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OVER hill and plain and valley
Ónward as I trável aimless,
Often, toward the close of evening,
To my sécret sélf I thús say: -

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“Thoú too 'rt grówn one whole day older
Thán thou wást at this hour lást night,
Bút thou rt not grown one day wiser,
And still less grown one day bétter.

Hád in thị case mourned a day lost,
Heart, rejoice, and count each hoúr won
Thát no wound inficts in passing.”



TELL me not how much thou lóv'st me,

Bút look kindly and I 'll soon know.
Without words how múch thou lóv'st me.

Let me see thine eýe grow brighter
At my coming and thy lid droop
if I bút talk of departing
And I 'll know how much thou lóv'st me.


Whén thou síngest, when thou pláyest
Sing and play those airs alóne which
Thou hast heárd me sáy I like best,
And I 'll know how much thou lóv'st me.

Walk no roads but those which Í walk,
Choose no flowers but those which I choose,
Háve no friends but those whom I have,
Ánd I 'll know how múch thou lóv’st me.

Love me and thou need’st not tell it,
Love that 's told 's already less love;
Lóve me and thou canst not hide it,
Lóve me and I can't but knów it.

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I 'LL not tell thee hów I lóve thee,
Lóve by words was never measured,
Bút look at me thou, and tell me
Dóst thou not see how I lóve thee -

Dóst thou not mine eye see brighten
Át thy cóming, ánd my, lid droop
ff thou bút talk’st of departing –
Í 'll not tell thee how I love thee.

Í no sóngs sing, Í no airs play,
Bút those songs and airs thou lík'st best,
Whén thou 'rt ábsent I am túneless —
Í 'll not téll thee hów I love thee. .

Í no roáds walk whích thou walk'st not,"..
Choose no filówers but those thou choosest, :
Háve no friends but those whom thoú hast -
f 'll not tell thee how I love thee.

Hów I love thee Í 'll not tell thee,
Love that is told 's already less love;
Hów I love thee I cannot hide,

Ére I knew it myself thou knéw'st it.
Tübingen, Oct. 28, 1855.

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STUTTGART, nov. 10, 1855.

This dáy is Schiller's birthday; there 's rejoicing
In Stuttgart from the highest to the lowest;
All Württemberg rejoices, king and court,
Láic and priést; the square before Old Palace
Is odorous of flowers strown round his statue;
Children his name lisp, and the very bells
That call on Sundays to the house of prayer
Are this day éloquent with the name of Schiller.
Silence, vile sounds! false flowers, grow pale and wither!
Húsh, children! let no tongue pronounce his name,
Th' expatriated fugitive's, whose bones

And from among ye sent to seek a poor,..
Hard earned subsistence in a foreign land,
Because he would not have his free thoughts scissored,
And from another cog what he should say,
Hé has his túrn now and disowns thee, Stuttgart,
Disówns thee, Suábia; bids ye keep your honors,
Úseless to him, reproachful to yourselves;
He was yours; yé despised him, would not háve him;
In vain ye claim him now - he is the world's,
And yét ye did no more than other Stuttgarts
And Württembergs have done to other Schillers,
No more than, from all time, the seized of power
Háve done, and to all time will do, to those
Who dáre to touch or even so much as point at
The incohérent rúbbish, silt and offal,
Which únderlie the lowest foundation stone

Of áll power, and may any day give way
And slip from underneath, and down falls power
Amíd the loud hurrahs of those who take
The rúins to erect with them a like " ,
Proud, towering structure on like dunghill basis .
Permanent perhaps a while, but sure at last
To rót and stink and ooze and slip away
From underneath, and down, as old tower fell,
Falls new tower headlong, amid like hurrahs,
Cúrses, and thanks to God, and hymns of trịumph.

Thirty nine birthdays Márbach's son had counted,
Ere fár Iérne from my mother's womb
Received me first, and to his fate had bowed,
And yielded úp, resigned, his painful breath,
Ánd his eyes closed upon the sweet daylight
And his own rádiant fame, as my seventh year
By the hand took me, and, beside the lapi .
Of Wátts and Bárbauld placing, bade me listen

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Or thróstle's song, the numbers of the poet.
Then other years came and to other laps
Léd me successive, and mine ear drew in
Eáger the various lore, and I grew on
To be a man, and in the busy world
Mixed with the busiest, and toiled hard for bread,
And for yile góld, alas! and rank and honor,
But never at my busiest did I quite
Forgét my seventh year, or not now and then
At early morn, late eve, or deep midnight,
Retired and áll alóne, entreat to hear
Númbers melódious – Goldsmith's, Scott's or Pope's,
Spenser's or Shakespeare's, or divinest Milton's.
Late láte, and almost last, fell on mine ear

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