'Twas there I met my little maid,
There saw her flaxen tresses first;
She filled the cup for one who lean'd
(A soldier, crippl'd and athirst)
Against the basin's carven rim;
Her dear small hand's white loveliness
Was pinkly flush'd, the gay bright drops
Plash'd on her brow and silken dress.
I took the flagon from her hand,
Too small, dear hand, for such a weight.
From cobweb weft and woof is spun
The tapestry of Life and Fate!
The linden trees had gilded buds,
The dove wheeled high on joyous wing,
When on that darling hand of hers
I slipped the glimmer of a ring.
Ah, golden heart, and golden locks
Ye wove so sweet, so sure a spell!
That quiet day I saw her first
Beside the Burgomeister's Well!
SAID THE WIND.
"Come with me," said the Wind
To the ship within the dock
"Or dost thou fear the shock
Of the ocean-hidden rock,
When tempests strike thee full and leave thee blind;
And low the inky clouds,
Blackly tangle in thy shrouds;
And ev'ry strained cord
Finds a voice and shrills a word,
That word of doom so thunderously upflung
From the tongue
Of every forked wave,
Lamenting o'er a grave
Deep hidden at its base,
Where the dead whom it has slain
Lie in the strict embrace
Of secret weird tendrils; but the pain
Of the ocean's strong remorse
Doth fiercely force
The tale of murder from its bosom out
In a mighty tempest clangour, and its shout
In the threat'ning and lamenting of its swell
Is as the voice of Hell,
Yet all the word it saith
Is 'Death.
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