Translations from Heine.
175
The sparkling and glittering morning dew,
And the people are joyous wherever I view:
Yet would were I in the grave at rest
Folded close to my lost Love's breast.
I gazed upon her picture,
Absorbed in dreams of gloom,
Till those beloved features
Began to breathe and bloom.
About her lips came wreathing
That sweet, sweet smile I knew;
The eyes were softly gleaming
With tears as fresh as dew.
And my tears sprang then also,
The dark cloud's rain was shed:
And, O my Love, I cannot
Believe that thou art dead!
A pine-tree standeth lonely
In the North on an upland bare;
It standeth whitely shrouded
With snow, and sleepeth there:
