A Singer stands in festive attire, 
Clasps to his bosom warm a lyre, 
And plucks the strings, enraptured. 


“How play you my tunes, how sing my refrains, 


How swell you, O Lyre, with soul that strains 
As if by your own fires captured?” 


“Singer, think you that I am cold 
To bosom’s light, to yearning soul, 
To images upwards striving? 
They shine as clear as the Land of Stars, 
They surge, they soar like streaming fires, 
They lead to a Loftier Living. 


“I knew with prescience profound 

When called by your Word’s sparkling sound, 
"Twas not your fingers touching. 

It was a breath from sweeter lips 

Uprising from the heart’s own depths, 
A subtler music teaching. 


“There shone a visage wondrous fair, 
Haloed in song, in golden hair, 
That flashed forth rarest lays. 
High beat her heart, eyes glowed sublime, 
You were no more, you sank in dream, 
And I must honour and praise. 


571 


572 


Karl Marx 


“Her image in me sank silently, 

Like flower-shine rose out of me, 
As melting into sound. 

But say, it falls, it soars again, 

And yet for you cloud-veiled remain 
The sun and stars all round.” 


“O wondrous Lyre of magic skill, 

Your joy’s like bubbling founts that well, 
Ringed round with May-wreaths fair. 

Her breath inspires, her eyes invite, 

Your tones vibrate, your light beams bright, 
And rolls with the dancing spheres. 


“One drinks, one sings of raptures blest, 
Then Love flees echoing from the breast, 
One’s spirits no more sound. 
Yours was the dream, yours was the life, 
You shine in her, afar I strive, 
You soar, I must bow down.” 


“Singer, though lulled by flower-dream, 
I too reach out to Heaven’s hem 
With golden stars to bind it. 
The music sounds, life is in tears, 
The music sounds, the sun shines clear, 
And distances are blended.”