Lay these leaves among the others in the green portfolio! I will write shortly; in the meantime I let myself be nursed and cared for, like a sick child. My kind regards to the doctor.
Your Mathilde Wesendonck.
Mir erkoren —
Mir verloren —
Ewig geliebtes Herz.
Hast heard the nightingales' enraptured singing,
while o'er the trees her garlands May was flinging;
but when sad Autumn doubtful days is bringing,
no little bird dare set its song a-ringing.
The mountain-peaks that high as heaven are winging,
their chill renunciant silence them enringing,
flush red, thou seest, in mute despair close-clinging,
when nears the goddess in sun-chariot swinging.
O question not, reluctant answer wringing!
Much have I borne of fortune's bitter slinging,
but This my lips' close lock shall ne'er be springing —
'tis why my songs so sorrowfully I'm stringing.
What chalice holds the radiant shine
of all the great gold sun?
And thou so small, O heart of mine,
yet wouldst confine
earth's joy of all, in one?
Sweet love's infinity
shut in a cell, —
and heaven's eternity
by life's dream tell?
In the heart that is sad and weary
there sobs a depth of woe,
as bitter and black and dreary
as the sea, in its deep, deep flow.
And sighs like the winds are moaning
now here, and now there, o'er the floods,
where memory's light, atoning,
as tender as evening broods.
While hope like a boat is sailing,
by longing drawn back to shore,
amid the wild breakers quailing,
she fareth home never more.
When dark grief with overshadowing pinion
fearsome on thy trembling spirit sinks,
and a-weary of the ever-changing,
thy strest soul its every chain unlinks;
from thine eye Illusion's veil has fallen,
and thine Eden flies from thee like foam;
while from graves the pallid ghosts are stalking,
and things real seem but dreams a-roam;
all existence fades to empty show,
Being figures but as Not-being's foe —
real alone thy heart-throbs then remain,
with their e'er-affirming sobs of pain.
On the 22nd May 63.
Dwells a soul both strong and fair
prisoned in the blossom there,
that with all her being's care
lives and weaves in sunlit air;
that with ever tireless strife
one thing seeks — a fair flower-life;
that, altho' the golden sun
thousand sister heads hath kissed,
envies not each happy one,
flowers toward the light she missed:
him alone her fair face turns to,
him alone her sweet breath yearns to;
and — if he forget her quite —
shuts her gentle eyes and light,
lays her little flower-head low,
breathes one sigh — grows silent so.
Heart, what woe couldst thou endure,
wert but as a flower pure?
A deep deep grave I fashioned
and laid my love therein,
with all my hope and yearning,
tears that mine eyes were burning,
joy, grief, and all akin.
And when they each slept soundly,
I laid myself therein.
Source: Richard Wagner to Mathilde Wesendonck, trans. William Ashton Ellis (Charles Scribner's Sons, 1905), No. 160