To a watery palace of crystal bright The knight on a sudden is taken; His eyes are dazzled by radiant light, By his wits he is well-nigh forsaken. But the nymph holds him closely embraced by her side The knight is the bridegroom, the nymph is the bride While her maidens the lute’s notes awaken.
So sweetly they play and so sweetly they sing, In the dance they are moving so lightly, That the knight before long finds his senses take wing, He embraces his sweet one more tightly-- When all of a sudden the lights disappear, And the knight’s once more sitting in solitude drear In his poet’s low garret unsightly.
’Twas in the beauteous month of May, When all the flowers were springing, That first within my bosom I heard love’s echo ringing.
’Twas in the beauteous month of May, When all the birds were singing, That first I to my sweetheart My vows of love was bringing.
From out of my tears all burning Many blooming flowerets break, And all my sighs combining A chorus of nightingales make.
And if thou dost love me, my darling, To thee shall the flowerets belong; Before thy window shall echo The nightingale’s tuneful song.
The rose and the lily, the dove and the sun, I loved them all dearly once, every one; I love them no longer, I love now alone The small one, the neat one, the pure one, mine own. Yes, she herself, the fount of all love, Is the rose and the lily, the sun and the dove.
When gazing on thy beauteous eyes All thought of sorrow straightway flies; But when I kiss thy mouth so sweet, My cure is perfect and complete.
When leaning on thy darling breast, I feel with heavenly rapture blest; But when thou sayest: “I love thee!” I begin weeping bitterly.
Thy face, so lovely and serene, In vision I have lately seen; So like an angel’s ’tis, and meek, Though bitter grief has blanch’d thy cheek.
Thy lips alone, they still are red; Death soon will kiss them pale and dead; The heavenly light will soon be o’er That from thine eyes is wont to pour.
O lean thy beauteous cheek on mine, That our tears together may mingle! Against my bosom press thou thine, That their flames may no longer be single
And when with the flame is mingled at last The stream of our tears all burning, And mine arm is lovingly round thee cast,-- I’ll die of my love’s sweet yearning.