"As to thee, lovely summer,
Returns the birds' strain,
As on yonder green linden
The leaves spring again,
So constant doth grief
At my eyes overflow,
And wilt not thou, dearest,
Return to me now?"
"Yes, come, my own hero,
All others desert!
When first my eye saw thee,
How graceful thou wert;
How fair was thy presence,
How graceful, how bright!
Then think of me only,
My own chosen knight!"
. . . . . .
There sat upon the linden-tree
A bird and sang its strain;
So sweet it sang, that, as I heard,
My heart went back again:
It went to one remembered spot,
I saw the rose-trees grow,
And thought again the thoughts of love
There cherished long ago.
A thousand years to me it seems
Since by my fair I sat,
Yet thus to have been a stranger long
Was not my choice, but fate:
Since then I have not seen the flowers,
Nor heard the birds' sweet song;
My joys have all too briefly passed,
My griefs been all too long.
—Tr. by Taylor.
WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE. Early nineteenth Century.
UNDER THE LINDEN.
Under the linden
On the meadow
Where our bed arrange'd was,
There now you may find e'en
In the shadow Broken flowers and crushe'd grass.
Near the woods, down in the vale
Tandaradi!
Sweetly sang the nightingale.
I, poor sorrowing one,
Came to the prairie,
Look, my lover had gone before.
There he received me—
Gracious Mary!—
That now with bliss I am brimming o'er.
Kissed he me? Ah, thousand hours!
Tandaradi!
See my mouth, how red it flowers!
Then 'gan he making
Oh! so cheery,
From flowers a couch most rich outspread.
At which outbreaking
In laughter merry
You'll find, whoe'er the path does tread.
By the rose he can see
Tandaradi!
Where my head lay cozily.
How he caressed me
Knew it one ever
God defend! ashamed I'd be.
Whereto he pressed me
No, no, never
Shall any know it but him and me
And a birdlet on the tree
Tandaradi!
Sure we can trust it, cannot we?
—Tr. by Kroeger.