Where I asked, the coming day, about the skull I found;
An aged innkeeper just pointed to the mound
And told the tale I've told, . . . the tale of the man long dead.
Again life's changing course, led me into the world,
Many a stormy whirl dragged me to depths of grief,
But as if drawn by force, wherever I was hurled,
Each Spring I came upon this mound for a moment brief.
And with the setting sun I sat upon the mound,
Above me the wheel and pole—the bones and age-bleached skull;
With saddened eyes I gazed upon the Springborn ground,
And on the mountain tops, wrapped in a foggy hull.
Again 'twas evening—first of May—
A night in May—'twas time for love;
A love lure sang the turtle dove
Where scented pine groves stretched away.
The tranquil moss sighed love's lament,
Love's sorrow shammed the blooming tree,
A nightingale sang love's melody,
While a rose replied with love's sweet scent.
The lake, hid where the thicket reared
Expressed its grief in a muffled sound
Where the banks entwined it all around,
As if embracing, they appeared.
49
