I know not with whom the rose is in love,
But every one love I:
The rose, the nightingale, sun’s sweet ray,
The star of eve and butterfly.
8.
All the trees with joy are shouting,
All the birds are singing o’er us—
Tell me, who can be the leader
In this green and forest chorus?
Can it be the grey old plover,
Wise nods evermore renewing?
Or yon pedant, who is ever
In such measured time coo-coo-ing?
Can it be yon stork, the grave one,
His director’s airs betraying,
And his long leg rattling loudly,
Whilst the music’s round him playing?
No, the forest concert’s leader
In my own heart hath his station,
All the while he’s beating time there,—
Amor is his appellation.
9.
“The nightingale appear’d the first,
“And as her melody she sang,
“The apple into blossom burst,
“To life the grass and violets sprang.
“She her own bosom then did bite,
“Her red blood flow’d, and from the blood
“A beauteous rose-tree came to light,
“To whom she sings in loving mood.
“That blood atones for, to this day,
“Us birds within the forest here;
“Yet when the rose-song dies away,
“Will all the wood too disappear.”