A Nightsong of Eichendorff
I wandered late by rock and tree,
the moon crept out so secretly
behind its cloak of cloud;
and here and there in the dark vale
the fleeting moonbeams bleached ghost-pale
a nightingale sang loud.
Far off, the torrent’s silver song
ran over stone unseen, nightlong,
transmuting the moonlight.
My thoughts, mercurial, argentine,
seemed more the woods and hills’ than mine
in the phantasmal night.