,
Lovelier than eastern lands!
Village! home of every treasure,
Thee we sing in strains of pleasure;
Village in the silent vale,
Lovely village! thee we hail!

How thy pleasant evening-shadows
Make our troubled passions cease;
And thy bright and purling rivers
Fill our souls with hallowed peace.
Village! tender thoughts promoting,
Like the clouds in azure floating;
Village in the silent vale,
Lovely village! thee we hail!

With your fair eyes a charming light I see,
For which my own blind eyes would peer in vain;
Stayed by your feet the burden I sustain
Which my lame feet find all to strong for me;
Wingless upon your pinions forth I fly;
Heavenward your spirit stirreth me to strain;
E'en as you will, I blush and blanch again,
Freeze in the sun, burn 'neath a frosty sky.
Your will includes and is the lord of mine;
Life to my thoughts within your heart is given;
My words begin to breathe upon your breath:
Like to the moon am I, that cannot shine

The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves,
The brilliant moon and all the milky sky,
And all that famous harmony of leaves,
Had blotted out man's image and his cry.

A girl arose that had red mournful lips
And seemed the greatness of the world in tears,
Doomed like Odysseus and the labouring ships
And proud as Priam murdered with his peers.

Arose and on the instant clamorous eaves,
A climbing moon upon an empty sky,
And all that lamentation of the leaves,
Could but compose man's image and his cry.

Bless you, bless you, burnie-bee,
Tell me when my wedding be;
If it be tomorrow day,
Take your wings and fly away.
Fly to the east, fly to the west,
Fly to him I love the best.