If thou hast good ears as well, Thou canst hear her voice quite clearly, And her sighing, laughing, singing Thy poor heart will madden nearly.
For she will, with look and word, Thee, like me, make wellnigh crazy: An enamour’d springtime-dreamer Thou wilt tread the forest mazy.
What drives thee on, in the spring’s clear night? Thou hast driven the flowers all mad with fright, The violets tremble and shiver; The roses are all with shame so red, The lilies are death-pale, and hang their head, They mourn, and falter, and quiver.
O darling moon, what an innocent race Those sweet flowers are! They are right in this case, I really have acted badly; Yet how could I tell that in wait she would lie, When I was addressing the stars on high, With fierce love raving so madly?
Thou sweetly lookest on me With eyes so blue and meek; My senses feel all-dreamy, And not a word can I speak.
I everywhere am thinking Of thy blue eyes’ sweet smile; A sea of blue thoughts is spreading Over my heart the while.
Once again my heart is vanquish’d, And my rancour is subsiding; Once again hath May breath’d on me Feelings tender and confiding.
Once more late and early haste I Through the walks the most frequented, Under every bonnet seek I For my fair one’s face lamented.
Once more at the verdant river On the bridge I take my station; Peradventure she will come there, And will see my desolation.
In the waterfall’s loud music Hear I once again soft sighing, And my gentle heart well knoweth What the white waves are replying.
Once again in mazy pathways am lost in dreamy vision, And the birds in every thicket Hold the fond fool in derision.
The rose is fragrant--yet if she divineth Her own sweet fragrance, if the nightingale Herself feels what round man’s soul softly twineth, When echoes her sweet song across the vale,--
I cannot tell. Yet man is with vexation Oft fill’d by truth. If nightingale and rose The feeling only feign’d, the fabrication Would still be useful, we may well suppose.
Because I love thee, be not scornful, If, flying, I avoid thy face; How ill accords my visage mournful With thine, so fair and full of grace!
Because I love thee, every feature Grows pale and thinner day by day; Thou’lt find me but a hideous creature,-- I’ll shun thee,--be not scornful, pray.