If only pure creative strength
Could echo like quick sense's storm!
If only sweet and pulpy form
Could flow from my cold fingers' length!
In trembling sputters I proceed,
Yet cannot leave these thoughts alone.
You feel, O Nature, to me known,
And thus must I your essence seize.
For many years in wayward tribes
Has my poor mind your peace bethought;
A pagan fool that values aught,
And now joy's spring will soon imbibe.
How I, O Nature, for you yearn,
How I so wish you dear and true!
O playful fountain all in blue,
A thousand organ pipes you'll churn!
And all my forces you'll accrete,
And fill with mirth my weary mind.
My narrow realm's plain words you'll bind,
And broaden to eternity.