I heard a sickle sighing,
Yea, sighing through the corn,
I heard a maiden crying
That was for love forlorn.
"Give over, love, give over!
I care not what may pass,
For in the green, green clover
I've found another lass."
"If in the green, green clover
The while I stand apart
You've found another lover
I well may break my heart."
II
(Keller)
I was a master-weaver
To weave my grief and care,
And day and night I fashioned
A heavy robe to wear.
I trailed it on the highway
Dust-grey, with weary pride,
I set upon my forehead
A wreath of thorns beside.
The sun on high in Heaven
Looked down and loud laughed he:
"What little dwarf goes yonder
In robes of majesty?"
Ashamed I laid my mantle
And crown upon the sod,
And sorrowless and joyless
The dusty road I plod.
III
(Storm)
Out of my slumber I woke in affright;
Why does the lark sing so deep in the night?
The day is gone, the morning is far,
Down on my pillow shines many a star;
And ever the song of the lark I hear;
Oh, voice of the dawning, I shrink in fear.
IV
(Hofmannsthal)
She bore the beaker o'er to him—
Her chin was rounded like its rim—
So light and steady was her tread,
Not one drop of the wine was shed.
So light and sinewy his hand,
He rode his young horse carelessly,
And with an easy mastery
He forced it to a quivering stand.
And yet when from her hand the light
Small beaker he must take, they found
That it was all too hard, for lo,
Both he and she did tremble so
Their two hands never met aright,
And dark wine trickled on the ground.
