1. NOCTURNE.
Gently, gently, gently, spider
Spins a thread;
Where the fir-trees slimly loom, in woods, the stag has laid his head;
Night, the silent, lofty, presses
O'er the land with silvery glazes,
And a quenchèd lamp she raises
From the water's deep recesses.
Guiding mortals by the hand, as blind sons, dream advances.
—I will weave a nest, O mother, deep within their glances—
Cricket from the grass is prying:
See, O darling, see!
Gently, gently spins the spider
Threadlets three.
Woe, woe, woe has gathered round me,
Black and fierce.
In my breast a green-hued sprig of rose has made a thorn to pierce.
And my sobbing, sobbing, sobbing
In this lustrous night doth scatter;
Pearly tear-drops downward patter;
With restive wings I set them throbbing:
