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Paraphrases on Heine.
II.
Thy heart is fickle as the wind, And flutters here and there;With sails of black my ship floats on, O'er raging seas afar.
LXXXVIII.
I.
EATH is but the chilly night Life is but the sultry day,Darkening even while I sleep, Weary, weary with the day.IL.
O'er my bed a tree arises, Where oft sings the nightingale,—Sings of love, of Love immortal, In my dreams I hear her wail.
XXXVI.
I.
ROM out my great sorrow, These little lays I bring,Which soar with ringing plumage, And to her heart take wing.
