BUCH DER LIEDER.
Pain brings us more than pleasure;
Tears comfort more than wine;
Grief's hands are full of treasure,
And sorrow is divine.
The nightingale that's making
Night happy with his strain,
His little heart is breaking:
He sings to still its pain.
Better than laughing folly,
Gay songs and wassail ale,
Thy tuneful melancholy,
O poet nightingale!
I have no ear for gladness
When thou with song dost make
Such rapture out of sadness—
Such transport of heart-break.
Charles Quiet.