Alone today I mounted that steep hill On which the Wartburg stands. Here Luther dwelt In a small room one year through, here he spelt The German Bible out by God's good will. The birds piped ti-ti-tu, and as I went I thought how Katherine von Bora knelt At Grimma, idle she, waiting to melt Her surpliced heart in folds less straitly meant. As now, it was March then: Lo, he'll fulfill Today his weighty task! Sing for content Ye birds! Pipe now! for now 'tis Love's wing's bent. Work sleeps; love wakes; sing and the glad air thrill! |