I

  In the sky the sun is failing,
    And the weary day would sleep,
  Here the willow fronds are trailing
    In the water still and deep.

  From my darling I must sever: 
    Stream, oh tears, stream forth amain! 
  In the breeze the rushes quiver
    And the willow sighs in pain.

  On my soul in silence grieving
    Mild thou gleamest from afar,
  As through rushes interweaving
    Gleams the mirrored evening star.

  IV

  Sunset dull and drear;
    Dark the clouds drive past;
  Sultry, full of fear,
    All the winds fly fast.

  Through the sky’s wild rack
    Shoots the lightning pale;
  O’er the waters black
    Burns its flickering trail.

  In the vivid glare
    Half I see thy form,
  And thy streaming hair
    Flutters in the storm.

  V

  On the lake as it reposes
    Dwells the moon with glow serene
  Interweaving pallid roses
    With the rushes’ crown of green.

  Stags from out the hillside bushes
    Gaze aloft into the night,
  Waterfowl amid the rushes
    Vaguely stir with flutterings light

  Down my tear-dim glance I bend now,
    While through all my soul a rare
  Thrill of thought toward thee doth tend now
    Like an ecstasy of prayer.

* * * * *

  THE POSTILION[18] (1833)

  Passing lovely was the night,
    Silver clouds flew o’er us,
  Spring, methought, with splendor dight
    Led the happy chorus.

  Sleep-entranced lay wood and dale,
    Empty now each by-way;
  No one but the moonlight pale
    Roamed upon the highway.

  Breezes wandering in the gloom
    Soft their footsteps numbered
  Through Dame Nature’s sleeping-room
    Where her children slumbered.

  Timidly the brook stole by,
    While the beds of blossom
  Breathed their perfume joyously
    On the still night’s bosom.

  My postilion, heedless all,
    Cracked his whip most gaily,
  And his merry trumpet-call
    Rang o’er hill and valley.

  Hoofs beat steadily the while,
    As the horses gamboled,
  And along the shady aisle
    Spiritedly rambled.

  Grove and meadow gliding past
    Vanished at a glimmer: 
  Peaceful towns were gone as fast,
    Like to dreams that shimmer.

  Midway in the Maytide trance
    Tombs were shining whitely;
  ’Twas the churchyard met our glance—­
    None might view it lightly.

  Close against the mountain braced
    Ran the long white wall there,
  And the cross, in sorrow placed,
    Silent rose o’er all there.

  Jehu straight, his humor spent,
    Left his tuneful courses;
  On the cross his gaze he bent
    Then pulled up his horses.