Warum Willst du Andre Fragen.

I love her with a love as still
As a broad river's peaceful might,
Which, by high tower and lowly mill,
Goes wandering at its own will,
And yet doth ever flow aright.

And, on its full, deep breast serene,

Like quiet isles my duties lie ;

It flows around them and between,

And makes them fresh and fair and green,

Sweet homes wherein to live and die.

James Russell Lowell.

WARUM WILLST DU ANDRE FRAGEN.

"LOVE DOTH TO HER EYES REPAIR."

HY ask of others what they cannot say,—

WHY

Others, who for thy good have little care?
Come close, dear friend, and learn a better way;
Look in my eyes, and read my story there!

Trust not thine own proud wit; 'tis idle dreaming!
The common gossip of the street forbear;
Nor even trust my acts or surface-seeming :
Ask only of my eyes; my truth is there.

43

My lips refuse an answer to thy boldness;
Or with false, cruel words deny thy prayer,―
Believe them not, I hate them for their coldness!
Look in my eyes; my love is written there.

Translated by James Freeman Clarke.

Friedrich Rückert.

ASK ME NO MORE.

ASK me no more: the moon may draw the sea;

The cloud may stoop from heaven, and take

the shape,

With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; But, O too fond, when have I answered thee? Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:

Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed:
I strove against the stream, and all in vain :
Let the great river take me to the main :
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more.

Alfred Tennyson.

Lass Andre nur im Reigen.

45

LASS ANDRE NUR IM REIGEN

TO THE SILENT ONE.

AH, leave to other maidens

Fair greeting, sweet replies,

Thou art my lovely Silence,
With thy clear, friendly eyes.

The eyes, so true, so tender,
They tell me, day by day,
More of thy deepest heart, love,
Than lips could ever say.

So wakes the earth to gladness
The blessed April sun;
Yet, year by year, in silence,
The perfect work is done.

Yet all sweet words and music
To thee, dear child, belong;
Be thou my lovely Silence,
And I will be thy Song.

Translated by L. C.

Emanuel Geibel.

THE MIRROR.

HAT I should love thee seemeth meet and wise,

THA

So beautiful thou art that he were mad
Who in thy countenance no pleasure had;
Who felt not the still music of thine eyes
Fall on his forehead as the evening skies
The music of the stars feel, and are glad.
But o'er my mind one doubt still cast a shade
Till in my thoughts this answer did arise:
That thou should'st love me is not wise or meet,
For like thee, Love, I am not beautiful.
And yet I think that haply in my face
Thou findest a true beauty-this poor, dull,
Disfigured mirror dimly may repeat
A little part of thy most heavenly grace.

Richard Watson Gilder.

"MY SONGS ARE ALL OF THEE."

MY songs are all of thee, what though I sing

Of morning, when the stars are yet in sight,

Of evening, or the melancholy night,
Of birds that o'er the reddening waters wing;
Of song, of fire, of winds, or mists that cling
To mountain-tops, of winter all in white,

Shall I compare Thee to a Summer's Day? 47

Of rivers that toward ocean take their flight,
Of summer, when the rose is blossoming.
I think no thought that is not thine, no breath
Of life I breathe beyond thy sanctity;

Thou art the voice that silence uttereth,
And of all sound thou art the sense. From thee
The music of my song, and what it saith

Is but the beat of thy heart, throbbed through me

Richard Watson Gilder.

SHALL I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate : Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date : Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

William Shakespeare