Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/145

Rh The pink, in truth, we should not slight, It is the gardener's pride; It now must stand exposed to light, Now in the shade abide. Yet what can make the Count's heart glow Is no mere pomp of outward show; It is a silent flower.

Here stand I, modestly half hid, And fain would silence keep; Yet since to speak I now am bid, I'll break my silence deep. If, worthy Knight, I am that flower, It grieves me that I have not power To breathe forth all my sweetness.

The violet's charms I prize, indeed, So modest 'tis, and fair. And smells so sweet; yet more I need To ease my heavy care. The truth I'll whisper in thine ear: Upon these rocky heights so drear, I cannot find the loved one.

The truest maiden 'neath the sky Roams near the stream below, And breathes forth many a gentle sigh, Till I from hence can go. And when she plucks a floweret blue, And says "Forget-me-not!"—I, too, Though far away, can feel it.