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Paraphrases on Heine.
II.
Thy heart is fickle as the wind,
And flutters here and there;
With sails of black my ship floats on,
O'er raging seas afar.
And flutters here and there;
With sails of black my ship floats on,
O'er raging seas afar.
LXXXVIII.
I.
EATH is but the chilly nightLife is but the sultry day,
Darkening even while I sleep,
Weary, weary with the day.
IL.
O'er my bed a tree arises,
Where oft sings the nightingale,—
Sings of love, of Love immortal,
In my dreams I hear her wail.
Where oft sings the nightingale,—
Sings of love, of Love immortal,
In my dreams I hear her wail.
XXXVI.
I.
ROM out my great sorrow,These little lays I bring,
Which soar with ringing plumage,
And to her heart take wing.
