 | Poems, original and translated |  |
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY.
ON HEARING IT PLAYED BY FRAULEIN LIEBE.
Grandmother sat in her old arm-chair;
The firelight gleamed on her silvery hair,
The firelight gleamed on her silvery hair,
That flowed like silk from her snowy cap:
Her knitting and spectacles lay in her lap.
Her knitting and spectacles lay in her lap.
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The grandchildren clustered on either side.
“Dear grandma, tell us a tale,” they cried.
“Dear grandma, tell us a tale,” they cried.
And so grandmother began and told
A wonderful tale of the days of old.
A wonderful tale of the days of old.
Grandmother's voice was fine and thin,
Like the far-off tone of a violin.
Like the far-off tone of a violin.
But was it a tale, or was it a tune,
I overheard the old grandma croon,
I overheard the old grandma croon,
As I stood at the window listening there
To the tones that stole on the evening air?
To the tones that stole on the evening air?
It seemed an old story I oft had heard,
Though I vainly sought to catch one word.
Though I vainly sought to catch one word.
'T was childhood's music I seemed to hear,
Coming back to my spell-bound ear;
Coming back to my spell-bound ear;
A tone commingling, sweet and low,
All the dear voices of years ago:
All the dear voices of years ago:
Of mother and sister—the tender refrain
Of Mother Nature's soothing strain;
Of Mother Nature's soothing strain;
The music of childhood's morning air,
The murmur of birds and bees was there;
The murmur of birds and bees was there;
The musical patter on roof and pane
In summer nights of the gentle rain,
In summer nights of the gentle rain,
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The patter of happy children's feet,
The ring of their voices in house and street:
The ring of their voices in house and street:
All this came back to my soul with a thrill
Of rapture that haunts my memory still,—
Of rapture that haunts my memory still,—
A rapture no words can ever tell:
It steals on the heart in the plaintive swell,
It steals on the heart in the plaintive swell,
The wild, the tender, human tone,
Of the whispering violin alone.
Of the whispering violin alone.
| Poems, original and translated | |