The Poems of Goethe Part 13

First from breast to mouth it roves,

Then from mouth to hands it flies, And I round him sport the while.

And she sees me hov'ring near;

Trembling at her lovers rapture,

Up she springs--I fly away,

"Dearest! let's the insect capture

Come! I long to make my prey Yonder pretty little dear!"

1767-9.

----- APPARENT DEATH.

WEEP, maiden, weep here o'er the tomb of Love;

He died of nothing--by mere chance was slain.

But is he really dead?--oh, that I cannot prove:

A nothing, a mere chance, oft gives him life again.

1767-9.

----- NOVEMBER SONG.

To the great archer--not to him

To meet whom flies the sun, And who is wont his features dim

With clouds to overrun--

But to the boy be vow'd these rhymes,

Who 'mongst the roses plays, Who hear us, and at proper times

To pierce fair hearts essays.

Through him the gloomy winter night,

Of yore so cold and drear, Brings many a loved friend to our sight,

And many a woman dear.

Henceforward shall his image fair

Stand in yon starry skies, And, ever mild and gracious there,

Alternate set and rise.

1815.*

----- TO THE CHOSEN ONE.

[This sweet song is doubtless one of those addressed to Frederica.]

HAND in hand! and lip to lip!

Oh, be faithful, maiden dear!

Fare thee well! thy lover's s.h.i.+p

Past full many a rock must steers But should he the haven see,

When the storm has ceased to break, And be happy, reft of thee,--

May the G.o.ds fierce vengeance take!

Boldly dared is well nigh won!

Half my task is solved aright; Ev'ry star's to me a sun,

Only cowards deem it night.

Stood I idly by thy side,

Sorrow still would sadden me; But when seas our paths divide,

Gladly toil I,--toil for thee!

Now the valley I perceive,

Where together we will go, And the streamlet watch each eve,

Gliding peacefully below Oh, the poplars on yon spot!

Oh, the beech trees in yon grove!

And behind we'll build a cot,

Where to taste the joys of love!

1771.

----- FIRST LOSS.

AH! who'll e'er those days restore,

Those bright days of early love Who'll one hour again concede,

Of that time so fondly cherish'd!

Silently my wounds I feed, And with wailing evermore

Sorrow o'er each joy now perish'd.