(_From the German of Fritz Schnack_)
Soft, delicate morning air ripplings
Sway between the willow bushes
Rustling, as if a woman in silk ruchings
Passes over the meadows ...
Without end and blessedly far
Purls the cajoling sweetness.
O! how anxiously do I bear this air.
Like chords from the cloudland
Fall the deep shining days
Resounding in my trembling hand.