Текст песни When the Moon Is on the Wave (Solefald) с переводом

When the moon is on the wave

And the glow-worm in the grass

And the meteor on the grave

And the wisp on the morass

When the falling stars are shooting

And the answer’d owls are hooting

And the silent leaves are still

In the shadow of the hill

Shall my soul be upon thine

With a power and with a sign

Though thy slumber may be deep

Yet thy spirit shall not sleep;

There are shades which will not vanish

There are thoughts thou canst not banish

By a power to thee unknown

Thou canst never be alone;

Thou art wrapt as with a shroud

Thou art gather’d in a cloud;

And for ever shalt thou dwell

In the spirit of this spell

Though thou seest me not pass by

Thou shalt feel me with thine eye

As a thing that, though unseen

Must be near thee, and hath been;

And when in that secret dread

Thou hast turn’d around thy head

Thou shalt marvel I am not

As thy shadow on the spot

And the power which thou dost feel

Shall be what thou dost feel

Shall be what thou must conceal

And a magic voice and verse

Hath baptized thee with a curse;

And a spirit of the air

Hath begirt thee with a snare;

In the wind there is a voice

Shall forbid thee to rejoice;

And to thee shall night deny

All the quiet of her sky;

And the day shall have a sun

Which shall make thee wish it done

From thy false tears I did distil

An essence which hath strength to kill;

From thy own heart I then did wring

The black blood in its blackest spring;

From thy own smile I snatch’d the snake

For there it coil’d as in a brake;

From thy own smile I snatch’d the snake

For there it coil’d as in a brake;

From thy own lip I drew the the charm

Which gave all these their chiefest harm;

In proving every poison known

I found the strongest was thine own

By thy cold breast and serpent smile

By thy unfathom’d gulfs of guile

By that most seeming virtuos eye

By thy shut soul’s hypocrisy;

By the perfection of thine art

Which pass’d for human thine own heart;

By thy delight in others' pain

And by thy brotherhood of cain

I call upon thee! And compel

Thyself to be thy proper hell!

And on thy head I pour the vial

Which doth devote this trial;

Nor to slumber, nor to die

Shall be in thy destiny;

Though thy death shall still seem near

To thy wish, but as a fear;

Lo! The spell now works around thee

And the clankless chain hath bound thee;

O’er thy heart and brain together

Hath the word been pass’d — now wither!

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