THE MURMUR OF THE FOREST

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, 
Swiftly leaping.
  

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.
 Popescu
Transcribed by Monica Dima
School No.
 10, Focsani, Romania

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