Wine, No. 7

These hours of spring are jolly; Maidens, be gay! Shake off dull melancholy, Ye lads, to-day! Oh! all abloom am I! It is a maiden love that makes me sigh, A new, new love it is wherewith I die!

The nightingale is singing So sweet a lay! Her glad voice heavenward flinging— No check, no stay.

Flower of girls love-laden Is my sweetheart; Of roses red the maiden For whom I smart.

The promise that she gives me Makes my heart bloom; If she denies, she drives me Forth to the gloom.

My maid, to me relenting, Is fain for play; Her pure heart, unconsenting, Saith, "Lover, stay!"

Hush, Philomel, thy singing, This little rest! Let the soul's song rise ringing Up from the breast!

In desolate Decembers Man bides his time: Spring stirs the slumbering embers; Love-juices climb.

Come, mistress, come, my maiden! Bring joy to me! Come, come, thou beauty-laden! I die for thee! O all abloom am I! It is a maiden love that makes me sigh, A new, new love it is wherewith I die!