Theodor Storm (1817–1888)

THE WIND upon the hillside

Is hushed—the air is mild.

And here the boughs are drooping;

Beneath them sits the child.

Amid the thyme she’s sitting,

Within the fragrance rare,

While bluish flies are flitting

And gleaming through the air.

The forest is so silent,

So wise and keen her glance;

And round her brown hair curling

The glowing sunbeams dance.

I hear the cuckoo’s laughter—

And through my spirit flies

The thought that she has truly

The wood-queen’s golden eyes.