Poems (Schiller)/An idyl
AN IDYL[To Miss Florence S. Van Fossen.]
The warm sunshine streameth O'er valley and hill,And brightly it gleameth On river and rill.The grain waxeth golden In many a field,And soon to the reaper Its fullness will yield.The ring of the scythe In the hay-field is heard,And afar sounds the call Of the red-winged black bird.Lambs sport on the hillside, And down in the mead;Where the brook murmurs music, Cows lazily feed. Glad voices of children On light winds are borne,And the heart of all nature Beats gladly this morn.But what does it matter, This fullness of earth?And what do I care for These voices of mirth?For the hand of the Chastener Upon me is lain,And my young heart is pierced With arrows of pain.Earth's beauty, once pleasing, Now grieveth me sore,Since the eyes so beloved Shall view it no more.The song of the bird In the neighboring treeMakes me wish he were chanting A requiem for me.And I mourn that the flowers, Whose bright banners wave, Do not breathe their perfume O'er me in my grave.Ah! wherefore can earth Be so smiling and gay,While a shadow so dark On my spirit doth lay?July 1, 1870.