So now the storm of these wild years is through;
Here trudg'd the peasant's furrow, black and grey.
Above me would my senses chance to stray,
Where I might hear the vernal wings anew ...
O Spring, with whispers you bid me to rise,
Words horrible and painful, yet so light:
Gorged on sweet prayer, I will then delight
To kiss your fabric, unseen to all eyes.
Too rapidly my lonely heart does beat,
With too much youth is my old blood endowed,
When from behind a gently feathered cloud,
My very first love glides on sprightly feet ...
Forget this fearful world, my love, forget;
Lift forth your wings and to our place now home;
At that great feast I did not eat alone!
And you I never, never shall forget!