All within that silent chamber
On me looks with trusting eye;
Table, cupboard,—I could fancy
I had seen them formerly.
Like a friend the house-clock prattles,
The guitar scarce audibly
Of itself begins to tinkle,
And as in a dream sit I.
Now’s the proper place discover’d,
Now the proper hour hath sounded;
If the proper word I utter’d,
Maiden, thou wouldst be astounded.
If that word I straightway utter’d,
Midnight would grow dim and quake,
Fir and streamlet roar more loudly,
And the aged mountain wake.
Lute’s soft strains and pigmy music
From the mountain’s clefts would burst,
And a flowering wood shoot from them
As in joyous spring-time erst.
Flowers, all-hardy magic flowers,
Leaves of size so fabulous,
Fragrant, varied, hasty-quiv’ring,
As though passion stirr’d them thus.
Roses, wild as flames all-glowing,
Dart from out the mass like gems;
Lilies, like to crystal arrows,
Upward shoot tow’rd heaven their stems.
And the stars, like suns in greatness
Downward gaze with yearning glow;
In the lily’s giant-calix
They their gushing radiance throw.
Yet ourselves, my darling maiden,
Alter’d more than all we seem;
Gold and silk and torches’ lustre
Joyously around us gleam.
Thou, yea thou, becom’st a princess,
To a castle turns this cot;
Knights and squires and ladies gaily
Dance with rapture, tiring not.