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Johann Goethe Poems


Information about Johann Goethe

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe was born in 1749 in Frankfurt. From 1765 to 1771 he studied law in Leibzig and Strasbourg on request of his father. During his time at university he already earned recognition with his poems and lyric. When he returned to Frankfurt he practised law and worked on his career as a poet and writer. In 1773 the Götz von Berlichingen mit der eisenen Hand was published, making Goethe a main representative for the Sturm und Drang movement. Getting a lot of attention and recognition by the literature world, Goethe is invited to Weimar, where he took over many different political offices, but still managed to concentrate on writing. Beside his literature ambitions, he was also very interested in science, which was more important to him, than his writing. From 1786 to 1790 he travelled through Italy where he undertook more scientific researches. In 1794 he befriends Friedrich Schiller with whom he developed a new style of writing, which is now know as it''s own literature epoch, the Weimarer Klassik. In 1908 Goethe finished Faust, between 1811-14 he wrote his autobiography and in 1831 he finished Faust 2, which got published posthumously. Goethe used and explored many different styles in literature and turned out to be an important personality to the world of literature. Source: http://www.aboutvienna.org/personalities/goethe.htm



Found 271 poems by Johann Goethe .
[ Page 1 of 13 ]
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ORIGINAL PREFACE.
"I feel no small reluctance in venturing to give to the public a
work of the character of that indicated by the title-page to the
present volume; for, difficult as it must always be to render satisfactorily
into one's own tongue the writings of the bards of other lands,
the responsibility assumed by the translator is immeasurably increased
when he attempts to transfer the thoughts of those great men, who
have lived for all the world and for all ages, from the language
in which they were originally clothed, to one to which they may
as yet have been strangers. Preeminently is this the case with Goethe,
the most masterly of all the master minds of modern times, whose
name is already inscribed on the tablets of immortality, and whose
fame already extends over the earth, although as yet only in its
infancy. Scarcely have two decades passed away since he ceased to
dwell among men, yet he now stands before us, not as a mere individual,
like those whom the world is wont to call great, but as a type,
as an emblem--the recognised emblem and representative of the human
mind in its present stage of culture and advancement.

Among the infinitely varied effusions of Goethe's pen, perhaps
there are none which are of as general interest as his Poems, which
breathe the very spirit of Nature, and embody the real music of
the feelings. In Germany, they are universally known, and are considered
as the most delightful of his works. Yet in this country, this kindred
country, sprung from the same stem, and so strongly resembling her
sister in so many points, they are nearly unknown. Almost the only
poetical work of the greatest Poet that the world has seen for ages,
that is really and generally read in England, is Faust, the translations
of which are almost endless; while no single person has as yet appeared
to attempt to give, in an English dress, in any collective or systematic
manner, those smaller productions of the genius of Goethe which
it is the object of the present volume to lay before the reader,
whose indulgence is requested for its many imperfections. In addition
to the beauty of the language in which the Poet has given utterance
to his thoughts, there is a depth of meaning in those thoughts which
is not easily discoverable at first sight, and the translator incurs
great risk of overlooking it, and of giving a prosaic effect to
that which in the original contains the very essence of poetry.
It is probably this difficulty that has deterred others from undertaking
the task I have set myself, and in which I do not pretend to do
more than attempt to give an idea of the minstrelsy of one so unrivalled,
by as truthful an interpretation of it as lies in my power.

The principles which have guided me on the present occasion are
the same as those followed in the translation of Schiller's complete
Poems that was published by me in 1851, namely, as literal a rendering
of the original as is consistent with good English, and also a very
strict adherence to the metre of the original. Although translators
usually allow themselves great license in both these points, it
appears to me that by so doing they of necessity destroy the very
soul of the work they profess to translate. In fact, it is not a
translation, but a paraphrase that they give. It may perhaps be
thought that the present translations go almost to the other extreme,
and that a rendering of metre, line for line, and word for word,
makes it impossible to preserve the poetry of the original both
in substance and in sound. But experience has convinced me that
it is not so, and that great fidelity is even the most essential
element of success, whether in translating poetry or prose. It was
therefore very satisfactory to me to find that the principle laid
down by me to myself in translating Schiller met with the very general,
if not universal, approval of the reader. At the same time, I have
endeavoured to profit in the case of this, the younger born of the
two attempts made by me to transplant the muse of Germany to the
shores of Britain, by the criticisms, whether friendly or hostile,
that have been evoked or provoked by the appearance of its elder
brother.

