In the year of revolutions in Europe, faux romance in America.
From the above, a translation of the German by Mrs S. C. E. Mayo (1819-1848):
Through the still-cloister garden,
Went a maiden pale and young,
Lit by the moon's dim flashes;
And love's soft tear drops hung
Upon her silken lashes.
"Oh well for me my true love
Is in the dust laid low;
I dare again to love him.
He is an angel now;
An angel, I dare love him."
The image of the Virgin,
She reached with trembling feet,
It stood in the soft glimmer;
Its smile so mother-sweet,
For loving did not blame her.
Sunk at its feet upgazing,
She in heavenly peace reposed,
Til Death, the Love restorer,
Her eyelids softly closed,
Her veil waved downward o'er her.
A poignant poem about the loss of her lover by a woman condemned to join a monastic order. Another translation of the same work, The Nun, by the German romantic poet Ludwig Uhland (1793–1801):
IN the silent cloister garden,
Beneath the pale moonshine,
There walked a lovely maiden,
And tears were in her eyne.
“Now, God be praised! my loved one
Is with the blest above:
Now man is changed to angel,
And angels I may love.”
She stood before the altar
Of Mary, mother mild,
And on the holy maiden
The Holy Virgin smiled.
Upon her knees she worshiped
And prayed before the shrine,
And heavenward looked—till Death came
And closed her weary eyne.
Comments
In the year of revolutions…
In the year of revolutions in Europe, faux romance in America.
From the above, a translation of the German by Mrs S. C. E. Mayo (1819-1848):
A poignant poem about the loss of her lover by a woman condemned to join a monastic order. Another translation of the same work, The Nun, by the German romantic poet Ludwig Uhland (1793–1801):
IN the silent cloister garden,
Beneath the pale moonshine,
There walked a lovely maiden,
And tears were in her eyne.
“Now, God be praised! my loved one
Is with the blest above:
Now man is changed to angel,
And angels I may love.”
She stood before the altar
Of Mary, mother mild,
And on the holy maiden
The Holy Virgin smiled.
Upon her knees she worshiped
And prayed before the shrine,
And heavenward looked—till Death came
And closed her weary eyne.
Let readers be the judges, not harsh censorship.