The Poems of Goethe Part 88

Methought that all I had possess'd of yore

Remain'd still mine--that I was reft of nought.

1807-8.

----- THE LOVING ONE WRITES.

THE look that thy sweet eyes on mine impress

The pledge thy lips to mine convey,--the kiss,--

He who, like me, hath knowledge sure of this, Can he in aught beside find happiness?

Removed from thee, friend-sever'd, in distress,

These thoughts I vainly struggle to dismiss:

They still return to that one hour of bliss, The only one; then tears my grief confess.

But unawares the tear makes haste to dry:

He loves, methinks, e'en to these glades so still,--

And shalt not thou to distant lands extend?

Receive the murmurs of his loving sigh;

My only joy on earth is in thy will,

Thy kindly will tow'rd me; a token send!

1807-8.

----- THE LOVING ONE ONCE MORE.

WHY do I o'er my paper once more bend?

Ask not too closely, dearest one, I pray

For, to speak truth, I've nothing now to say; Yet to thy hands at length 'twill come, dear friend.

Since I can come not with it, what I send

My undivided heart shall now convey,

With all its joys, hopes, pleasures, pains, to-day: All this hath no beginning, hath no end.

Henceforward I may ne'er to thee confide

How, far as thought, wish, fancy, will, can reach,

My faithful heart with thine is surely blended.

Thus stood I once enraptured by thy side,

Gazed on thee, and said nought. What need of speech?

My very being in itself was ended.

1807-8.

----- SHE CANNOT END.

WHEN unto thee I sent the page all white,

Instead of first thereon inscribing aught,

The s.p.a.ce thou doubtless filledst up in sport.

And sent it me, to make my joy grow bright.

As soon as the blue cover met my sight,

As well becomes a woman, quick as thought

I tore it open, leaving hidden nought, And read the well-known words of pure delight:

MY ONLY BEING! DEAREST HEART! SWEET CHILD!

How kindly thou my yearning then didst still

With gentle words, enthralling me to thee.

In truth methought I read thy whispers mild

Wherewith thou lovingly my soul didst fill,

E'en to myself for aye enn.o.bling me.

1807-8.

----- NEMESIS.

WHEN through the nations stalks contagion wild,

We from them cautiously should steal away.

E'en I have oft with ling'ring and delay Shunn'd many an influence, not to be defil'd.

And e'en though Amor oft my hours beguil'd,

At length with him preferr'd I not to play,