Lonely stands the castle, mirrored in the lake-chain
in whose deep,
Limpid water-bed, its shadow has for ages
It is rising in deep silence from the pine-trees
of the glade,
While the circling, rippling wavelets cover
it with gloomy shade.
There, behind the ogive windows, lend themselves
unto one's view
Only long and pleated curtains glistening
like frozen dew,
While the Moon, beyond the forests, quivers,
reddens, waxes, nighs,
And depicts a craggy summit or a tree-top
on the skies.
All the while, the oaks, gigantic sentries
that around her stem
Watch her rise with strict observance as she
were a priceless gem.
Save that snow-white swans that sailing from
the clumps of rush,
Sovereigns over the night-waters, guests to
this all-sovereign hush,
Shake themselves and cut the water, largely
spreading out their wings,
Now into effulgent furrows, now into vibrating
Rustling quaver the bulrushes when the ripples
come and pass,
While a drowsy cricket chirrups in the scented
Summer-like were the air-odours and sense-soothing
was the sough...
Near the balcony, enraptured, sighed the knight
and knit his brow.
Rife with foliage was the bower, through its
lattice-work hung out
Roses of Shiraz and creepers, a variegated
Evenfall, the water's murmur, overwhelm him
with their thrill,
His guitar in nature's magic does its lovesick
"Show yourself again, fair lady, show yourself
again, oh, just
As you did, in long silk garment, covered
all with silver dust.
I would gaze at you a lifetime, ray-begirt
as you stand there,
While your hand, white as a lily, gently strokes
your flaxen hair.
Come and play with me, fair lady... with my
fortunes..., throw to me
From your fragrant-bodiced bosom the dead
flower of the lea,
So that it will touch and waken the guitar-strings,
Ah, one might
Think that snow has fallen lately, for the
nights are strangely white;
Or I'll get into the scented twilight of your
bower and wax
Drunk with the delightful perfume of the bedding-sheets
And, o lithe and lissom mistress! Cupid, the
Will with his hand shade the lilac globe of
the dim-lighted lamp!"
On the floor the silk-gown rustled, rustled
between vase and vase,
Or between the blue lians, the red roses of
Most angelic was the vision of the well-beloved,
Mid the flowers, smiling, laughing, bending
down over the railing.
Down she throws a rose and covers with both
hands her lips, as though
She were scolding him - but she just speaks
to him so sweet and low.
Then she slips into her chamber... footsteps,
hark, descend in haste...
In the doorway, mark, the lover puts his arm
around her waist...
Hand in hand they walk together - 'tis a charming
sight to see.
He is young and she is graceful, she is tall
and so is he.
And the boat, with its sails swelling on the
mast at once awakes,
Leaves behind the shady border for the offing
of the lakes,
And advances slowly under paddle-strokes both
strong and tender,
Rocking the uncounted beauties, the immeasurable
And the moon, entire, spheric, rises in her
And from one shore to another throws a magic
bridge of fire,
As a swift multiplication of minuscule waves
She, the gold-complexioned maiden, she, the
dream of ageless haze
And the greater is the clearness of her gentle
light, the more
Seem to grow the water's billows, ever larger
seems the shore,
Ever larger looms the forest, it approaches
fast and faster
And so does above the waters the moon-disk,
the waters' master.
Lime-trees with gigantic shadows, blossom-laden
to the ground,
By the wind are robbed of garlands, and the
wind is water-bound.
Blossoms rain over the maiden, her fair tresses
She puts up her hands and, gently clasping
them around his neck,
Backwards tilts her head:"I should be much
amazed if you stopped, mind!
Oh, how thrilling-sweet is every word upon
your lips, how kind!
Oh, how high you are uplifting by your thoughts
a wretched thrall,
When your sorrow is my only ornament, my all
You are love-lorn and I tremble; of your voice
the music chimes
With a long-forgotten story, a love-story
of old times;
And your dreams are all so mournful, and your
eyes so full of dole
That their moist profoundness cruelly ravages
my inmost soul.
Give me your black eyes, my darling, do not
look with them sideway -
From their fascinating darkness I shall never
I shall lose my eyesight gazing... Oh, just
listen, do! There are
Hosts of wavelets and each of them talks with
a prophetic star!
