Poems (Waldenburg)/A May Wine Vision
A MAY WINE VISION.OTTO ROQUETTE.
Twas on a journey, my companions theyLingering through vale and forest wound their way;Before the night came on, alone I foundThe sought-for inn, by vines encircled round.
Where under vine-clad bower for us awaited,Full laden cups with fragrant May wine freightedTheir spicy odors to the warm breeze flung;While o'er the vale, night's sable mantle hung.
O night how fair! The sultry summer heatSent distant lightning flashes thwart the sky;And echoing round from branch and blossom sweet,Answered the plaintive nightingale's soft cry.
The vines embraced caressingly each other,The scented air seemed almost breath to smotherMy dreamy brain was filled with thoughts so fair,They gleamed like dancing stars, before me there!
At once where was I? In the blossoming shade,A fairy scene was as by magic made!The foliage filling, airy spirits glideAround and over me, and by my side,
While from the perfumed bath of golden wine,Shaking the drops, assuming forms divine,My wondering eyes a pair of lovers traceFolding each other in a glad embrace!
Ah what a tiny beauteous pair and fond,So wondrously fair this fairy bond.Vine born is she, and he an herb, whose breathThe golden nectar richly savoreth.
Still further on my magic tale unfolds.The broad vine's verdant vaulted foliage holdsConfused whirr-like sounds of battle cry,The object of this anger, it is I!
They have discovered me, and on they press,Waving their gleaming spears in eagerness—To snatch my breath! Before my throbbing brainDanced the vine princess, and her loving swain.
But lo! A king advances suddenly,It is King Fire Wine, the great, the free!The weapons sink, still is the murmuring crowd;He speaks to them, to me, in accents proud.
"Ruling the blooming world the vine we see;So is the poet in his kingdom, lord.With storms he battles even as do we,To gain the goal ordained by Nature's word.
Painfully through fissured rock's dark lengthThe vine creeps onward in her silent strength,With tears in spring she moisteneth the soil,Struggling till blossoming, greet her earnest toil.
Though hard may be the rock, still brighter gleamsThe golden stream of wine, some sunny morn,Through dust and darkness, even so brighter streams,The immortal Song in toil and anguish born.
Then throb the hearts of men, they gladly throngAround the golden gifts of Wine and Song;Forgetting toil, forgetting all things sad,They crown with laurel leaves, the Poet glad!
O blissful power is his, thus to proclaimThe silent thought that in man's heart doth beat.And happy gift is ours to inflameWith joy the vision by Wine's fragrant heat.
Hence! Let him free and far o'er yonder hillsExtend your wings, and work your angry willsOn scoffers, fright them with your weapon's gleam,But to this Poet, leave his song and dream."
Then softly bending bowed the vines adown,Night dews shone glistening in the moon's soft gleam,Fleet, glancing stars from heights above were thrownAnd found their burial in the distant stream.
And hark! an echo of a merry song,Is through the silent valley borne along;The friends approach. The fairy throng have gone,They name me dreamer, in a jesting tone;Perhaps I dreamed, perhaps 'twas May wine broughtThis magic scene to me, with beauty fraught!