As already mentioned, the latter contained the whole of the Poems
of Schiller. It is impossible, in anything like the same compass,
to give all the writings of Goethe comprised under the general title
of Gedichte, or poems. They contain between 30,000 and 40,000 verses,
exclusive of his plays. and similar works. Very many of these would
be absolutely without interest to the English reader,--such as those
having only a local application, those addressed to individuals,
and so on. Others again, from their extreme length, could only be
published in separate volumes. But the impossibility of giving all
need form no obstacle to giving as much as possible; and it so happens
that the real interest of Goethe's Poems centres in those classes
of them which are not too diffuse to run any risk when translated
of offending the reader by their too great number. Those by far
the more generally admired are the Songs and Ballads, which are
about 150 in number, and the whole of which are contained in this
volume (with the exception of one or two of the former, which have
been, on consideration, left out by me owing to their trifling and
uninteresting nature). The same may be said of the Odes, Sonnets,
Miscellaneous Poems, &c.

In addition to those portions of Goethe's poetical works which
are given in this complete form, specimens of the different other
classes of them, such as the Epigrams, Elegies, &c., are added,
as well as a collection of the various Songs found in his Plays,
making a total number of about 400 Poems, embraced in the present
volume.

A sketch of the life of Goethe is prefixed, in order that the
reader may have before him both the Poet himself and the Poet's
offspring, and that he may see that the two are but one--that Goethe
lives in his works, that his works lived in him.

The dates of the different Poems are appended throughout, that
of the first publication being given, when that of the composition
is unknown. The order of arrangement adopted is that of the authorized
German editions. As Goethe would never arrange them himself in the
chronological order of their composition, it has become impossible
to do so, now that he is dead. The plan adopted in the present volume
would therefore seem to be the best, as it facilitates reference
to the original. The circumstances attending or giving rise to the
production of any of the Poems will be found specified in those
cases in which they have been ascertained by me.

Having said thus much by way of explanation, I now leave the book
to speak for itself, and to testify to its own character. Whether
viewed with a charitable eye by the kindly reader, who will make
due allowance for the difficulties attending its execution, or received
by the critic, who will judge of it only by its own merits, with
the unfriendly welcome which it very probably deserves, I trust
that I shall at least be pardoned for making an attempt, a failure
in which does not necessarily imply disgrace, and which, by leading
the way, may perhaps become the means of inducing some abler and
more worthy (but not more earnest) labourer to enter upon the same
field, the riches of which will remain unaltered and undiminished
in value, even although they may be for the moment tarnished by
the hands of the less skilful workman who first endeavours to transplant
them to a foreign soil."
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THREE ODES TO MY FRIEND.
"THESE are the most singular of all the Poems
of Goethe, and to many will appear so wild and fantastic, as to
leave anything but a pleasing impression. Those at the beginning,
addressed to his friend Behrisch, were written at the age of eighteen,
and most of the remainder were composed while he was still quite
young. Despite, however, the extravagance of some of them, such
as the Winter Journey over the Hartz Mountains, and the Wanderer's
Storm-Song, nothing can be finer than the noble one entitled Mahomet's
Song, and others, such as the Spirit Song' over the Waters, The
God-like, and, above all, the magnificent sketch of Prometheus,
which forms part of an unfinished piece bearing the same name, and
called by Goethe a 'Dramatic Fragment.'

TO MY FRIEND.

[These three Odes are addressed to a certain
Behrisch, who was tutor to Count Lindenau, and of whom Goethe gives
an odd account at the end of the Seventh Book of his Autobiography.]

FIRST ODE.

TRANSPLANT the beauteous tree!
Gardener, it gives me pain;
A happier resting-place
Its trunk deserved.

Yet the strength of its nature
To Earth's exhausting avarice,
To Air's destructive inroads,
An antidote opposed.

See how it in springtime
Coins its pale green leaves!
Their orange-fragrance
Poisons each flyblow straight.

The caterpillar's tooth
Is blunted by them;
With silv'ry hues they gleam
In the bright sunshine,

Its twigs the maiden
Fain would twine in
Her bridal-garland;
Youths its fruit are seeking.

See, the autumn cometh!
The caterpillar
Sighs to the crafty spider,--
Sighs that the tree will not fade.

Hov'ring thither
From out her yew-tree dwelling,
The gaudy foe advances
Against the kindly tree,

And cannot hurt it,
But the more artful one
Defiles with nauseous venom
Its silver leaves;

And sees with triumph
How the maiden shudders,
The youth, how mourns he,
On passing by.

Transplant the beauteous tree!
Gardener, it gives me pain;
Tree, thank the gardener
Who moves thee hence!

1767.









SECOND ODE.

THOU go'st! I murmur--
Go! let me murmur.
Oh, worthy man,
Fly from this land!

Deadly marshes,
Steaming mists of October
Here interweave their currents,
Blending for ever.

Noisome insects
Here are engender'd;
Fatal darkness
Veils their malice.

The fiery-tongued serpent,
Hard by the sedgy bank,
Stretches his pamper'd body,
Caress'd by the sun's bright beams.

Tempt no gentle night-rambles
Under the moon's cold twilight!
Loathsome toads hold their meetings
Yonder at every crossway.

