Child's Call At Eventide.
Bright and fair,—
Golden hair,
Still white hands and face;
Not a plea
Moveth thee;
Nor the wind's wild chase,
As yesterday, calling thee,
Even as I, in vain.
Come—wake up, Gerda!
Come out and play in the lane!
See! the wind,
From behind,
Sporteth with thy locks,
From the land's
Desert sands
And the sea-beat rocks
Cometh and claspeth thy hands,
Even as I, in vain.
Come—wake up, Gerda!
Come out and play in the lane!
Closed thine eyes,
Gently wise,
Dost thou dream the while?
Falls my kiss
All amiss,
Waketh not a smile!
Sweet mouth, is't feigning this?
Then do not longer feign.
Come—wake up, Gerda!
Come out and play in the lane!
Forehead Bold,
White and cold;
Sealed thy lips and all;
I am made
Half afraid
In this lonely hall.
Night cometh quick through the glade!
I fear it is all in vain,—
All too late, Gerda,—
Too late to play in the lane!