In the but there stands an arm-chair,
Richly carved and cleverly;
He who sits therein is happy,
And that happy man am I.
On the footstool sits a maiden,
On my lap her arms repose,
With her eyes like blue stars beaming,
And her mouth a new-born rose.
And the dear blue stars shine on me,
Wide like heaven's great arch their gaze;
And her little lily finger
Archly on the rose she lays.
Nay, the mother cannot see us,
For she spins the whole day long;
And the father plays the cithern
As he sings a good old song.
And the maiden softly whispers,
Softly, that none may hear;
Many a solemn little secret
Hath she murmured in my ear.
"Since I lost my aunt who loved me,
Now we never more repair
To the shooting-lodge at Goslar,
And it is so pleasant there!
"Here above it is so lonely,
On the rocks where cold winds blow;
And in winter we are always
Deeply buried in the snow.
"And I'm such a timid creature,
And I'm frightened like a child
At the evil mountain spirits,
Who by night are raging wild"
Silent falls the winsome maiden,
Frightened by her own surmise,
Little hands, so white and dimpled,
Pressing on her sweet blue eyes.
Louder now the fir-trees rustle,
Spinning-wheel more harshly drones;
In their pauses sounds the cithern,
And the old song's simple tones: