Then the birds sing yet more sweetly
Than before, and softer breezes
Fill the air, the violet’s fragrance
With still wilder yearning pleases.
E’en the roses blossom redder,
And a child-like golden glory
Bear they, like the heads of angels
In the pictures of old story.
And myself I almost fancy
Some sweet nightingale, when singing
Of my love to those fair roses,
Wondrous songs my vision bringing—
Till I’m waken’d by the sunlight,
Or by that delicious bustle
Of the nightingales of springtime
That before my window rustle.
37.
Stars with golden feet are wand’ring
Yonder, and they gently weep
That they cannot earth awaken,
Who in night’s arms is asleep.
List’ning stand the silent forests,
Every leaf an ear doth seem!
How its shadowy arm the mountain
Stretcheth out, as though in dream.
What call’d yonder? In my bosom
Rings the echo of the tone.
Was it my beloved one speaking,
Or the nightingale alone?
38.
The spring is solemn, mournful only
Are all its dreams, each flower appears
Weigh’d down by grief, the song all-lonely
Of Philomel wakes secret tears.