“A pine-tree stands in a forest—­who knows where? 
    A rose-tree in some garden fair doth grow;
  Remember they are waiting there, my soul,
    Till o’er thy grave they bend to whisper and to blow.

  “Far in the pasture two black colts are feeding. 
    Toward home they canter when the master calls;
  They shall go slowly with thee to thy grave,
    Perchance ere from their hoofs the gleaming iron falls.”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  ANNETTE VON DROSTE-HUeLSHOFF]

ANNETTE ELIZABETH VON DROSTE-HUeLSHOFF

  PENTECOST[34] (1839)

  The day was still, the sun’s bright glare
  Fell sheer upon the Temple’s beauteous wall
  Withered by tropic heat, the air
  Let, like a bird, its listless pinions fall. 
  Behold a group, young men and gray,
  And women, kneeling; silence holds them all;
  They mutely pray!

  Where is the faithful Comforter
  Whom, parting, Thou didst promise to Thine own? 
  They trust Thy word which cannot err,
  But sad and full of fear the time has grown. 
  The hour draws nigh; for forty days
  And forty wakeful nights toward Thee we’ve thrown
  Our weeping gaze.

  Where is He?  Hour on hour doth steal,
  And minute after minute swells the doubt. 
  Where doth He bide?  And though a seal
  Be on the mouth, the soul must yet speak out. 
  Hot winds blow, in the sandy lake
  The panting tiger moans and rolls about,
  Parched is the snake.

  But hark! a murmur rises now,
  Swelling and swelling like a storm’s advance,
  Yet standing grass-blades do not bow,
  And the still palm-tree listens in a trance. 
  Why seem these men to quake with fear
  While each on other casts a wondering glance? 
  Behold!  ’Tis here!

  ’Tis here, ’tis here! the quivering light
  Rests on each head; what floods of ecstasy
  Throng in our veins with wondrous might! 
  The future dawns; the flood-gates open free;
  Resistless pours the mighty Word;
  Now as a herald’s call, now whisperingly,
  Its tone is heard.

  Oh Light, oh Comforter, but there
  Alas! and but to them art Thou revealed
  And not to us, not everywhere
  Where drooping souls for comfort have appealed! 
  I yearn for day that never breaks;
  Oh shine, before this eye is wholly sealed,
  Which weeps and wakes.

* * * * *

  THE HOUSE IN THE HEATH[35] (1841)

  Beneath yon fir trees in the west,
    The sunset round it glowing,
  A cottage lies like bird on nest,
    With thatch roof hardly showing.

  And there across the window-sill
    Leans out a white-starred heifer;
  She snorts and stamps; then breathes her fill
    Of evening’s balmy zephyr.

  Near-by reposes, hedged with thorn,
    A garden neatly tended;
  The sunflower looks about with scorn;
    The bell-flower’s head is bended.