Injuring not,
Fear will they cause thee.
Oh, worthy man,
Fly from this land!

1767.

THIRD ODE.

BE void of feeling!
A heart that soon is stirr'd,
Is a possession sad
Upon this changing earth.

Behrisch, let spring's sweet smile
Never gladden thy brow!
Then winter's gloomy tempests
Never will shadow it o'er.

Lean thyself ne'er on a maiden's
Sorrow-engendering breast.
Ne'er on the arm,
Misery-fraught, of a friend.

Already envy
From out his rocky ambush
Upon thee turns
The force of his lynx-like eyes,

Stretches his talons,
On thee falls,
In thy shoulders
Cunningly plants them.

Strong are his skinny arms,
As panther-claws;
He shaketh thee,
And rends thy frame.

Death 'tis to part,
'Tis threefold death
To part, not hoping
Ever to meet again.

Thou wouldst rejoice to leave
This hated land behind,
Wert thou not chain'd to me
With friendships flowery chains.

Burst them! I'll not repine.
No noble friend
Would stay his fellow-captive,
If means of flight appear.

The remembrance
Of his dear friend's freedom
Gives him freedom
In his dungeon.

Thou go'st,--I'm left.
But e'en already
The last year's winged spokes
Whirl round the smoking axle.

I number the turns
Of the thundering wheel;
The last one I bless.--
Each bar then is broken, I'm free then as thou!

1767."
.
THOUGHTS ON JESUS CHRIST'S DESCENT INTO HELL.
"THOUGHTS ON JESUS CHRIST'S DESCENT INTO HELL.

[THE remarkable Poem of which this is a literal
but faint representation, was written when Goethe was only sixteen
years old. It derives additional interest from the fact of its being
the very earliest piece of his that is preserved. The few other
pieces included by Goethe under the title of Religion and Church
are polemical, and devoid of interest to the English reader.]

WHAT wondrous noise is heard around!
Through heaven exulting voices sound,

A mighty army marches on
By thousand millions follow'd, lo,
To yon dark place makes haste to go

God's Son, descending from His throne!
He goes--the tempests round Him break,

As Judge and Hero cometh He;
He goes--the constellations quake,

The sun, the world quake fearfully.

I see Him in His victor-car,
On fiery axles borne afar,

Who on the cross for us expired.
The triumph to yon realms He shows,--
Remote from earth, where star ne'er glows,

The triumph He for us acquired.
He cometh, Hell to extirpate,

Whom He, by dying, wellnigh kill'd;
He shall pronounce her fearful fate

Hark! now the curse is straight fulfill'd.

Hell sees the victor come at last,
She feels that now her reign is past,

She quakes and fears to meet His sight;
She knows His thunders' terrors dread,
In vain she seeks to hide her head,

Attempts to fly, but vain is flight;
Vainly she hastes to 'scape pursuit

And to avoid her Judge's eye;
The Lord's fierce wrath restrains her foot

Like brazen chains,--she cannot fly.

Here lies the Dragon, trampled down,
He lies, and feels God's angry frown,

He feels, and grinneth hideously;
He feels Hell's speechless agonies,
A thousand times he howls and sighs:

"Oh, burning flames! quick, swallow me!"
There lies he in the fiery waves,

By torments rack'd and pangs infernal,
Instant annihilation craves,

And hears, those pangs will be eternal.

Those mighty squadrons, too, are here,
The partners of his cursed career,

Yet far less bad than he were they.
Here lies the countless throng combined,
In black and fearful crowds entwined,

While round him fiery tempests play;
He sees how they the Judge avoid,

He sees the storm upon them feed,
Yet is not at the sight o'erjoy'd,

Because his pangs e'en theirs exceed.

The Son of Man in triumph passes
Down to Hell's wild and black morasses,

And there unfolds His majesty.
Hell cannot bear the bright array,
For, since her first created day.

Darkness alone e'er govern'd she.
She lay remote from ev'ry light

With torments fill'd in Chaos here;
God turn'd for ever from her sight

His radiant features' glory clear.

Within the realms she calls her own,
She sees the splendour of the Son,

His dreaded glories shining forth;
She sees Him clad in rolling thunder,
She sees the rocks all quake with wonder,

When God before her stands in wrath.
She sees He comes her Judge to be,

She feels the awful pangs inside her,
Herself to slay endeavours she,

But e'en this comfort is denied her.

Now looks she back, with pains untold,
Upon those happy times of old,

When those glories gave her joy;
When yet her heart revered the truth,
When her glad soul, in endless youth

And rapture dwelt, without alloy.
She calls to mind with madden'd thought

How over man her wiles prevail'd;
To take revenge on God she sought,

And feels the vengeance it entail'd.

