Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/229

Rh To gloomy thicket Rushes the reindeer wild, And with the sparrows have Long ago the rich folks Into their swamps for shelter sunk. Easy to follow the chariot, When 'tis Fortune drives. Just as the lumbering cart Over the hard, smooth road rolls, After a monarch's march.

But aside who fareth? In the woods he loses his path; Swiftly behind him The boughs fly together, The grass stands up again, The desert o'erwhelms him.

Ah, but who healeth the pangs of Him, whose balm becomes poison? Who but hate for man From the fulness of love hath drunk? First despised, and now a despiser, Wastes he secretly All his own best worth, Brooding over himself.

Is there on thy psalter, Father of love, one tone Which his ear would welcome? Oh, then, quicken his heart! Open his beclouded look Over the thousand fountains All around him thirsting there In the desert.