176
Translations from Heine.
It dreameth of a palm-tree,
Which far in the East alone
In mournful silence standeth
On its ridge of burning stone.
My darling, thou art flowerlike,
So tender, pure, and fair;
I gaze on thee, and sadness
Steals on me unaware:
I yearn to lay my hands then
Upon thy head in prayer,
That God will keep thee ever
Thus tender, pure, and fair.
"Say, where is the maiden sweet,
Whom you once so sweetly sung,
When the flames of mighty heat
Filled your heart and fired your tongue?"
Ah, those flames no longer burn;
Cold and drear the heart that fed;
And this book is but the urn
Of the ashes of love dead.
