THE big mountains sit still in the afternoon light
Shadows in their lap;
The bees roll round in the wild-thyme with de-
light.

We sitting here among the cranberries
So still in the gap
Of rock, distilling our memories

Are sinners! Strange! The bee that blunders
Against me goes off with a laugh.
A squirrel cocks his head on the fence, and
wonders

What about sin?—For, it seems
The mountains have
No shadow of us on their snowy forehead of
dreams

As they ought to have. They rise above us
Dreaming
For ever. One even might think that they love us.

Little red cranberries cheek to cheek,
Two great dragon-flies wrestling;
You, with your forehead nestling
Against me, and bright peak shining to peak—
There's a love-song for you!—Ah, if only
There were no teeming
Swarms of mankind in the world, and we were
less lonely!

MAYRHOFEN