The Poems of Goethe Part 3

Ever burned the flame; Stead of dying, soon the Fox

Livelier still became.

1770.

----- THE HEATHROSE.

ONCE a boy a Rosebud spied,

Heathrose fair and tender, All array'd in youthful pride,-- Quickly to the spot he hied,

Ravished by her splendour.

Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,

Heathrose fair and tender!

Said the boy, "I'll now pick thee,

Heathrose fair and tender!"

Said the rosebud, "I'll p.r.i.c.k thee, So that thou'lt remember me,

Ne'er will I surrender!"

Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,

Heathrose fair and tender!

Now the cruel boy must pick

Heathrose fair and tender; Rosebud did her best to p.r.i.c.k,-- Vain 'twas 'gainst her fate to kick--

She must needs surrender.

Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,

Heathrose fair and tender!

1779.*

----- BLINDMAN'S BUFF.

OH, my Theresa dear!

Thine eyes, I greatly fear,

Can through the bandage see!

Although thine eyes are bound, By thee I'm quickly found,

And wherefore shouldst thou catch but me?

Ere long thou held'st me fast, With arms around me cast,

Upon thy breast I fell; Scarce was thy bandage gone, When all my joy was flown,

Thou coldly didst the blind repel.

He groped on ev'ry side, His limbs he sorely tried,

While scoffs arose all round; If thou no love wilt give, In sadness I shall live,

As if mine eyes remain'd still bound.

1770.

----- CHRISTEL.

My senses ofttimes are oppress'd,

Oft stagnant is my blood; But when by Christel's sight I'm blest,

I feel my strength renew'd.

I see her here, I see her there,

And really cannot tell The manner how, the when, the where,

The why I love her well.

If with the merest glance I view

Her black and roguish eyes, And gaze on her black eyebrows too,

My spirit upward flies.

Has any one a mouth so sweet,

Such love-round cheeks as she?

Ah, when the eye her beauties meet,

It ne'er content can be.

And when in airy German dance

I clasp her form divine, So quick we whirl, so quick advance,

What rapture then like mine!

And when she's giddy, and feels warm,

I cradle her, poor thing, Upon my breast, and in mine arm,--

I'm then a very king!

And when she looks with love on me,

Forgetting all but this, When press'd against my bosom, she

Exchanges kiss for kiss, All through my marrow runs a thrill,