Six Songs : the words from 'New Spring' by H. Heine , opus 31

The blue-starred eyes of springtime;
 Peep from the grass around,
They are the gentle violets
  Which to a wreath I bound.

I ponder as I break them,
 And all that hidden tale
Of heartfelt love and longing
 Sings loud the nightingale.

Yea, what I think she chanteth
 Gladly in joyous tone;
I fear my tender secret
 To all the wood is known.

[Soft]1 and gently through my soul
 Sweetest bells are ringing,
Speed you forth, my little song,
 Of springtime blithely singing!

Speed you onward to a house
 Where sweet flowers are fleeting!
If, perchance, a rose you see,
 Say, I send her greeting!

What brings thee out in the sweet spring night,
To make the flowers half mad with fright?
  The violets are all of a flutter.
The roses for very shame are red,
The lilies -- pale as are the dead --
  Impeach thee, beseech thee, and stutter.

O thou dear Moon, of what pious sect
Are then the flowers, that they detect
  My crimes without further token?
How could I know they had listened and heard
Each glowing, each love-besotted word
  That I with the stars had spoken?

When by chance you cross my path,
  And your dress but touches me,
Bounding goes my gladdened heart,
  And I fain would follow thee.

When you turn to give me greeting --
  Greeting from large eyes to me
Fills my heart so full of terror
  That I dare not follow thee.

Golden stars across the heavens
 With their small feet softly creep,
Fearing lest they should awaken
 Mother Earth, who lies asleep.

Listening stand the silent forests,
 Every leaf a little ear,
And, as in a dream, the mountain
 Shadow-arms outstretches near.

But who called? -- I heard an echo;
 Through my listening heart it fell.
Could it be her voice -- or was it
 Nothing but the nightingale?

In the forest moonbeam-brightened,
Late last night the elves were riding,
Horns and silver bells resounded
As their throng went past me gliding.

From the foreheads of their horses
Golden antlers were extending,
Swiftly, through the air, like swan-birds
They their rapid way were wending.

Graciously the elf queen beckoned,
On her palfrey backward leaning; --
Did she smile at my new passion,
Or was doom and death her meaning?