THE MURMUR OF THE FOREST
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THE MURMUR OF THE FOREST


On the pond bright sparks are falling,
Wavelets in the sunlight glisten;
Gazing on the woods with rapture,
Do I let my spirit capture
Drowsiness, and lie and listen...
Quails are calling.

 

All the silent water sleeping
Of the streams and of the rivers;
Only where the sun is shining
Thousand circles there designing
As with fright its surface shivers,
Swiftly leaping.

 

Pipe the birds midst woods concealing,
Which of us their language guessing?
Birds of endless kinds and races
Chirp amidst its leafy places
And what wisdom they expressing
And what feeling.

 

Asks the cuckoo: "Who has seen
Our beloved summer idol,
Beautiful beyond all praising
Through her languid lashes gazing,
Pur most lovely, tender, bridal,
Forest queen?"


Bends the lime with gentle care
Her sweet body to embower;
In the breeze his branches singing
Lift her in their arms upswinging,
While a hundred blossoms shower
On her hair.

 

Asks the brooklet as it flows:
" Where has gone my lovely lady?
She, who evening hour beguiling,
In my silver surface smiling,
Broke its mirror deep and shady
With her toes?"

 

I replied: "O forest, she
Comes no more, no more returning!
Only you, great oaks, still dreaming
Violet eyes, like flowers gleaming,
That the summer through were yearning
Just for me."

 

Happy then, alone we twain,
Through the forest brush-wood striding!
Sweet enchanted tale of wonder
That the darkness broke asunder...
Dear, wherever you'd be hiding,
Come again!

 

 

(Translated by Corneliu M. Popescu)

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