The Poems of Goethe Part 127

Thus canst thou still onward go,

Serving friend and mourner too!

There, where lofty ramparts glow,

Soon the loved one shall I view.

Ah, what makes the heart's truth known,--

Love's sweet breath,--a newborn life,-- Learn I from his mouth alone,

In his breath alone is rife!

1815.

----- THE SUBLIME TYPE.

THE sun, whom Grecians Helms call,

His heavenly path with pride doth tread, And, to subdue the world's wide all,

Looks round, beneath him, high o'er head.

He sees the fairest G.o.ddess pine,

Heaven's child, the daughter of the clouds,-- For her alone he seems to s.h.i.+ne;

In trembling grief his form he shrouds,

Careless for all the realms of bliss,--

Her streaming tears more swiftly flow: For every pearl he gives a kiss,

And changeth into joy her woe.

She gazeth upward fixedly,

And deeply feels his glance of might, While, stamped with his own effigy,

Each pearl would range itself aright.

Thus wreath'd with bows, with hues thus grac'd,

With gladness beams her face so fair, While he, to meet her, maketh haste,

And yet, alas! can reach her ne'er.

So, by the harsh decree of Fate,

Thou modest from me, dearest one; And were I Helms e'en, the Great,

What would avail his chariot-throne?

1815.

----- SULEIKA.

ZEPHYR, for thy humid wing,

Oh, how much I envy thee!

Thou to him canst tidings bring

How our parting saddens me!

In my breast, a yearning still

As thy pinions wave, appears; Flow'rs and eyes, and wood, and hill

At thy breath are steeped in tears.

Yet thy mild wing gives relief,

Soothes the aching eyelid's pain; Ah, I else had died for grief,

Him ne'er hoped to see again.

To my love, then, quick repair,

Whisper softly to his heart; Yet, to give him pain, beware,

Nor my bosom's pangs impart.

Tell him, but in accents coy,

That his love must be my life; Both, with feelings fraught with joy,

In his presence will be rife.

1815.

----- THE REUNION.

CAN it be! of stars the star,

Do I press thee to my heart?

In the night of distance far,

What deep gulf, what bitter smart!

Yes, 'tis thou, indeed, at last,

Of my joys the partner dear!

Mindful, though, of sorrows past,