Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/103

Rh Wind! Oh, if thou hadst but reason, Word for word in turns thou'dst carry, E'en though some perchance might perish 'Tween two lovers so far distant.

All choice morsels I'd dispense with, Table-flesh of priests neglect, too, Sooner than renounce my lover, Whom, in summer having vanquished, I in winter tamed still longer.

 DEPRESSION

, ah, how fair ye be! Ye are fading, dying! Ye should with my lady be, On her bosom lying; All your bloom is lost on me, Here despairing, sighing.

Oh, the golden dreams I nursed, Ere I knew thy scorning, When I poured my passion first, And at break of morning, Plucked the rosebuds ere they burst For thy breast's adorning!

Every fruit and floweret rare, To thy feet I bore it. Fondly knelt, to see thee there Bending fondly o'er it. Gazing on thy face so fair, To revere, adore it. 