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Sunset
por
Ludwig van Beethoven
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The sun upon the Weirdlaw hill In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet; The westland wind is hush and still The lake lies sleeping at my feet Yet not the landscape to mine eyes Bears those bright hues that once it bore; Tho' Ev'ning, with her richest dye Flames o'er the hills on Ettrick's shore With listless look along the plain I see Tweed's silver current glide And coldly mark the holy fane Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride The quiet lake, the balmy air The hill , the stream, the tower, the tree Are they still such as once they were Or is the dreary change in me? Alas, the warp'd and broken board How can it bear the painter's dye? The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord How to the minstrel's skill reply? To aching eyes each landscape lowers To feverish pulse each gale blows chill: And Araby's or Eden's bowers Were barren as this moorland hill
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