How, in the light of morning, Round me thou glowest, Spring, thou beloved one!
With thousand-varying loving bliss The sacred emotions Born of thy warmth eternal Press 'gainst my bosom, Thou endlessly fair one!
Could I but hold thee clasp'd Within mine arms!
Ah! upon thy bosom Lay I, pining, And then thy flowers, thy grass, Were pressing against my heart.
Thou coolest the burning Thirst of my bosom, Beauteous morning breeze!
The nightingale then calls me Sweetly from out of the misty vale.
I come, I come!
Whither? Ah, whither?
Up, up, lies my course.
While downward the clouds Are hovering, the clouds Are bending to meet yearning love.
For me, Within thine arms Upwards!
Embraced and embracing!
Upwards into thy bosom, Oh Father all-loving!
1789.*
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