THE WOODLAND
The wood grows denser at each stride;
No path more, no trail!
Only murm'ring waters glide
Through tangled ferns and woodland flowers pale.
Ah, and under the great oaks teeming
How soft the moss, the grass, how high!
And the heavenly depth of cloudless sky,
How blue through the leaves it seems to me!
Here I'll sit, resting and dreaming,
Dreaming of thee.
Translation of Charles Harvey Genung.
ONWARD
Cease thy dreaming! Cease thy quailing!
Wander on untiringly.
Though thy strength may all seem failing,
Onward! must thy watchword be.
Durst not tarry, though life's roses
Round about thy footsteps throng,
Though the ocean's depth discloses
Sirens with their witching song.
Onward! onward! ever calling
On thy Muse, in life's stern fray,
Till thy fevered brow feels, falling
From above, a golden ray.
Till the verdant wreath victorious
Crown with soothing shade thy brow;
Till the spirit's flames rise glorious
Over thee, with sacred glow.