In those days when new to me were Of existence all impressions:— The maiden's glances, the forests' whisper, The song of nightingale at night; When the sentiments elevated Of Freedom, glory and of love, And of art the inspiration Stirred deeply so my blood:— My hopeful hours and joyful With melancholy sudden dark'ning A certain evil spirit then Began in secret me to visit. Grievous were our meetings, His smile, and his wonderful glance, His speeches, these so stinging Cold poison poured into my soul. Providence with slander Inexhaustible he tempted; Of Beauty as a dream he spake And inspiration he despised; Nor love, nor freedom trusted he, On life with scorn he looked— And nought in all nature To bless he ever wished.
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