[Jealousy.]

IV. 85.

Damp day's light is quenched: damp night's darkness Stretches over the sky its leaden garment. Like a ghost, from behind the pine wood Foggy moon has risen.... All brings upon my soul darkness grievous. Far, far away rises the shining moon, There the earth is filled with evening warmth There the sea moveth with luxuriant wave Under the heavens blue.... Now is the time. On the hillside now she walks To the shore washed by noisy waves. There, under the billowed cliffs Alone she sits now melancholy.... Alone ... none before her weeping, grieves not, Her knees none kisses in ecstasy. Alone ... to lips of none she is yielding Her shoulders, nor moist lips, nor snow-white fingers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . None is worthy of her heavenly love. Is it not so? Thou art alone.... Thou weepest.... And I at peace? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . But if . . . . . . .

1823.

IN AN ALBUM.

IV. 99.

The name of me, what is it to thee Die it shall like the grievous sound Of wave, playing on distant shore, As sound of night in forest dark.

Upon the sheet of memory Its traces dead leave it shall Inscriptions-like of grave-yard In some foreign tongue.

What is in it? Long ago forgotten In tumultuous waves and fresh To thy soul not give it shall Pure memories and tender.

But on sad days, in calmness Do pronounce it sadly; Say then: I do remember thee-- On earth one heart is where yet I live!

1829.

THE AWAKING.

III. 42.

Ye dreams, ye dreams, Where is your sweetness? Where thou, where thou O joy of night? Disappeared has it, The joyous dream; And solitary In darkness deep I awaken. Round my bed Is silent night. At once are cooled, At once are fled, All in a crowd The dreams of Love-- Still with longing The soul is filled And grasps of sleep The memory. O Love, O Love, O hear my prayer: Again send me Those visions thine, And on the morrow Raptured anew Let me die Without awaking!

1816.

ELEGY.

III. 39.

Happy who to himself confess His passion dares without terror; Happy who in fate uncertain By modest hope is fondled; Happy who by foggy moonbeams Is led to midnight joyful And with faithful key who gently The door unlocks of his beloved.

But for me in sad my life No joy there is of secret pleasure; Hope's early flower faded is, By struggle withered is life's flower. Youth away flies melancholy, And droop with me life's roses; But by Love tho' long forgot, Forget Love's tears I cannot.

1816.