Ulla, mine Ulla, tell me, may I hand thee
Reddest of strawberries in milk or wine? 
Or from the pond a lively fish?  Command me! 
Or, from the well, a bowl of water fine? 
Doors are blown open, the wind gets the blaming. 
Perfumes exhale from flower and tree. 
Clouds fleck the sky and the sun rises flaming,
As you see! 
Isn’t it heavenly—­the fish market?  So? 
“Heavenly, oh heavenly!”
“See the stately trees there, standing row on row,—­
Fresh, green leaves show! 
And that pretty bay
Sparkling there?” “Ah yes!”
“And, seen where sunbeams play,
The meadows’ loveliness? 
Are they not heavenly—­those bright fields?—­Confess!”—­
Heavenly! 
Heavenly!

Skal and good-noon, fair one in window leaning,
Hark how the city bells their peals prolong! 
See how the dust the verdant turf is screening,
Where the calashes and the wagons throng! 
Hand from the window—­he’s drowsy, the speaker,
In my saddle I nod, cousin mine—­
Primo a crust, and secundo a beaker,
Hochlaender wine! 
Isn’t it heavenly—­the fish-market?  So? 
“Heavenly, oh heavenly!”
“See the stately trees there, standing row on row,—­
Fresh, green leaves show! 
And that pretty bay
Sparkling there?” “Ah yes!”
“And, seen where sunbeams play,
The meadows’ loveliness? 
Are they not heavenly—­those bright fields?—­Confess!”—­
Heavenly! 
Heavenly!

Look, Ulla dear!  To the stable they’re taking
Whinnying, prancing, my good steed, I see. 
Still in his stall-door he lifts his head, making
Efforts to look up to thee:  just to thee! 
Nature itself into flames will be bursting;
Keep those bright eyes in control! 
Klang! at your casement my heart, too, is thirsting. 
Klang!  Your Skal! 
Isn’t it heavenly—­the fish-market?  So? 
“Heavenly, oh heavenly!”
“See the stately trees there, standing row on row,—­
Fresh, green leaves show! 
And that pretty bay
Sparkling there?” “Ah yes!”
“And, seen where sunbeams play,
The meadows’ loveliness? 
Are they not heavenly—­those bright fields?—­Confess!”—­
Heavenly! 
Heavenly!

CRADLE-SONG FOR MY SON CARL

Little Carl, sleep soft and sweet: 
Thou’lt soon enough be waking;
Soon enough ill days thou’lt meet,
Their bitterness partaking. 
Earth’s an isle with grief o’ercast;
Breathe our best, death comes at last,
We but dust forsaking.

     Once, where flowed a peaceful brook
        Through a rye-field’s stubble,
     Stood a little boy to look
        At himself; his double. 
     Sweet the picture was to see;
     All at once it ceased to be;
          Vanished like a bubble!

     And thus it is with life, my pet,
        And thus the years go flying;
     Live we wisely, gaily, yet
        There’s no escape from dying. 
     Little Carl on this must muse
     When the blossoms bright he views
          On spring’s bosom lying.