God was made man, and came to earth.
Then Satan cried with fearful mirth:

"E'en He my victim now shall be!"
He sought to slay the Lord Most High,
The world's Creator now must die;

But, Satan, endless woe to thee!
Thou thought'st to overcome Him then,

Rejoicing in His suffering;
But he in triumph comes again

To bind thee: Death! where is thy sting?

Speak, Hell! where is thy victory?
Thy power destroy'd and scatter'd see!

Know'st thou not now the Highest's might?
See, Satan, see thy rule o'erthrown!

By thousand-varying pangs weigh'd down,
Thou dwell'st in dark and endless night.

As though by lightning struck thou liest,
No gleam of rapture far or wide;

In vain! no hope thou there decriest,--
For me alone Messiah died!

A howling rises through the air,
A trembling fills each dark vault there,

When Christ to Hell is seen to come.
She snarls with rage, but needs must cower
Before our mighty hero's power;

He signs--and Hell is straightway dumb.
Before his voice the thunders break,

On high His victor-banner blows;
E'en angels at His fury quake,

When Christ to the dread judgment goes.

Now speaks He, and His voice is thunder,
He speaks, the rocks are rent in sunder,

His breath is like devouring flames.
Thus speaks He: "Tremble, ye accurs'd!
He who from Eden hurl'd you erst,

Your kingdom's overthrow proclaims.
Look up! My children once were ye,

Your arms against Me then ye turn'd,
Ye fell, that ye might sinners be,

Ye've now the wages that ye earn'd.

"My greatest foeman from that day,
Ye led my dearest friends astray,--

As ye had fallen, man must fall.
To kill him evermore ye sought,
'They all shall die the death,' ye thought;

But howl! for Me I won them all.
For them alone did I descend,

For them pray'd, suffer'd, perish'd I.
Ye ne'er shall gain your wicked end;

Who trusts in Me shall never die.

"In endless chains here lie ye now,
Nothing can save you from the slough.

Not boldness, not regret for crime.
Lie, then, and writhe in brimstone fire!
'Twas ye yourselves drew down Mine ire,

Lie and lament throughout all time!
And also ye, whom I selected,

E'en ye forever I disown,
For ye My saving grace rejected

Ye murmur? blame yourselves alone!

"Ye might have lived with Me in bliss,
For I of yore had promis'd this;

Ye sinn'd, and all My precepts slighted
Wrapp'd in the sleep of sin ye dwelt,
Now is My fearful judgment felt,

By a just doom your guilt requited."--
Thus spake He, and a fearful storm

From Him proceeds, the lightnings glow,
The thunders seize each wicked form,

And hurl them in the gulf below.

The God-man closeth Hell's sad doors,
In all His majesty He soars

From those dark regions back to light.
He sitteth at the Father's side;
Oh, friends, what joy doth this betide!

For us, for us He still will fight!
The angels sacred quire around

Rejoice before the mighty Lord,
So that all creatures hear the sound:

"Zebaoth's God be aye ador'd!"

1765.
-----"
.
.
MAHOMET'S SONG.
"[This song was intended to be introduced in
a dramatic poem entitled Mahomet, the plan of which was not carried
out by Goethe. He mentions that it was to have been sung by Ali
towards the end of the piece, in honor of his master, Mahomet, shortly
before his death, and when at the height of his glory, of which
it is typical.]

SEE the rock-born stream!
Like the gleam
Of a star so bright
Kindly spirits
High above the clouds
Nourished him while youthful
In the copse between the cliffs.

Young and fresh.
From the clouds he danceth
Down upon the marble rocks;
Then tow'rd heaven
Leaps exulting.

Through the mountain-passes
Chaseth he the colour'd pebbles,
And, advancing like a chief,
Tears his brother streamlets with him
In his course.

In the valley down below
'Neath his footsteps spring the flowers,
And the meadow
In his breath finds life.

Yet no shady vale can stay him,
Nor can flowers,
Round his knees all-softly twining
With their loving eyes detain him;
To the plain his course he taketh,
Serpent-winding,

Social streamlets
Join his waters. And now moves he
O'er the plain in silv'ry glory,
And the plain in him exults,
And the rivers from the plain,
And the streamlets from the mountain,
Shout with joy, exclaiming: "Brother,
Brother, take thy brethren with thee,
With thee to thine aged father,
To the everlasting ocean,
Who, with arms outstretching far,
Waiteth for us;
Ah, in vain those arms lie open
To embrace his yearning children;
For the thirsty sand consumes us
In the desert waste; the sunbeams
Drink our life-blood; hills around us
Into lakes would dam us! Brother,
Take thy brethren of the plain,
Take thy brethren of the mountain
With thee, to thy father's arms!

Let all come, then!--
And now swells he
Lordlier still; yea, e'en a people
Bears his regal flood on high!
And in triumph onward rolling,
Names to countries gives he,--cities
Spring to light beneath his foot.

