To Ludwig Uhland, on the Last Volume of His Poems

As a headlong stream that Winter had bound,
When Spring reshowers her beams on the plains

Breaks loose with a fierce impatient sound
From its icy chains:

As a tree, despoiled by the axe of the North
Of its leaves of green and fruits of gold,

New leaves, new fruits, afresh puts forth,
As bright as the old:

As riotous wine, whose fiery strength
By the walls of the flask was prisoned long,

Outgushes in purple pride at length,
A bubbling song!

As the pealing of some vast organ floats
On the air to the ear of him who has heard

In many long days but the piping notes
Of the coppice-bird:

So rushes, O Uhland! — so streams and rolls
The flood of thy song — a flood of fire!

So thrills through the depths of all hearts and souls
The might of thy lyre 1