1737 

Sighs rest thee not, tears.html">tears bring no ease, The years change not, though they decrease, Speak, love.html">love.html">love, I listen: far away "Mock not the afternoon of day, I bless thee, O my love, who say'st: I hold Love's hand.html">hand, and make no haste With other names do we name pain, Mock not our loss grown into gain, Our eyes gaze for no morning-star, Full silent wayfarers we are Behold with lack of happiness Lest we should think of him the less: Because the world to me seemed nowise good; The misty hills dreamed, and the silent wood.html">wood I knew not if the earth with me did grieve, Who drew anigh me on the leaf-strewn grass, With grief-worn eyes, until my woe did pass And she mid tears was asking me of one Into the dark wood, and my own great pain And perished at the grey dawn's hand again; In vain I seek thee, O thou bitter-sweet! From midst the trees, and stood regarding me Then he cried out: "O mourner, where is she I love her and she loveth me, and still That these had met and missed in the dark night, That hideth love and maketh wrong of right. Yet more with barren longing I grew weak, When July days were done, In the earliest of the sun. He left the white-walled burg behind, The westland-gotten wind blew kind And slow he rode the way: Not all hath worn away." So came he to the long green lane And saw the sickle by the wain And murmuring, stood aloof, "God bless the Green-wood Roof!" Then o'er the ford and up he fared: And the mountain-dale by summer cleared, And smiled and said aloud: .

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