I’m tired of the gloom  



In a four-walled room;  



Heart-weary, I sigh  



For the open sky,  



And the solitude  



Of the greening wood;  



Where the bluebirds call,  



And the sunbeams fall,  



And the daisies lure 



The soul to be pure.  



 



I’m tired of the life 



In the ways of strife;  



Heart-weary, I long  



For the river’s song,  



And the murmur of rills  



In the breezy hills;  



Where the pipe of Pan— 



The hairy half-man— 



The bright silence breaks  



By the sleeping lakes.   

I found you and I lost you, 

   All on a gleaming day. 

The day was filled with sunshine,

   And the land was full of May. 

A golden bird was singing

   Its melody divine, 

I found you and I loved you, 

   And all the world was mine. 

I found you and I lost you, 

   All on a golden day, 

But when I dream of you, dear, 

   It is always brimming May.

^{translated from the German by Jessie Lamont}

Again the woods are odorous, the lark
Lifts on upsoaring wings the heaven gray 
That hung above the tree-tops, veiled and dark, 
Where branches bare disclosed the empty day.

After long rainy afternoons an hour 
Comes with its shafts of golden light and flings 
Them at the windows in a radiant shower, 
And rain drops beat the panes like timorous wings.

Then all is still. The stones are crooned to sleep 
By the soft sound of rain that slowly dies; 
And cradled in the branches, hidden deep 
In each bright bud, a slumbering silence lies.

    The monotone of the rain is beautiful,
And the sudden rise and slow relapse
Of the long multitudinous rain.

    The sun on the hills is beautiful,
Or a captured sunset sea-flung,
Bannered with fire and gold.

    A face I know is beautiful—
With fire and gold of sky and sea,
And the peace of long warm rain.

Now shall I store my soul with silent beauty, 

     Beauty of drifting clouds and mountain heights, 

Beauty of sun-splashed hills and shadowed forests, 

     Beauty of dawn and dusk and star-swept nights. 

Now shall I fill my heart with quiet music, 

    Song of the wind across the pine-clad hill, 

Song of the rain and, fairer than all music, 

    Call of the thrush when twilight woods are still. 

So shall the days to come be filled with beauty, 

     Bright with the promise caught from eastern skies; 

So shall I see the stars when night is darkest, 

     Still hear the thrush’s song when music dies.