SO late, and yet a nightingale?
Long since have dropp’d the blossoms pale,
The summer fields are ripening,
And yet a sound of spring?
O tell me, didst thou come to hear,
Sweet Spring, that I should die this year;
And call’st across from the far shore
To me one greeting more?
To Death.
(FROM LENAU.)
IF within my heart there’s mould,
If the flame of Poesy
And the flame of Love grow cold,
Slay my body utterly.
Swiftly, pause not nor delay;
Let not my life’s field be spread
With the ash of feelings dead,
Let thy singer soar away.
