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As the moon's fair image quaketh In the raging waves of ocean, Whilst she, in the vault of heaven, Moves with silent peaceful motion.

When words leave off, music begins.

In these times we fight for ideas, and newspapers are our fortresses.

Like a wedding-song all-melting Sings the nightingale, the dear one.

The nightingale appear'd the first, And as her melody she sang, The apple into blossom burst, To life the grass and violets sprang.

The oaks with solemnity shook their heads; The twigs of the birch-trees, in token Of warning, nodded,--and I exclaim'd: "Dear Monarch, forgive what I've spoken!"

The sea appears all golden Beneath the sun-lit sky.

Thy letter sent to prove me, Inflicts no sense of wrong; No longer wilt thou love me,-- Thy letter, though is long.

The air grows cool and darkles, The Rhine flows calmly on; The mountain summit sparkles In the light of the setting sun.

The spring's already at the gate With looks my care beguiling; The country round appeareth straight A flower-garden smiling.

The beauteous eyes of the spring's fair night With comfort are downward gazing.

In vain would I seek to discover Why sad and mournful am I, My thoughts without ceasing brood over A tale of the time gone by.

The swan in the pool is singing, And up and down doth he steer, And, singing gently ever, Dips under the water clear.

And over the pond are sailing Two swans all white as snow; Sweet voices mysteriously wailing Pierce through me as onward they go. They sail along, and a ringing Sweet melody rises on high; And when the swans begin singing, They presently must die.

The swan, like the soul of the poet, By the dull world is ill understood.

It must require an inordinate share of vanity and presumption, too, after enjoying so much that is good and beautiful on earth, to ask the Lord for immortality in addition to all.

The violets prattle and titter, And gaze on the stars high above.

The eyes of spring, so azure, Are peeping from the ground; They are the darling violets, That I in nosegays bound.