From old fairy tales beckons

From old fairy tales beckons

To me a white hand,

Where there is a singing and sounding

Of a magical land,

Where multicolored flowers bloom

In golden twilight,

And glow lovely and fragrant

With their bridal visage,

And where green trees sing

Primeval melodies;

Where breezes sound secretly,

And birds warble,

And mist-figures rise

From the earth

And dance airy round-dances

In an odd chorus,

And blue sparks burn

On every leaf and twig,

And red lights run

In a mad, chaotic circle,

And loud springs break

Out of wild marble stone,

And in the streams--oddly--

Shine forth the reflections.

Ah! If I could enter there

And indulge my heart

And give up my agony

And be free and holy!

Ah! This is the land of bliss

That I see so often in a dream,

But when the morning sun comes,

It melts like mere froth.