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[Illustration:  E. HADER EMANUEL GEIBEL]

  THE CALL OF THE ROAD[51] (1841)

  Sweet May it is come, and the trees are in bloom—­
  Who wills may sit listless with sorrow at home! 
  As the clouds go a-roving up there in the sky,
  So away for a life of adventure am I!

  Kind father, dear mother, God be with you now! 
  Who knows what my fortune is waiting to show? 
  There is many a road that I never have gone,
  There is many a wine that I never have known.

  Then up with the sun, and away where it leads,
  High over the mountains and down through the meads! 
  The brooks they are singing, the trees hear the call;
  My heart’s like a lark and sings out with them all.

  And at night, when I come to a cozy old nest,
  “Mine host, now a bottle—­and make it your best! 
  And you, merry fiddler, tune up for a song,
  A song of my sweetheart—­I’ll help it along!”

  If I come to no inn, then my slumber I’ll snatch
  ’Neath the kindly blue sky, with the stars to keep watch. 
  The trees with their rustling will lull me to sleep;
  Dawn’s kisses will wake me, and up I shall leap.

  Then ho! for the road, and the life that I love,
  And God’s pure air to cool your hot brow as you rove. 
  The heart sings for joy in the sun’s merry beams—­
  All, wherefore so lovely, wide world of my dreams?

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  AUTUMN DAYS[52] (1845)

  Sunny days of the autumn,
    Days that shall make me whole,
  When a balm for wounds that were bleeding
    Drops silently on the soul!

  Now seem the hours to be brooding
    In still, beneficent rest,
  And with a quieter motion
    Heaves now the laboring breast.

  To rest from the world’s endeavor,
    To build on the soul’s deep base—­
  That is my only craving,
    In the stillness of love to gaze.

  O’er the hills, through the dales I wander,
    Where the shy sweet streamlets call,
  Following each clear sunbeam,
    Whether scorching or kind it fall.

  There where the leaves are turning,
    I harken with reverent ear;
  All that is growing or dying,
    Fading or blooming, I hear.

  Blissful I learn my lesson—­
    How through the world’s wide sweep
  Matter and spirit together
    Their concord eternal keep.

  What blows in the rustling forest,
    Takes life from the sun and rain,
  Is a symbol of truth immortal
    To the soul that can read it plain.

  Each tiniest plant that blossoms
    With the perfume of its birth
  Holds in its cup the secret
    Of the whole mysterious earth.

  It looks down from the cliffs in silence,
    Speaks in the waves’ long swell—­
  But all its wonderful meaning
    The poet alone can tell.