Ever, ever, on he rushes,
Leaves the towers' flame-tipp'd summits,
Marble palaces, the offspring
Of his fullness, far behind.

Cedar-houses bears the Atlas
On his giant shoulders; flutt'ring
In the breeze far, far above him
Thousand flags are gaily floating,
Bearing witness to his might.

And so beareth he his brethren,
All his treasures, all his children,
Wildly shouting, to the bosom
Of his long-expectant sire.

1774."
.
THE WANDERER'S STORM-SONG.
"[Goethe says of this ode, that it is the only
one remaining out of several strange hymns and dithyrambs composed
by him at a period of great unhappiness, when the love-affair between
him and Frederica had been broken off by him. He used to sing them
while wandering wildly about the country. This particular one was
caused by his being caught in a tremendous storm on one of these
occasions. He calls it a half-crazy piece (halkunsinn), and the
reader will probably agree with him.]

He whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Feels no dread within his heart
At the tempest or the rain.
He whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Will to the rain-clouds,
Will to the hailstorm,
Sing in reply
As the lark sings,
Oh thou on high!

Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Thou wilt raise above the mud-track
With thy fiery pinions.
He will wander,
As, with flowery feet,
Over Deucalion's dark flood,
Python-slaying, light, glorious,
Pythius Apollo.

Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Thou wilt place upon thy fleecy pinion
When he sleepeth on the rock,--
Thou wilt shelter with thy guardian wing
In the forest's midnight hour.

Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Thou wilt wrap up warmly
In the snow-drift;
Tow'rd the warmth approach the Muses,
Tow'rd the warmth approach the Graces.

Ye Muses, hover round me!
Ye Graces also!
That is water, that is earth,
And the son of water and of earth
Over which I wander,
Like the gods.

Ye are pure, like the heart of the water,
Ye are pure like the marrow of earth,
Hov'ring round me, while I hover
Over water, o'er the earth
Like the gods.

Shall he, then, return,
The small, the dark, the fiery peasant?
Shall he, then, return, waiting
Only thy gifts, oh Father Bromius,
And brightly gleaming, warmth-spreading fire?
Return with joy?
And I, whom ye attended,
Ye Muses and ye Graces,
Whom all awaits that ye,
Ye Muses and ye Graces,
Of circling bliss in life
Have glorified--shall I
Return dejected?

Father Bromius!
Thourt the Genius,
Genius of ages,
Thou'rt what inward glow
To Pindar was,
What to the world
Phoebus Apollo.

Woe! Woe Inward warmth,
Spirit-warmth,
Central-point!
Glow, and vie with
Phoebus Apollo!
Coldly soon
His regal look
Over thee will swiftly glide,--

Envy-struck
Linger o'er the cedar's strength,
Which, to flourish,
Waits him not.

Why doth my lay name thee the last?
Thee, from whom it began,
Thee, in whom it endeth,
Thee, from whom it flows,
Jupiter Pluvius!
Tow'rd thee streams my song.
And a Castalian spring
Runs as a fellow-brook,
Runs to the idle ones,
Mortal, happy ones,
Apart from thee,
Who cov'rest me around,
Jupiter Pluvius!

Not by the elm-tree
Him didst thou visit,
With the pair of doves
Held in his gentle arm,--
With the beauteous garland of roses,--
Caressing him, so blest in his flowers,
Anacreon,
Storm-breathing godhead!
Not in the poplar grove,
Near the Sybaris' strand,
Not on the mountain's
Sun-illumined brow
Didst thou seize him,
The flower-singing,
Honey-breathing,
Sweetly nodding
Theocritus.

When the wheels were rattling,
Wheel on wheel tow'rd the goal,
High arose
The sound of the lash
Of youths with victory glowing,
In the dust rolling,
As from the mountain fall
Showers of stones in the vale--
Then thy soul was brightly glowing, Pindar--
Glowing? Poor heart!

There, on the hill,--
Heavenly might!
But enough glow
Thither to wend,
Where is my cot!

1771."
.
BALLAD OF THE BANISHED AND RETURNING COUNT.
"[Goethe began to write an opera called Lowenstuhl,
founded upon the old tradition which forms the subject of this Ballad,
but he never carried out his design.]

OH, enter old minstrel, thou time-honour'd one!
We children are here in the hall all alone,

The portals we straightway will bar.
Our mother is praying, our father is gone

To the forest, on wolves to make war.
Oh sing us a ballad, the tale then repeat,

'Till brother and I learn it right;
We long have been hoping a minstrel to meet,

For children hear tales with delight.

"At midnight, when darkness its fearful veil weaves,
His lofty and stately old castle he leaves,

But first he has buried his wealth.
What figure is that in his arms one perceives,

As the Count quits the gateway by stealth?
O'er what is his mantle so hastily thrown?

