Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/218

188 TO MY FRIEND.

the beauteous tree! Gardener, it gives me pain; A happier resting-place Its trunk deserved.

Yet the strength of its nature To Earth's exhausting avarice, To Air's destructive inroads, An antidote opposed.

See how it in spring-time Coins its pale green leaves! Their orange-fragrance Poisons each fly-blow straight.

The caterpillar's tooth Is blunted by them; With silvery hues they gleam In the bright sunshine.

Its twigs the maiden Fain would twine in Her bridal-garland; Youth its fruit are seeking.

See, the autumn cometh! The caterpillar Sighs to the crafty spider, — Sighs that the tree will not fade.