I was a master-weaver
To weave my grief and care,
And day and night I fashioned
A heavy robe to wear.
I trailed it on the highway
Dust-grey, with weary pride,
I set upon my forehead
A wreath of thorns beside.
The sun on high in Heaven
Looked down and loud laughed he:
“What little dwarf goes yonder
In robes of majesty?”
Ashamed I laid my mantle
And crown upon the sod,
And sorrowless and joyless
The dusty road I plod.
III
(Storm)
Out of my slumber I woke in affright;
Why does the lark sing so deep in the night?
The day is gone, the morning is far,
Down on my pillow shines many a star;
And ever the song of the lark I hear;
Oh, voice of the dawning, I shrink in fear.
IV
(Hofmannsthal)
She bore the beaker o’er to him—
Her chin was rounded like its rim—
So light and steady was her tread,
Not one drop of the wine was shed.