What bears he along in his flight?
A daughter it is, and she gently sleeps on"--

The children they hear with delight.

"The morning soon glimmers. the world is so wide,
In valleys and forests a home is supplied,

The bard in each village is cheer'd.
Thus lives he and wanders, while years onward glide,

And longer still waxes his beard;
But the maiden so fair in his arms grows amain,

'Neath her star all-protecting and bright,
Secured in the mantle from wind and from rain--"

The children they hear with delight.

"And year upon year with swift footstep now steals,
The mantle it fades, many rents it reveals,

The maiden no more it can hold.
The father he sees her, what rapture he feels!

His joy cannot now be controll'd.
How worthy she seems of the race whence she springs,

How noble and fair to the sight!
What wealth to her dearly-loved father she brings!"--

The children they hear with delight.

"Then comes there a princely knight galloping by,
She stretches her hand out, as soon as he's nigh,

But alms he refuses to give.
He seizes her hand, with a smile in his eye:

'Thou art mine!' he exclaims, 'while I live!'
'When thou know'st,' cries the old man, 'the treasure that's
there,

A princess thou'lt make her of right;
Betroth'd be she now, on this spot green and fair--'"

The children they hear with delight.

"So she's bless'd by the priest on the hallowed place,
And she goes with a smiling but sorrowful face,

From her father she fain would not part.
The old man still wanders with ne'er-changing pace,

He covers with joy his sad heart.
So I think of my daughter, as years pass away,

And my grandchildren far from my sight;
I bless them by night, and I bless them by day"--

The children they hear with delight.

He blesses the children: a knocking they hear,
The father it is! They spring forward in fear,

The old man they cannot conceal--
"Thou beggar, wouldst lure, then, my children so dear?

Straight seize him, ye vassals of steel!
To the dungeon most deep, with the fool-hardy knave!"

The mother from far hears the fight;
She hastens with flatt'ring entreaty to crave--

The children they hear with delight.

The vassals they suffer the Bard to stand there,
And mother and children implore him to spare,

The proud prince would stifle his ire,
'Till driven to fury at hearing their prayer,

His smouldering anger takes fire:
"Thou pitiful race! Oh, thou beggarly crew!

Eclipsing my star, once so bright!
Ye'll bring me destruction, ye sorely shall rue!"

The children they hear with affright.

The old man still stands there with dignified mien,
The vassals of steel quake before him, I ween,

The Count's fury increases in power;
"My wedded existence a curse long has been,

And these are the fruits from that flower!
'Tis ever denied, and the saying is true,

That to wed with the base-born is right;
The beggar has borne me a beggarly crew,--"

The children they hear with affright.

"If the husband, the father, thus treats you with scorn,
If the holiest bonds by him rashly are torn,

Then come to your father--to me!
The beggar may gladden life's pathway forlorn,

Though aged and weak he may be.
This castle is mine! thou hast made it thy prey,

Thy people 'twas put me to flight;
The tokens I bear will confirm what I say"--

The children they hear with delight.

"The king who erst govern'd returneth again,
And restores to the Faithful the goods that were ta'en,

I'll unseal all my treasures the while;
The laws shall be gentle, and peaceful the reign"--

The old man thus cries with a smile--
"Take courage, my son! all hath turned out for good,

And each hath a star that is bright,
Those the princess hath borne thee are princely in blood,"--

The children thy hear with delight.

1816."
.
TO THE COUNTESS GRANVILLE.
"MY DEAR LADY GRANVILLE,--

THE reluctance which must naturally be felt by any one in
venturing to give to the world a book such as the present, where
the beauties of the great original must inevitably be diminished,
if not destroyed, in the process of passing through the
translator's hands, cannot but be felt in all its force when that
translator has not penetrated beyond the outer courts of the
poetic fane, and can have no hope of advancing further, or of
reaching its sanctuary. But it is to me a subject of peculiar
satisfaction that your kind permission to have your name
inscribed upon this page serves to attain a twofold end--one
direct and personal, and relating to the present day; the other
reflected and historical, and belonging to times long gone by. Of
the first little need now be said, for the privilege is wholly
mine, in making this dedication: as to the second, one word of
explanation will suffice for those who have made the greatest
poet of Germany, almost of the world, their study, and to whom
the story of his life is not unknown. All who have followed the
career of GOETHE are familiar with the name and character of
DALBERG, and also with the deep and lasting friendship that
existed between them, from which SCHILLER too was not absent; recalling
to the mind the days of old, when a Virgil and a Horace and a Maecenas
sat side by side.

Remembering, then, the connection that, in a former century,
was formed and riveted between your illustrious ancestor and him
whom it is the object of these pages to represent, I deem it a happy
augury that the link then established finds itself not
wholly severed even now (although its strength may be
immeasurably weakened in the comparison), inasmuch as this page
brings them once more in contact, the one in the person of his own
descendant, the other in that of the translator of his Poems.

