In the perpetual round of strange, Mysterious change From birth to death, from death to birth, From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth; Till glimpses more sublime Of things, unseen before, Unto his wondering eyes reveal The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel, Turning for evermore In the rapid and rushing river of Time. AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. THE day is ending, The marsh is frozen, The river dead; Through clouds like ashes The red sun flashes On village windows, That glimmer red. The snow recommences, The buried fences Mark no longer The road o'er the plain; While through the meadows, Slowly passes A funeral train. The bell is pealing, To the dismal knell; Shadows are trailing, Like a funeral bell. WALTER VON DER VOGELWEIDE. VOGELWEIDE, the Minnesinger, When he left this world of ours, Laid his body in the cloister, Under Würtzburg-Minster towers. And he gave the monks his treasures, Saying "From these wandering minstrels I have learned the art of song; Let me now repay the lessons They have taught so well and long." Thus the bard of love departed— And, fulfilling his desire, On his tomb the birds were feasted By the children of the choir. Day by day, o'er tower and turret, On the tree, whose heavy branches On the pavement,—on the tombstone, On the cross-bars of each window, They renewed the War of Wartburg, There they sang their merry carols, Till at length the portly abbot Murmured, "Why this waste of food? Be it changed to loaves henceforward For our fasting brotherhood." |