C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
From ‘The Pretty Maid of the Mill’
By Wilhelm Müller (1794–1827)
T
To wander!
He must a wretched miller be
Who would not wander merrily,
And wander!
The water!
It takes no rest by night or day,
But ever wends its laughing way,
The water!
The mill-wheel!
That will not stand a moment still,
But tireless turns the mighty mill,
The mill-wheel!
The millstones!
They join the merry dancing crew,
And try to move much faster too,
The millstones!
To wander!
Good master and good mistress, pray,
Let me in peace now go my way
And wander!
I
From out the rocky spring,
Down through the valley rushing
With clear and laughing ring.
What longing filled my breast;
Down to the vale it bore me,
And onward without rest.
I followed its dancing gleam,
And louder still and clearer
Sang ever the happy stream.
O brooklet, whither, say?
Thou hast with thy sweet rushing
My reason charmed away.
That can no rushing be!
’Tis the voice of the water-nixies,
That sing their songs to me.
But wander onward still;
There must be merry mill-wheels
In every flashing rill.
I
By the alder-lined mere;
The rushing and singing
Of mill-wheels I hear.
Sweet old song of the mill!
And the house with its windows
Is so cozy and still.
Makes heaven seem gay!
Ah, brooklet, lovely brooklet,
Was it this thou wouldst say?
W
My friend, by thy lay?
By ringing and singing,
Was it this thou wouldst say?
Thou meanest it so.
Ah! Have I not guessed it?
To the miller’s maid go!
Or foolest thou me?
Oh, this only tell me,
If her wish it be.
I’ll rest me content;
I have found what I sought for,
Howe’er it was meant.
I’ve now all I need;
For my hands, for my heart,
I’ve all that I need!
I
I’ll ask no starry sphere;
For none of them can tell me
What I so long to hear.
The stars all hang too high;
My brooklet here shall tell me
If my fond heart doth lie.
Why singest thou no more?
I ask for one word only,
One answer o’er and o’er.
The other word is “no”;
In one of these two answers
Is all my weal or woe.
Why shouldst thou wayward be?
I’ll promise not to tell it—
Say, brooklet, loves she me?
I
On every stone I’d grave it lastingly;
In every garden plot the words I’d sow,
With seed that soon my sweet device would show,
That she should see my faithful heart’s endeavor:
Thine is my heart, and shall be thine forever.
Until he sang aloud that sweetest speech,
And sang it with my voice’s counterpart,
With all the yearning of my loving heart;
He’d sing it then to her and cease it never:
Thine is my heart, and shall be thine forever.
I’d sigh it softly to the swaying trees;
Oh, that it shone from every blossom fair!
Oh, that she breathed it in the perfumed air!
Are mill-wheels all that thou canst move, O river?
Thine is my heart, and shall be thine forever.
And burned upon my cheeks in telltale guise;
Imprinted on my speechless lips it were,
And every breath I drew cried out to her;
But she, alas, heeds naught of my endeavor:
Thine is my heart, and shall be thine forever.
G
Why hide thy head, whene’er I pass,
Behind the curtain yonder?
Dost think my greetings boldness show?
Disturb thee then my glances so?
Then onward I must wander.
And only at thy window look,
Below there, just below there!
Thou flaxen head, now hide no more!
Come forth from out your oval door,
Ye morning stars that show there!
Ye flowers wet with morning dew,
Doth ruddy sunlight blind you?
Were they so sweet, the joys of sleep,
That now you close and droop and weep,
Because they’re left behind you?
And fresh and free your heads upraise,
To greet the shining morrow!
Aloft the lark doth gayly soar,
And at the deep heart’s inmost core
Awake love’s care and sorrow.
W
In shady alder nook;
We gazed long and fondly together
Down into the murmuring brook.
The stars began to glow,
And gazed long and fondly together
At the silvery mirror below.
And not the starry skies:
Her picture was all I gazed at,
And all I saw was her eyes.
Deep down in my brooklet so true;
The flowers on the margin, the blue ones,
Are winking and blinking there too.
The whole wide heaven shone,
And into its glistening bosom
It seemed to lure me on.
The brook rippled joyous and free,
And called me, ringing and singing:—
“Come hither, O brother, to me!”
Before me the brook seemed to spin;
She said, “A shower is coming:
Good-night—I’m going in.”
B
Mill-wheels, stop your whirr and whine!
All ye merry wood-songsters fine,
Make no sign;
Silent be and close your eyne!
Every line
I’ll design—
It shall but one rhyme enshrine:
For the miller’s lovely maid is mine!
Mine!
Springtime, are there then no fairer flowers thine?
Sunlight, canst thou then no brighter shine?
Ah, alone I must repine
With that sweetest of all words, “Mine,”
Understood by none in all this world divine!
A
That she once gave,
Ye shall be buried
With me in the grave.
Upon me so,
As if with pity
Ye saw my woe?
Of pale regret,
Ah, all ye flowers,
How came ye wet?
The flowers like rain,
Cannot make dead passion
To bloom again.
And spring will appear,
And flowers will blossom
Around me here.
My new-made grave,—
Ah, all the flowers,
That she once gave!
The church-yard through,
And softly murmurs,
“His love was true!”—
Oh bloom, oh blow!
For May is coming,
And gone is the snow.
The Miller:
W
Must break and must die,
The lilies all withered
And broken lie.
Must veil her head,
And hide from all mortals
The tears she doth shed.
Their eyes gently close;
They’re sobbing and soothing
The soul to repose.
When love has o’ermastered
Its hopes and fears,
A new star, bright shining,
In heaven appears.
Half white, half red,
That never shall wither
In garden bed.
Their pinions will clip,
And earthwards each morning
Will fairily trip.
Ah, brooklet, lovely brooklet,
Thou’rt faithful and true;
Ah, brooklet, but thou know’st not
What love can do.
’Tis cool and deep.
Ah, brooklet, lovely brooklet,
Now sing me to sleep.
S
I’ll thy vigil keep!
Wanderer, so weary, thou’rt now at home.
Securely rest
Asleep on my breast,
Till the brooklets mingle with ocean foam.
In moss-lined pool,
In the chamber of sparkling blue crystal clear;
Come, wavelets, wave,
His cradle lave,
Soothe him and rock him, my comrade so dear.
From the greenwood’s borne,
I will rush and I’ll gush, that thou mayst not hear.
Peep ye not through,
Little flow’rets blue!
You make all the dreams of my sleeper so drear.
From my margin stay,
Wicked maiden, lest from thy shadow he wake!
But throw me down
Thy kerchief brown,
So for his eyes I’ll a bandage make!
Till all’s made right,
Forget all thy hopes, and forget thy fate!
The moon shines bright,
The mists take flight,
And the heaven above me how wide and how great!