Believe me, with great truth,
Very faithfully yours,
EDGAR A. BOWRING.
London, April, 1853."
.
.
THE YOUTH AND THE MILLSTREAM.
"[This sweet Ballad, and the one entitled The
Maid of the Mill's Repentance, were written on the occasion of a
visit paid by Goethe to Switzerland. The Maid of the Mill's Treachery,
to which the latter forms the sequel, was not written till the following
year.]

YOUTH.

SAY, sparkling streamlet, whither thou

Art
going!
With joyous mien thy waters now

Are
flowing.
Why seek the vale so hastily?
Attend for once, and answer me!

MILLSTREAM.

Oh youth, I was a brook indeed;

But
lately
My bed they've deepen'd, and my speed

Swell'd
greatly,
That I may haste to yonder mill.
And so I'm full and never still.

YOUTH.

The mill thou seekest in a mood

Contented,
And know'st not how my youthful blood

'S
tormented.
But doth the miller's daughter fair
Gaze often on thee kindly there?

MILLSTREAM.

She opes the shutters soon as light

Is
gleaming;
And comes to bathe her features bright

And
beaming.
So full and snow-white is her breast,--
I feel as hot as steam suppress'd.

YOUTH.

If she in water can inflame

Such
ardour,
Surely, then, flesh and blood to tame

Is
harder.
When once is seen her beauteous face,
One ever longs her steps to trace.

MILLSTREAM.

Over the wheel I, roaring, bound,

All-proudly,
And ev'ry spoke whirls swiftly round,

And
loudly.
Since I have seen the miller's daughter,
With greater vigour flows the water.

YOUTH.

Like others, then, can grief, poor brook,

Oppress
thee?
"Flow on!"--thus she'll, with smiling look,

Address
thee.
With her sweet loving glance, oh say,
Can she thy flowing current stay?

MILLSTREAM.

'Tis sad, 'tis sad to have to speed

From
yonder;
I wind, and slowly through the mead

Would
wander;
And if the choice remain'd with me,
Would hasten back there presently.

YOUTH.

Farewell, thou who with me dost prove

Love's
sadness!
Perchance some day thou'lt breathe of love

And
gladness.
Go, tell her straight, and often too,
The boy's mute hopes and wishes true.

1797."
.
LILY'S MENAGERIE.
"[Goethe describes this much-admired Poem, which
he wrote in honour of his love Lily, as being "designed to change
his surrender of her into despair, by drolly-fretful images."]

THERE'S no menagerie, I vow,

Excels my Lily's at this minute;

She keeps the strangest creatures in it,
And catches them, she knows not how.

Oh, how they hop, and run, and rave,
And their clipp'd pinions wildly wave,--
Poor princes, who must all endure
The pangs of love that nought can cure.

What is the fairy's name?--Is't Lily?--Ask not me!
Give thanks to Heaven if she's unknown to thee.

Oh what a cackling, what a shrieking,

When near the door she takes her stand,

With her food-basket in her hand!
Oh what a croaking, what a squeaking!
Alive all the trees and the bushes appear,
While to her feet whole troops draw near;
The very fish within, the water clear
Splash with impatience and their heads protrude;
And then she throws around the food
With such a look!--the very gods delighting
(To say nought of beasts). There begins, then, a biting,
A picking, a pecking, a sipping,
And each o'er the legs of another is tripping,
And pushing, and pressing, and flapping,
And chasing, and fuming, and snapping,
And all for one small piece of bread,
To which, though dry, her fair hands give a taste,
As though it in ambrosia had been plac'd.

And then her look! the tone

With which she calls: Pipi! Pipi!
Would draw Jove's eagle from his throne;
Yes, Venus' turtle doves, I wean,
And the vain peacock e'en,
Would come, I swear,
Soon as that tone had reach'd them through the air.

E'en from a forest dark had she

Enticed a bear, unlick'd, ill-bred,

And, by her wiles alluring, led
To join the gentle company,
Until as tame as they was he:
(Up to a certain point, be't understood!)
How fair, and, ah, how good
She seem'd to be! I would have drain'd my blood
To water e'en her flow'rets sweet.

"Thou sayest: I! Who? How? And where?"--
Well, to be plain, good Sirs--I am the bear;

In a net-apron, caught, alas!

Chain'd by a silk-thread at her feet.

But how this wonder came to pass
I'll tell some day, if ye are curious;
Just now, my temper's much too furious.

Ah, when I'm in the corner plac'd,

And hear afar the creatures snapping,

And see the flipping and the flapping,

I turn around

With growling sound,

And backward run a step in haste,

And look around

With growling sound.

Then run again a step in haste,
And to my former post go round.

