THE MURMUR OF THE FOREST
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On the pond bright sparks are falling,
Wavelets in the sunlight glisten ;
Gazing on the woods with rapture ,
Do I let my spirit capture
Drowsiness, and lie and listen.
Quails are calling.
All the silent water sleeping
Of the streams and of the rivers ;
Only where the sun is shining
Thousand circles there designing
As with fright its surface shivers,
Pipe the birds midst woods concealing,
Which of us their language guessing ?
Birds of endless kinds and races
Chirp amidst its leafy places
And what wisdom they expressing
And what feeling.
Asks the cuckoo: "Who has seen
Our beloved summer idol ,
Beautiful beyond all praising
Through her languid lashes gazing,
Pur most lovely, tender, bridal,
Forest queen ?"
Bends the lime with gentle care
Her sweet body to embower ;
In the breeze his branches singing
Lift her in their arms upswinging,
While a hundred blossoms shower
On her hair.
Asks the brooklet as it flows :
" Where has gone my lovely lady ?
She, who evening hour beguiling,
In my silver surface smiling,
Broke its mirror deep and shady
With her toes ?"
I replied:" O forest, she
Comes no more, no more returning !
Only you, great oaks, still dreaming
Violet eyes, like flowers gleaming,
That the summer through were yearning
Just for me.
Happy then, alone we twain,
Through the forest brush-wood striding !
Sweet enchanted tale of wonder
That the darkness broke asunder.
Dear, wherever you'd be hiding,
Come again !
English version by Corneliu M.
Transcribed by Monica Dima
10, Focsani, Romania
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