Margarete Münsterberg, ed., trans. A Harvest of German Verse. 1916.
By LongingJoseph Freiherr von Eichendorff (17881857)
T
I stood by the window alone,
To songs of the post-horn listening,
O’er silent moorland blown.
My heart within me was burning.
“To travel—ah, what delight!”
I thought in my secret yearning,
In the glorious summer night.
By the slope of yonder hill.
I heard their singing and talking,
When all about was still:
Of woodlands murmuring mildly,
Ravines from the dizziest height,
Of waterfalls that wildly
Pour into the forest’s night.
Of garden walls o’er-grown,
Where vines are rampantly twining,
Of moon-lit palaces lone,
Where maids at the windows are rousing
The music from lutes with delight,
Where murmuring fountains are drowsing
In the glorious summer night.