LONGING.
What stirs in my heart so?
What lures me from home?
What forces me outwards,
And onwards to roam?
Far up on the mountains
Lie cloudlets like snow;
Oh, were I but yonder,
'Tis there I must go!
Now by come the ravens
So solemn and black;
I mingle among them,
And follow their track:
By rock and by turret
We silently glide;
Ah, there is the bower, where
My lady doth bide!
She walks in the greenwood,
That beautiful May;
Like a bird singing clearly,
I drop on the spray.
She lists, and she lingers,
And softly says she—
"How sweetly it singeth,
It singeth for me!"
The sunset is gilding
The peaks of the hill,
The day is declining,
Yet tarries she still:
She follows the brooklet
Through meadow and glade,
Till dark is the pathway,
And lost in the shade.
