Now the clock talks kindly, gravely,
And the cithern, as 'twould seem,
Of itself is faintly chiming,
And I sit as in a dream.
Now the proper hour is striking,
Here the charm should now be heard;
Child, how would'st thou be astonished,
Should I speak the magic word!
If I spoke that word, then fading
Night would thrill in fearful strife;
Trees and streams would roar together
As the mountains woke to life.
Ringing lutes and goblin ditties
From the clefted rock would sound,
Like a mad and merry spring-tide
Flowers grow forest-high around.
Thousand startling, wondrous flowers,
Leaves of vast and fabled form,
Strangely perfumed, wildly quivering,
As if thrilled with passion's storm.
In a crimson conflagration
Roses o'er the tumult rise;
Giant lilies, white as crystal,
Shoot like columns to the skies.
Great as suns, the stars above us
Gaze adown with burning glow;
Fill the lilies' cups gigantic
With their lights' abundant flow.
We ourselves, my little maiden,
Would be changed more than all;
Torchlight gleams o'er gold and satin
Round us merrily would fall.
Thou thyself would'st be the princess,
And this hut thy castle high;
Ladies, lords, and graceful pages
Would be dancing, singing by.
I, however, I have conquered
Thee, and all things, with the word!
Serfs and castle—lo! with trumpet
Loud they hail me as their Lord!