My heart, my heart is mournful

My heart, my heart is mournful,
Yet joyously shines the May ;
I stand by the linden leaning,
High on the bastion grey.

The blue town-moat thereunder
Glides peacefully along ;
A boy in a boat is angling
And whistling a careless song.

Beyond, like a well-known picture,
All small and fair are strewed
Houses and gardens and people.
Oxen and meadows and wood.

The maidens bleach the linen,
And dance in the grass for glee ;
The mill-wheel scatters diamonds,
Its far hum reaches me.

Upon the hoary tower
A sentry-box stands low ;
A youth in his coat of scarlet
There paces to and fro.

He trifles with his musket,
Which gleams in the sunshine red ;
He shoulders and presents it —
I would he shot me dead.