Among the reeds a snipe, black speck,
The pond with ripples did bedeck;
And likewise in my soul, meseems,
Has strayed the bird of golden dreams.
SONG
My hands embraced the violin
When years had passed, at home again.
In tones so void of skill, and thin
Quavered the hesitating strain,
Quavered the hesitating strain,
My tuneful art has taken wings,
Alas, 'tis vain! I know but this—
My tuneful art has taken wings.
And with desire and longing thrilled,
The tender violin to hear,
That oft by weeping strains was filled
In evenings when the moon shone clear,—
In evenings when the moon shone clear!—
I pressed more firmly on the strings;
Alas, 'tis vain! the string was rent—
My tuneful art has taken wings!
And she who once so gladly heard,
When wistfully I spoke and mused,
