Cold, sharp lamentation
In the cold bitter winds
Ever blowing across the sky;
Oh, there was loneliness with me!

The loud sounding of the waves
Beating against the shore,
Their vast, rough, heavy outcry,
Oh, there was loneliness with me!

The light sea-gulls in the air,
Crying sharply through the harbours,
The cries and screams of the birds
With my own heart! Oh! that was loneliness.

The voice of the winds and the tide,
And the long battle of the mighty war;
The sea, the earth, the skies, the blowing of the winds,

The cold moon hangs to the sky by its horn,
And centres its gaze on me;
The stars, like eyes in reverie,
Their westering as for a while forborne,
Quiz downward curiously.

Old Robert draws the backbrand in,
The green logs steam and spit;
The half-awakened sparrows flit
From the riddled thatch; and owls begin
To whoo from the gable-slit.

Yes; far and nigh things seem to know
Sweet scenes are impending here;
That all is prepared; that the hour is near
For welcomes, fellowships, and flow
Of sally, song, and cheer;

The cold limbs of the air
Brush by me on the hill,
Climb to the utmost crag,
Leap out, then all is still.

Ah, but what high intent
In the cold will of wind;
What sceptre would it grasp
To leave these dreams behind!

Trail of celestial things:
White centaurs, winged in flight,
Through the fired heart sweep on,
A hurricane of light.

I have no plumes for air:
Earth hugs to it my bones.
Leave me, O sky-born powers,
Brother to grass and stones.

Cold is the north wind,
the snow falls thick
If you are kind and love me,
take my hand and we'll go together
You are modest, you are slow,
but oh, we must hurry!

Fierce is the north wind,
the snow falls fast.
If you are kind and love me,
take my hand and we'll go home together
You are modest, you are slow,
but oh, we must hurry!

Nothing redder than the fox,
nothing blacker than the crow.
If you are kind and love me,
take my hand and we'll ride together
You are modest, you are slow,
but oh, we must hurry!

FROM UHLAND .

The cold grey hills they bind me around,
The darksome valleys lie sleeping below,
But the winds, as they pass o'er all this ground,
Bring me never a sound of woe.

Oh! for all I have suffered and striven,
Care has embittered my cup and my feast;
BuThere is the night and the dark blue heaven,
And my soul shall be at rest.

O golden legends writ in the skies!

I
The cold earth slept below,
Above the cold sky shone;
And all around with a chilling sound,
From caves of ice and fields of snow
The breath of night like death did flow
Beneath the sinking moon.
II

The wintry hedge was black,
The green grass was not seen,
The birds did rest on the bare thorn's breast,
Whose roots, beside the pathway track,
Had bound their folds o'er many a crack
Which the frost had made between.
III

Thine eyes glowed in the glare
Of the moon's dying light;

Cold, cold the year draws to its end,
The crickets and grasshoppers make a doleful chirping.
The chill wind increases its violence.
My wandering love has no coat to cover him.
He gave his embroidered furs to the Lady of Lo,
But from me his bedfellow he is quite estranged.
Sleeping alone in the depth of the long night
In a dream I thought I saw the light of his face.
My dear one thought of our old joys together,
He came in his chariot and gave me the front reins.
I wanted so to prolong our play and laughter,

A COLD coiled line of mottled lead,
He lies where grazing cattle tread,
And lifts a fanged and spiteful head.

His touch is deadly and his eyes
Are hot with hatred and surprise —
Death waits and watches where he lies!

His hate is turned toward everything!
He is the undisputed king
Of every path and woodland spring.

His naked fang is raised to smite
All passing things; light
Is not swifter than his bite.

His touch is deadly, and his eyes
Are hot with hatred and surprise —
Death waits and watches where he lies!

" Oh! I am sick of what I am. Of ali
Which I in life can ever hope to be.
Angels of light be pitiful to me. "

The cold chain of life presseth heavily on me tonight.
The thundering pace of thought is curbed, and, like a fiery steed, dasheth against the gloomy walls of my prisoned soul.
Oh! how long will my poor thoughts lament their narrow faculty? When will the rein be loosed from my impatient soul?

Cold blows the wind to my true love,
And gently drops the rain,
I never had but one sweetheart,
And in greenwood she lies slain,
And in greenwood she lies slain.

I'll do as much for my sweetheart
As any young man may;
I'll sit and mourn all on her grave
For a twelvemonth and a day.

When the twelvemonth and one day was past,
The ghost began to speak;
"Why sittest here all on my grave,
And will not let me sleep?'

"There's one thing that I want, sweetheart,
There's one thing that I crave;