But suddenly my anger grows,
A mighty spirit fills my nose,
My inward feelings all revolt.
A creature such as thou! a dolt!
Pipi, a squirrel able nuts to crack!
I bristle up my shaggy back
Unused a slave to be.
I'm laughed at by each trim and upstart tree
To scorn. The bowling-green I fly,

With neatly-mown and well-kept grass:

The box makes faces as I pass,--
Into the darkest thicket hasten I,
Hoping to 'scape from the ring,
Over the palings to spring!
Vainly I leap and climb;

I feel a leaden spell.

That pinions me as well,
And when I'm fully wearied out in time,
I lay me down beside some mock-cascade,

And roll myself half dead, and foam, and cry,

And, ah! no Oreads hear my sigh,
Excepting those of china made!

But, ah, with sudden power

In all my members blissful feelings reign!
'Tis she who singeth yonder in her bower!

I hear that darling, darling voice again.
The air is warm, and teems with fragrance clear,
Sings she perchance for me alone to hear?

I haste, and trample down the shrubs amain;
The trees make way, the bushes all retreat,
And so--the beast is lying at her feet.

She looks at him: "The monster's droll enough!

He's, for a bear, too mild,

Yet, for a dog, too wild,
So shaggy, clumsy, rough!"
Upon his back she gently strokes her foot;

He thinks himself in Paradise.
What feelings through his seven senses shoot!

But she looks on with careless eyes.
I lick her soles, and kiss her shoes,

As gently as a bear well may;
Softly I rise, and with a clever ruse

Leap on her knee.--On a propitious day
She suffers it; my ears then tickles she,

And hits me a hard blow in wanton play;
I growl with new-born ecstasy;
Then speaks she in a sweet vain jest, I wot
"Allons lout doux! eh! la menotte!
Et faites serviteur
Comme un joli seigneur."
Thus she proceeds with sport and glee;

Hope fills the oft-deluded beast;
Yet if one moment he would lazy be,

Her fondness all at once hath ceas'd.

She doth a flask of balsam-fire possess,

Sweeter than honey bees can make,

One drop of which she'll on her finger take,
When soften'd by his love and faithfulness,

Wherewith her monster's raging thirst to slake;
Then leaves me to myself, and flies at last,
And I, unbound, yet prison'd fast
By magic, follow in her train,
Seek for her, tremble, fly again.
The hapless creature thus tormenteth she,

Regardless of his pleasure or his woe;
Ha! oft half-open'd does she leave the door for me,

And sideways looks to learn if I will fly or no.
And I--Oh gods! your hands alone
Can end the spell that's o'er me thrown;
Free me, and gratitude my heart will fill;

And yet from heaven ye send me down no aid--

Not quite in vain doth life my limbs pervade:
I feel it! Strength is left me still.

1775."
.
THE LEGEND OF THE HORSESHOE.
"WHAT time our Lord still walk'd the earth,
Unknown, despised, of humble birth,
And on Him many a youth attended
(His words they seldom comprehended),
It ever seem'd to Him most meet
To hold His court in open street,
As under heaven's broad canopy
One speaks with greater liberty.
The teachings of His blessed word
From out His holy mouth were heard;
Each market to a fane turn'd He
With parable and simile.

One day, as tow'rd a town He roved,
In peace of mind with those He loved,
Upon the path a something gleam'd;
A broken horseshoe 'twas, it seem'd.
So to St. Peter thus He spake:
"That piece of iron prythee take!"
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."
.
THE ERL-KING.
"WHO rides there so late through the night dark and drear?
The father it is, with his infant so dear;
He holdeth the boy tightly clasp'd in his arm,
He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.

"My son, wherefore seek'st thou thy face thus to hide?"
"Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side!
Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?"
"My son, 'tis the mist rising over the plain."

"Oh, come, thou dear infant! oh come thou with me!
Full many a game I will play there with thee;
On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold,
My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold."

"My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?"
"Be calm, dearest child, 'tis thy fancy deceives;
'Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves."

"Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?
My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care
My daughters by night their glad festival keep,
They'll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep."

"My father, my father, and dost thou not see,
How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me?"
"My darling, my darling, I see it aright,
'Tis the aged grey willows deceiving thy sight."

"I love thee, I'm charm'd by thy beauty, dear boy!
And if thou'rt unwilling, then force I'll employ."
"My father, my father, he seizes me fast,
Full sorely the Erl-King has hurt me at last."

The father now gallops, with terror half wild,
He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child;
He reaches his courtyard with toil and with dread,--
The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead.

1782.*"




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Spike Milligan 1918-04-16

"Young are our dead Like babies they lie The wombs they blest once Not healed dry And yet - too soon Into each space A cold earth falls On colder face. Quite still they lie These fresh-cut reeds Clutched in earth Like winter seeds But they will not bloom When called by spring To burst with leaf And blossoming They sleep on In silent dust As crosses rot And helmets rust. "



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