Thy coldness puts to flight my joy.But soon as night and silence round us reign,I know thee by thy kisses sweet again!
When the smooth ground pressing!O, how false are eye and lip,
EARLY one day, the Muse, when eagerly bent on adornment,Follow'd a swift-running streamlet, the quietest nook by it seeking.Quickly and noisily flowing, the changeful surface distortedEver her moving form; the goddess departed in anger.Yet the stream call'd mockingly after her, saying: "What, truly!Wilt thou not view, then, the truth, in my mirror so clearly depicted?"But she already was far away, on the brink of the ocean,In her figure rejoicing, and duly arranging her garland.
So with contests, strivings, triumphs,Flying now, and now returning,Is an artful net soon woven,In its whiteness like the snow-flakes,That, from light amid the darkness,Draw their streaky lines so varied,As e'en colours scarce can draw them.
Many a lightly-hidden traceOf a spirit loved didst teach us.
As a wise traveller should, would he his journey improve.Soon all this will be past; and then will there be but one temple,
Soon with more power
The Prophet hath caress'd.
In the silent night?
Wife and children slaughter they;And we allHasten to a certain fall.
Hope fills the oft-deluded beast;Yet if one moment he would lazy be,
Streams richer laden
OH, unhappy stars! your fate I mourn,
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