Soft on the lake's soft bosom we twain
Float in the haze of a dim delight,
While the wavelets cradle the sleepless brain,
And the eyes are glad of the lessening light,
And the east with a fading glory is bright —
The lingering smile of a sun that is set —
And the earth in its tender sorrow is dight,
And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet!
Oh! the mellow beam of the suns that wane,
Of the joys, ah me! that are taking flight;
Oh, the sting of a rapture too near to pain,
And of love that loveth imdeath's despite!
But the hour is ours, and its beauty's might
Subdues our souls to a still regret,
While the Blumlis-Alp unveils to the night,
And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet!
Now we set our prow to the land again,
And our backs to those splendors ghostly white,
But a mirrored star with a watery train
We hold in our wake as a golden kite;
When we near the shore, with its darkening height,
And its darker shade on the waters set,
Lo! the dim shade fleeth before our sight,
And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet!
From the jewelled circles where I indite
This song, which my faithless tears make wet,
We trail the light till its jemmed rings smite
The shadow, — that falleth! and spares us yet.
