Here I lie on the spring hill
The cloud becomes my wing,
A bird flies ahead of me.
Oh, tell me, my tiny love,
Where you stay, that I may stay with you!
But you and the air have no house.
Like the sunflower my mind is open,
Yearning,
Stretching
In love and hope.
Spring, what are you willing?
When will I be satisfied?
The cloud I see walking and the river,
The golden kiss of the sun
Deep into my blood;
The eyes, wonderfully intoxicated,
Do as if they were asleep,
Only the ear listens to the sound of the bee.
I think this and think that,
I long and don't quite know what for.
Half it is desire, half it is lament.
My heart, O say,
What do you weave for memory
In golden green twilight?
Old unnameable days.
Eduard Mörike
1804-1875
~*~
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Bild: Pixabay
