Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 7.djvu/15

 TO J. ANTHONY FROUDE Dear friend of many years, accept This book, which into life has crept In hours that have been snatched from those Were due to dearly earned repose. Well do I know how deep and strong Your reverence is for Goethe's song. And how the problems, thickly sown Throughout this book of his, have grown Familiar to your thought and tongue As the rare words in which they're sung. You know—who better?—all that gives This book its charm, the grace that lives And breathes throughout its perfect verse, The saws sarcastic, vivid, terse, The wild wit flashing to and fro, The varied lore, the sunny glow Of fancy and of passion, fit To glorify the exquisite Conception of a Helen meet To make Faust's dream of bliss complete,— The tender beauty of the thought That his deliverance should be wrought By her who could in death forget The wrong he did her—Margaret, And twined his soul with hers by love Eternal, pure, in realms above. You, too, can measure well how great His perils are, who would translate The thoughts on aptest language strung, And wed them to another tongue. But you, like all true Masters, will Look gently on my lack of skill, And with a large allowance take My effort for our friendship's sake. vii