Is it true? O, I cannot believe it; A dream doth my senses enthrall; O can he have made me so happy, And exalted me thus above all?
Meseems as if he had spoken, "I am thine, ever faithful and true!" Meseems--O still am I dreaming-- It cannot, it cannot be true!
O fain would I, rocked on his bosom, In the sleep of eternity lie; That death were indeed the most blissful, In the rapture of weeping to die.
Help me, ye sisters, Kindly to deck me, Me, O the happy one, aid me this morn! Let the light finger Twine the sweet myrtle's Blossoming garland, my brow to adorn!
As on the bosom Of my loved one, Wrapt in the bliss of contentment, I lay, He, with soft longing In his heart thrilling, Ever impatiently sighed for today.
Aid me, ye sisters, Aid me to banish Foolish anxieties, timid and coy, That I with sparkling Eye may receive him, Him the bright fountain of rapture and joy.
Do I behold thee, Thee, my beloved one, Dost thou, O sun, shed thy beam upon me? Let me devoutly, Let me in meekness Bend to my lord and my master the knee!
Strew, ye fair sisters, Flowers before him, Cast budding roses around at his feet! Joyfully quitting Now your bright circle, You, lovely sisters, with sadness I greet.
Dearest friend, thou lookest On me with surprise, Dost thou wonder wherefore Tears suffuse mine eyes? Let the dewy pearl-drops Like rare gems appear, Trembling, bright with gladness, In their crystal sphere.
With what anxious raptures Doth my bosom swell! O had I but language What I feel to tell! Come and hide thy face, love, Here upon my breast, In thine ear I'll whisper Why I am so blest.
Now the tears thou knowest Which my joy confessed, Thou shalt not behold them, Thou, my dearest, best; Linger on my bosom, Feel its throbbing tide; Let me press thee firmly, Firmly, to my side!
Here may rest the cradle, Close my couch beside, Where it may in silence My sweet vision hide; Soon will come the morning, When my dream will wake, And thy smiling image Will to life awake.
Upon my heart, and upon my breast, Thou joy of all joys, my sweetest, best! Bliss, thou art love; O love, thou art bliss-- I've said it, and seal it here with a kiss. I thought no happiness mine could exceed, But now I am happy, O happy indeed! She only, who to her bosom hath pressed The babe who drinketh life at her breast; 'Tis only a mother the joys can know Of love, and real happiness here below. How I pity man, whose bosom reveals No joys like that which a mother feels! Thou look'st on me, with a smile on thy brow, Thou dear, dear little angel, thou! Upon my heart, and upon my breast, Thou joy of all joys, my sweetest, best!