The flow’rs and the trees will have withered ere long,
The last bird already is ending his song;
And soon will be leafless and shadeless the bow’rs...
I long, oh I long for the perfume of flow’rs!
To feel for a moment ere stripped are the trees,
In meadow lands open, the breath of the breeze.
—You long for the meadow lands breezy and fair?
O, soon enough others will carry you there.
The rivulet sparkles with heavenly light,
The wavelets they glisten, with diamonds bedight.
Oh, but for a moment to leap in the stream,
And play in the waters that ripple and gleam!
My body is weakened with terrible toil.—
The bath would refresh me, renew me the while.
—You dream of a bath in the shimmering stream?
’Twill come—when forever is ended your dream.
The sweatshop is smoky and gloomy and mean—
I strive—oh, how vainly I strive to be clean!
All day I am covered with grime and with dirt.
You’d laugh,—but I long for a spotless white shirt!
For life that is noble, ’tis needful, I ween,
To work as a man should; and still be as clean.
—So now ’tis your wish all in white to be dressed?
In white they will robe you, and lay you to rest.
The woods they are cool, and the woods they are free;—
To dream and to wander, how sweet it would be!
The birds their eternal glad holiday keep;
With song that enchants you and lulls you to sleep.
’Tis hot here,—and close! and the din will not cease.
I long for the forest, its coolth and its peace.
—Ay, cool you will soon be; and not only cool,
But cold as no forest can make you, O Fool!
I long for a friend who will comfort and cheer,
And fill me with courage when sorrow is near;
A comrade, of treasures the rarest and best,
Who gives to existence its crown and its crest;
And I am an orphan—and I am alone;
No friend or companion to call me his own.
—Companions a-plenty—they’re numberless too;
They’re swarming already and waiting for you.
[Whither?]
(To a Young Girl)
Say whither, whither, pretty one?
The hour is young at present!
How hushed is all the world around!
Ere dawn—the streets hold not a sound.
O whither, whither do you run?
Sleep at this hour is pleasant.
The flowers are dreaming, dewy-wet;
The bird-nests they are silent yet.
Where to, before the rising sun
The world her light is giving?
“To earn a living.”
O whither, whither, pretty child,
So late at night a-strolling?
Alone—with darkness round you curled?
All rests!—and sleeping is the world.
Where drives you now the wind so wild?
The midnight bells are tolling!
Day hath not warmed you with her light;
What aid can’st hope then from the night?
Night’s deaf and blind!—Oh whither, child,
Light-minded fancies weaving?