Weariness

The Heart's Talk

Under the cherry tree I met her —
as if, in her rich spring dress,
she were a butterfly from the garden of Eden —
a breath of tender love!

Oh, what a chance it was!
What joy took wing from my being — what an avowal!
I cried out to it — I gasped at it — unawares,
the dreaming stars of her eyes,
and her two dimples deepened, coquettish —
oh, her radiance!!

You say, Mother: "I am younger than she."
What does it matter, if it were so?
The clusters of cherries bear witness:
my head stood level with her head,
and upon the velvet of the grass
my shadow matched her shadow.

What does it matter that she is older than I?
Among my comrades I am the tallest;
every morning I train... and every night,
so that tomorrow my chest may show.
And as for clothes — you know —
I wear only the fitting, manly kind.
In years... in a year!
My cheeks will sprout their down... my voice will roughen,
and in youth — you shall see —
what a knight I shall become,
what a prince!
Or, after all this,
shall I still be the little one?

Oh... woe is me!
Why, Mother — why
did you not bear me... before her?!!