Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/104

82 Roses, 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.

 SORROW WITHOUT CONSOLATION.

 THE PARTING.

mine eyes the farewell make thee Which my lips refuse to speak; Scorn me not, if to forsake thee Makes my very manhood weak.

Joyless in our joy's eclipse, love, Are love's tokens, else divine, Cold the kisses of thy lips, love, Damp the hand that's locked in mine.

Once thy lip, to touch it only, To my soul has sent a thrill, Sweeter than the violet lonely, Plucked in March-time by the rill. 