The dark forests are delirious; mirroring
the sky above,
Their blue waters speak and whisper tales
of our fantastic love.
Both the stars that tremble coldly, peeping
through the clumps of pine,
And the earth, the lake, the heavens, all
are but your friends and mine.
You may surely leave the rudder, you may surely
drop the oar,
For the stream will drift us quickly ever
farther from the shore,
And wherever it will lead us, anywhere, we
cannot miss -
Be it life or death eternal - the eternity
Fancy, wild imagination, when you are alone
You drift me so oft to woodlands, to a lake
or to the sea!
Have you ever seen the unseen lands to memory
When exactly did this happen? In what century,
Now it is out of the question to seek heaven
in her eyes,
To caress the little idol as you wish, in
your own wise.
To enclasp her round her shoulders, mouth
to mouth and chest to chest,
And with just your eyes to ask her: "Do you
love me? Don't you jest?"
Well, reach out your hand - the door-clutch
will spring out through much impatience.
Here's an aunt and there's an uncle, a real
congress of relations.
Turn your head aside demurely, in the carpeting
What, in this our world is there not a shelter
for a lover?
Each of these Egyptian mummies in his armchair
While you clench your hands together, drum,
envenomed, with your fingers,
Count the hairs of your moustache, idly roll
And in matters gastronomic prove that you
are no cadet.
Such a life has made me weary... not because
I've drained its glass,
But because its dregs are bitter, all is bitter
What? to hallow a vain instinct with so many
a vain tear,
The blind urge which so distempers feathered
flocks two times a year?
You are not alive - another prompts you, it
is he who lives,
He who laughs your laughs (the broadest),
frolics, whispers, takes and gives,
For your lives, with no exception, are like
waves that ebb and surge,
Everlasting is the River - he alone's the
Dont' you feel that your affection is an elfish
Don't you feel that you see wonders in the
cheapest works and tools?
Don't you see it is from nature that such
ardent love proceeds?
That this love was meant to cradle lives that
are but hatred's seeds?
Don't you see that your great laughter turns
to weeping in your sons,
That it bears the blame if Cain's genealogy
Oh, the stupid show of puppets mimicking our
words, to tell,
parrot-like, no end of fables, jokes and stories,
With no sense to them... Thereafter on the
stage an actor climbs,
Speaks to his most precious ego, says a thousand
What he used to say for ages, what new ages
will not miss,
Till the sun is sunk for ever in the fathomless
When among the clouds and deserts the moon
glides along and sports,
Why should you at her heels follow with your
world of serious thoughts?
Miss your footing every minute on the icy,
Peep at the lit lamps and candles through
the glossy window-panes,
And then see how she is followed by a swarm
How she smiles to everybody as is fit for
Hear the spurs that click, the dreesses rustling,
swishing up and down,
While the hes twist their moustaches and the
shes now wink, now frown?
When her amorous transactions she can close
with a mere glance,
Why, dead cold, the butt of Cupid, at her
gate attendance dance?
Wherefore, like an adolescent, love her dearly
When she is as chill and freakish as the show'ry
In one clasp lose all possession of your wits
- and that for good! -
And from top to toe caress her and admire
her as you would
Paros marbles or the pictures painted by Coreggio's
When she's stone-cold and coquettish? You
are crazy, understand!
Yes... I once dreamt of a lady that my sweetheart
true could be,
Dreamt that oft, over my shoulder, she would
gently look at me,
That I'd feel her magic presence, she would
know I am her friend,
That our poor life would resemble a romance
without an end.
Look for her again? What should I look for?
It's the same old song,
Thirst for everlasting silence dinning in
my ears too long,
But the organs are all broken and the old
song is heard still
In half-intermitted burstings like, at nigh,
those of a rill,
In the dark there still effulges, now and
then, some purer beam
From a Carmen Saeculare which had also been
But the notes of most "creators", joining
in a frantic fling,
Whistle, rattle and at random push each on
Harsh and cold rings the unfinished yet perpetual
With my thoughts the winds play havoc, desolated
burns, my brain.
Where's the gift of lucid verses which in
earlier days I had?
Ah! the organs are all broken, the maestro
is stark mad!