And methinks I hear it wafted,
Thy sweet voice, remote yet clear,
Till thy song, descending slowly,
Sinks into the silent mere.
III
Angry sunset sky,
Thunder-clouds o'erhead,
Every breeze doth fly,
Sultry air and dead.
From the lurid storm
Pallid lightnings break,
Their swift transient form
Flashes through the lake.
And I seem to see
Thyself, wondrous nigh—
Streaming wild and free
Thy long tresses fly.
* * * * *
[Illustration: EVENING ON THE SHORE HANS AM ENDE]
SONGS BY THE LAKE[17] (1832)
I
In the sky the sun is failing,
And the weary day would sleep,
Here the willow fronds are trailing
In the water still and deep.