August Graf von Platen Poems

Wer die Schönheit angeschaut mit Augen,
Ist dem Tode schon anheim gegeben,
Wird für keinen Dienst auf Erden taugen,
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Nächtlich am Busento lispeln bei Cosenza dumpfe Lieder.
Aus den Wassern schallt es Antwort, in den Wirbeln klingt es wider.
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Oh, he whose pain means life, whose life means pain,
May feel again what I have felt before;
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On Busento's grassy banks a muffled chorus echoes nightly,
While the swirling eddies answer and the wavelets ripple lightly.
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'Tis night, and tempests whistle o'er the moor;
Oh, Spanish father, ope the door!
Deny me not the little boon I crave,
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Would I were free as are my dreams,
Sequestered from the garish crowd
To glide by banks of quiet streams
Cooled by the shadow-drifting cloud!
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How I started up in the night, in the night,
Drawn on without rest or reprieval!
The streets with their watchmen were lost to my sight,
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