The Poems of Goethe - LightNovelsOnl.com
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St. Peter's thoughts had gone astray,-- He had been musing on his way Respecting the world's government, A dream that always gives content, For in the head 'tis check'd by nought; This ever was his dearest thought, For him this prize was far too mean Had it a crown and sceptre been!
But, surely, 'twasn't worth the trouble For half a horseshoe to bend double!
And so he turn'd away his head, As if he heard not what was said,
The Lord, forbearing tow'rd all men, Himself pick'd up the horseshoe then (He ne'er again like this stoop'd down).
And when at length they reach'd the town, Before a smithy He remain'd, And there a penny for 't obtain'd.
As they the market-place went by, Some beauteous cherries caught His eye: Accordingly He bought as many As could be purchased for a penny, And then, as oft His wont had been, Placed them within His sleeve unseen.
They went out by another gate, O'er plains and fields proceeding straight, No house or tree was near the spot, The sun was bright, the day was hot; In short, the weather being such, A draught of water was worth much.
The Lord walk'd on before them all, And let, unseen, a cherry fall.
St. Peter rush'd to seize it hold, As though an apple 'twere of gold; His palate much approv'd the berry; The Lord ere long another cherry Once more let fall upon the plain; St. Peter forthwith stoop'd again.
The Lord kept making him thus bend To pick up cherries without end.
For a long time the thing went on; The Lord then said, in cheerful tone: "Had'st thou but moved when thou wert bid, Thou of this trouble had'st been rid; The man who small things scorns, will next, By things still smaller be perplex'd."
1797.
----- A SYMBOL.
(This fine poem is given by Goethe amongst a small collection of what he calls Loge (Lodge), meaning thereby Masonic pieces.)
THE mason's trade Observe them well,
Resembles life, And watch them revealing
With all its strife,-- How solemn feeling Is like the stir made And wonderment swell
By man on earth's face. The hearts of the brave.
Though weal and woe The voice of the blest,
The future may hide, And of spirits on high
Unterrified Seems loudly to cry: We onward go "To do what is best,
In ne'er changing race. Unceasing endeavour!
A veil of dread "In silence eterne
Hangs heavier still. Here chaplets are twin'd,
Deep slumbers fill That each n.o.ble mind The stars over-head, Its guerdon may earn.--
And the foot-trodden grave. Then hope ye for ever!"
1827.*
ART.
----- Artist, fas.h.i.+on! talk not long!
Be a breath thine only song!
----- THE DROPS OF NECTAR.
WHEN Minerva, to give pleasure To Prometheus, her well-loved one, Brought a br.i.m.m.i.n.g bowl of nectar From the glorious realms of heaven As a blessing for his creatures, And to pour into their bosoms Impulses for arts enn.o.bling, She with rapid footstep hasten'd, Fearing Jupiter might see her, And the golden goblet trembled, And there fell a few drops from it On the verdant plain beneath her.
Then the busy bees flew thither Straightway, eagerly to drink them, And the b.u.t.terfly came quickly That he, too, might find a drop there; Even the misshapen spider Thither crawl'd and suck'd with vigour.
To a happy end they tasted, They, and other gentle insects!
For with mortals now divide they Art-that n.o.blest gift of all.
1789.*
----- THE WANDERER.
[Published in the Gottingen Musen Almanach, having been written "to express his feelings and caprices" after his separation from Frederica.]
WANDERER.
YOUNG woman, may G.o.d bless thee, Thee, and the sucking infant Upon thy breast!
Let me, 'gainst this rocky wall, Neath the elm-tree's shadow, Lay aside my burden, Near thee take my rest.
WOMAN.
What vocation leads thee, While the day is burning, Up this dusty path?
Bring'st thou goods from out the town Round the country?
Smil'st thou, stranger, At my question?
WANDERER.
From the town no goods I bring.
Cool is now the evening; Show to me the fountain 'Whence thou drinkest, Woman young and kind!
WOMAN.
Up the rocky pathway mount; Go thou first! Across the thicket Leads the pathway tow'rd the cottage That I live in, To the fountain Whence I drink.
WANDERER.
Signs of man's arranging hand See I 'mid the trees!
Not by thee these stones were join'd, Nature, who so freely scatterest!
WOMAN.
Up, still up!
WANDERER.
Lo, a mossy architrave is here!
I discern thee, fas.h.i.+oning spirit!
On the stone thou hast impress'd thy seal.
WOMAN.
