42.
With sullen thoughts in chilly bosom cherish’d,
I travel sullen through the world so cold;
The autumn’s end hath come, a humid mist doth hold
Deep veil’d from sight the country drear and perish’d.
The winds are piping, hither, thither bending
The red-tinged leaves, that from the trees fall fast,
The bare plain steams, the wood sighs ’neath the blast,
The worst of all comes next—the rain’s descending!
43.
Late autumnal mists all-dripping
Spread o’er hill and valley fair;
Storms the trees of leaves are stripping,
And they ghostly look, and bare.
But one single sad tree only
Silent and unstripp’d is seen;
Moist with tears of woe, and lonely,
Shaketh he his head still green.
Ah! this waste my heart displayeth,
And the tree, still full of life,
Summer-green, thy form portrayeth,
Much beloved and beauteous wife!
44.
Grey’s the sky and every-day like,
And the town still looks afflicted;
Ever weak and castaway like,
In the Elbe its form’s depicted.
Long each nose is, and its blowing
Tedious an affair as ever;
All with pride are overflowing,
Both at pomp and cringing clever.