Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/172

146 By this rake, sir, 'tis shown That we're making the hay; And the pears ripen fast In the garden at last, So I'll pick them to-day.

Is't a silent thicket I yonder view?

Oh, yes! there are two; There's one on each side.

I'll follow thee soon; When the sun burns at noon, We'll go there, ourselves from his rays to hide, And then in some glade all-verdant and deep—

Why, people would say—

Within mine arms thou gently wilt sleep.

Your pardon, I pray! Whoever is kissed by the miller-maid, Upon the spot must needs be betrayed. 'Twould give me distress To cover with white Your pretty dark dress.