Six songs , opus 43

The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
   The lark's is a clarion call,
And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,
   But I love him best of all.

For his song is all of the joy of life,
   And we in the mad, spring weather,
We two have listened till he sang
   Our hearts and lips together.

Two birds flew into the sunset glow,
And one of them was my love, I know.
Ah, had it but flown to my heart, its nest!

Two maidens down to the harvest go,
And one of them is my own, I know.
Ah, had she but come to me here, it were best!

Two stars remembered the long ago --
And one of them was my heart's great woe.
If it had but forgotten, and paled in the west!

Two children died in the hut below,
And one, my heart, to the grave doth go.
Ah, had it but taken me with it to rest!

I
Not from the whole wide world I chose thee —
  Sweetheart, light of the land and the sea! 
The wide, wide world could not enclose thee, 
  For thou art the whole wide world to me.

 ... 

The roses are dead, 
  And swallows are flying: 
White, golden, and red. 
The roses are dead ; 
Yet tenderly tread 
  Where their petals are lying:
The roses are dead,
  And swallows are flying. 

Up to her chamber window,
A slight wire trellis goes,
And up this Romeo's ladder
Clambers a bold white rose.

I lounge in the ilex shadows,
I see the lady lean,
Unclasping her silken girdle,
The curtain's folds between.

She smiles on her white-rose lover,
She reaches out her hand
And helps him in at the window --
I see it [where]1 I stand!

To her scarlet [lip]2 she holds him,
And kisses him many a time.
Ah me! it was he that won her
Because he dared to climb!

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