The east wind blows in the street to-day;
The sky is blue, yet the town looks grey.
'Tis the wind of ice, the wind of fire,
Of cold despair and of hot desire,
She, who so long has lain
Stone-stiff with folded wings,
(AN ECHO FROM A LARGER LYRE.)
That was love that I had before
Since that I may not have
Love on this side the grave,
Let me imagine Love.
Since not mine is the bliss
In the night I dreamed of you;
All the place was filled
With your presence; in my heart
The strife was stilled.
He comes; I hear him up the street--
Bird of ill omen, flapping wide
The pinion of a printed sheet,
His hoarse note scares the eventide.
All things I can endure, save one.
The bare, blank room where is no sun;
The parcelled hours; the pallet hard;
The dreary faces here within;
At Loschwitz above the city
The air is sunny and chill;
The birch-trees and the pine-trees
Grow thick upon the hill.
What ails my senses thus to cheat?
What is it ails the place,
That all the people in the street
Should wear one woman's face?
The sad rain falls from Heaven,