Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/219

Rh Hov'ring thither, From out her yew-tree dwelling, The gaudy foe advances Against the kindly tree,

And cannot hurt it. But the more artful one Defiles with nauseous venom Its silver leaves;

And sees with triumph How the maiden shudders, The youth, how mourns he, On passing by.

Transplant the beauteous tree! Gardener, it gives me pain. Tree, thank the gardener Who moves thee hence!

goest! I murmur— Go! let me murmur. Oh, worthy man, Fly from this land!

Deadly marshes, Steaming mists of October Here interweave their currents, Blending for ever.

Noisome insects Here are engendered; Fatal darkness Veils their malice.