"Then sing one of your own summer songs."
"No, my dear; I would rather not. I don't altogether like them. Besides, if Harry could sing that Tryst of Schiller's, it would bring back the feeling of the summer better than any brooding over the remembrances of it could do."
"Did you translate that too?" I asked.
"Yes. As I told you, at one time of my life translating was a constant recreation to me. I have had many half-successes, some of which you have heard. I think this one better."
"What is the name of it?"
"It is 'Die Erwartung'—The Waiting, literally, or Expectation. But the Scotch word Tryst (Rendezvous) is a better name for a poem, though English. It is often curious how a literal rendering, even when it gives quite the meaning, will not do, because of the different ranks of the two words in their respective languages."
"I have heard you say," said Harry, "that the principles of the translation of lyrics have yet to be explored."
"Yes. But what I have just said, applies nearly as much to prose as to the verse.—Sing, Harry. You know it well enough."
"Part is in recitative,"
"So it is. Go on."