In flowery grove I lost my way 

Where forest spring showers silver spray 
In murmuring fall, o’erhead 
The lofty bay trees spread. 


They see it ever rushing fleet, 

They see it flowing at their feet, 
Burn in sweet shadows there 
To mate with Sea and Air. 


536 


Karl Marx 


But when it flees the hard land’s thrall, 
Loud thundering smites the rocky wall. 
Dizzy the flood spins round 
In mist-rings with no sound. 


Through flowery groves it roams again, 
Swallowing deep draughts of Death’s pain, 
And then the tall bay trees 
Waft down sweet reveries.