Die wehenden Locken

Der schwarzen Locken wild Geschling’
Um Nacken ihr und Busen hing,
O, wäre doch mein Arm der Ring,
     Der ihren Leib umfinge! –

Wie wunderlieblich ist ihr Bau,
Welch’ edlen Wuchs trägt sie zur Schau,
Der Mund wie Rosen, feucht von Thau,
     O, wer doch an ihm hinge!

Collection: 
Translator Simple: 
Adolf Wilhelm Ernst von Winterfeld
1860

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