In Port

Happy the man who is safe in his haven,
And has left far behind the sea and its sorrows,
And now so warm and calmly sits
In the cosey Town-Cellar of Bremen.

O, how the world so homelike and sweetly
In the wine-cup again is mirrored,
And how the wavering microcosmos
Sunnily flows through the thirstiest heart!
All things I see in the glass,—

Ancient and modern histories by myriads,
Grecian and Ottoman, Hegel and Gaits,
Forests of citron, and watches patrolling,
Berlin, and Schilda, and Tunis, and Hamburg,
But above all the form of the loved one,
All angel's head on a Rhine-wine-gold ground.

O, how fair! how fair art thou, beloved !
Thou art as fair as roses!
Not like the roses of Shiraz,
The brides of the nightingale, sung by old Hafiz!
Not like the rose of Sharon,
Holily blushing and hallowed by prophets;
Thou art like the Rose in the cellar of Bremen!

That is the Rose of Roses:
The older she grows, the sweeter she blossoms,
And her heavenly perfume has made me happy,
It has inspired me, —has made me tipsy;
And were I not held by the shoulder fast
By the Town-Cellar Master of Bremen,
I had gone rolling over!

The noble soul! we sat there together.
And drank, too, like brothers,
Discoursing of lofty, mysterious matters,
Sighing and sinking in solemn embraces.
He made me a convert to Love's holy doctrine;
I drank to the health of my bitterest enemy,
And I forgave the worst of all poets,
As I myself some day shall be forgiven!