I hear thee when the ocean-tides returning
Aloud rejoice;
And on the lonely moor in silence yearning
I hear thy voice.

I dwell with thee; though thou art far removed,
Yet thou art near. 
The sun goes down, the stars shine out,—­Beloved
If thou wert here!

From the German of Goethe, 1898.

TWO SONGS OF HEINE

I

“EIN FICHTENBAUM”

  A fir-tree standeth lonely
  On a barren northern height,
  Asleep, while winter covers
  His rest with robes of white.

  In dreams, he sees a palm-tree
  In the golden morning-land;
  She droops alone and silent
  In burning wastes of sand.

II

“DU BIST WIE EINE BLUME”

  Fair art thou as a flower
    And innocent and shy: 
  I look on thee and sorrow;
    I grieve, I know not why.

  I long to lay, in blessing,
    My hand upon thy brow,
  And pray that God may keep thee
    As fair and pure as now.

1872.

EIGHT ECHOES FROM THE POEMS OF AUGUSTE ANGELLIER

I

THE IVORY CRADLE

  The cradle I have made for thee
  Is carved of orient ivory,
  And curtained round with wavy silk
  More white than hawthorn-bloom or milk.

  A twig of box, a lilac spray,
  Will drive the goblin-horde away;
  And charm thy childlike heart to keep
  Her happy dream and virgin sleep.

  Within that pure and fragrant nest,
  I’ll rock thy gentle soul to rest,
  With tender songs we need not fear
  To have a passing angel hear.

  Ah, long and long I fain would hold
  The snowy curtain’s guardian fold
  Around thy crystal visions, born
  In clearness of the early morn.

  But look, the sun is glowing red
  With triumph in his golden bed;
  Aurora’s virgin whiteness dies
  In crimson glory of the skies.

  The rapid flame will burn its way
  Through these white curtains, too, one day;
  The ivory cradle will be left
  Undone, and broken, and bereft.

II

DREAMS

  Often I dream your big blue eyes,
    Though loth their meaning to confess,
  Regard me with a clear surprise
    Of dawning tenderness.

  Often I dream you gladly hear
    The words I hardly dare to breathe,—­
  The words that falter in their fear
    To tell what throbs beneath.

  Often I dream your hand in mine
    Falls like a flower at eventide,
  And down the path we leave a line
    Of footsteps side by side.