The friends whom I kiss’d and caress’d of yore
Have treated me now with cruelty sore;
My heart is fast breaking. The sun, though, above
With smiles is hailing the sweet month of love.
Spring blooms around. In the greenwood is heard
The echoing song of each happy bird,
And flowers and girls wear a maidenly smile—
O beauteous world, I hate thee the while;
Yes, Orcus’ self I wellnigh praise;
No contrasts vain torment there our days;
For suffering hearts ’tis better below,
There where the Stygian night-waters flow.
That sad and melancholy stream,
And the Stymphalides’ dull scream,
The Furies singsong, so harsh and shrill,
With Cerberus’ bark the pauses to fill,—
These match full well with sorrow and pain.
In Proserpine’s accursèd domain,
In the region of shadows, the valley of sighs,
All with our tears doth harmonize.
But here above, like hateful things,
The sun and the rose inflict their stings;
I’m mock’d by the heavens so May-like and blue—
O beauteous world, I hate thee anew!
3. BODY AND SOUL.
Poor soul doth to the body say:
I’ll never leave thee, but I’ll stay
With thee; yea, I with thee will sink
In death and night, destruction drink.
Thou ever wert my second I,
And round me clungest lovingly,
As though a dress of satin bright,
All lined throughout with ermine white—
Alas! I’ve come to nakedness,
A mere abstraction, bodiless,
Reduced a blessèd nullity
In yon bright realms of light to be,
In the cold halls of heaven up yonder,
Where the Immortals silent wander,
And gape upon me, clatt’ring by
In leaden slippers wearily.
’Tis quite intolerable; stay,
Stay with me, my dear body, pray.
The body to poor soul replied:
Cheer up, be not dissatisfied!
We peacefully must learn to bear
What Fate apportions as our share.
I was the lamp’s wick; I must now
Consume away; the spirit, thou,
Wilt be selected by-and-by
To sparkle as a star on high
Of purest radiance. I’m but rags.
Mere stuff, like rotten tinder bags,
Collapsing fast, and nothing worth,
Becoming, what I was, mere earth.
Farewell! take comfort, cease complaining;
Perchance ’tis far more entertaining
In heaven than now supposed by thee.
If thou shouldst e’er the great bear see
(Not Meyer-beer[86]) in those bright climes,
Greet him from me a thousand times.