E ROS ! wherefore do I see thee, with the glass in either hand?
Fickle God! with double measure wouldst thou count the shifting sand?
‘ This one flows for parted lovers—slowly drops each tiny bead—
That is for the days of dalliance, and it melts with golden speed.’

E ROS ! wherefore do I see thee, with the glass in either hand?
Fickle God! with double measure wouldst thou count the shifting sand?
‘ This one flows for parted lovers—slowly drops each tiny bead—
That is for the days of dalliance, and it melts with golden speed.’

I

O fairer than vermilion
 Shed upon Western skies
Was the blush of that sweet Castilian
 Girl, with the deep brown eyes—
As her happy heart grew firmer,
 In the strange bright days of yore,
When she heard young Edward murmur,
 ‘I love thee, Eleänore!’

II

Sweeter than musical cadence
 Of the wind amid cedar and lime,
Is love to a timorous maiden's
 Heart in the fresh spring-time:
Sweeter than waves that mutter
 And break on a sinuous shore,
Are the songs her fancies utter
 To brown-eyed Eleänore.

Sie haben heut Abend Gesellschaft

They're having a party this evening
And the house is gay with light.
Above, at a brilliant window,
A shadow trembles in sight.

You see me not; in darkness
I move alone, apart;
How little can you see, then,
Into my darkened heart.

My darkened heart still loves you,
Loves you and tortures me,
And breaks and lies here bleeding —
But you can never see.

" Teurer Freund, du bist verliebt "

" Ah, my friend, you are in love
And new torments chain you tighter;
For your brain is growing duller
As your foolish heart grows lighter.

" Yes, my friend, you are in love,
Though the truth is unconfessed;
Why, I see your heart's blood glowing —
Blushing, even through your vest! "

Kind! es ware dein Verderben

Child, I know 'twould be your ruin,
And my thoughts keep guard and turn there;
That your heart may not be kindled
With the love that used to burn there.

But my too successful triumph
Somehow does not quite delight me.
And I keep on thinking, hoping
You might love me yet — despite me.

Da droben auf jenem Berge

High up on yonder mountain
A castle stands, and three
Fair maidens live within it;
They love me generously.

Saturday, Yetta kissed me;
Sunday, Julia was free;
On Monday, Kunigunda
With love near smothered me.

But Tuesday, my three fair charmers
Gave an imposing fête;
The neighborhood's lords and ladies
Came riding in wagons of state.

Ein Jüngling liebt ein Mädchen

A young man loves a maiden
Whose heart for another has yearned;
This other loves another
By whom his love is returned.

The maiden weds in anger
The first good man she spies
Who runs into her pathway;
The youth grows bitter and wise.

It is an old, old story
But one that's always new;
And every time it happens
It breaks a heart in two.

Und als ich so lange, so lange gesäumt

And thus, as I wasted so many a day
In wandering and dreaming the hours away,
My love found the waiting too long a recess,
So she started to sew on her wedding-dress;
And she caught in her arms (oh deluded and duped)
As husband, the stupidest one of the stupid.

My loved one is so mild and fair
Her likeness haunts me everywhere;
The rose-cheeks and the violet-eyes
Year in, year out, their ghosts arise.
And that I should lose a love so dear,
Was the stupidest act of my stupid career.

Wie die Wellenschaumgeborene

Like the Foam-born, my love glows in
Splendor and her beauty's pride,
For she is the happy chosen
One to be a stranger's bride.

Tho' this treason may be hard on
Thee, my heart, thou patient one;
Bear it without sighs, and pardon
What the pretty fool has done.

Liebste, sollst mir heute sagen:

Come, and you shall tell me, dearest,
 Are you not a thing of dreams,
Such as, when the Summer's clearest,
 From the poet's fancy streams?

Ah, but no—a mien so mild, dear,
 Such a mouth and eyes that wait;
Such a loving, lovely child, dear,
 Not a poet could create.

Basilisks whose glances freeze or
 Hippogriffs and dragons dire;
Horrid, fabled things like these are
 Fashioned in the poet's fire.

But yourself and your pretenses,
 And those eyes that could not hate,—