Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/240

210 And then thy flowers, thy grass, Were pressing against my heart. Thou coolest the burning Thirst of my bosom, Beauteous morning breeze! The nightingale then calls me Sweetly from out of the misty vale. I come, I come! Whither? Ah, whither?

Up, up, lies my course. While downward the clouds Are hovering, the clouds Are bending to meet yearning love. For me, Within thine arms Upwards! Embraced and embracing! Upwards into thy bosom, O Father, all-loving!

 PROMETHEUS.

thy spacious heavens, Zeus, With clouds of mist, And like the boy who lops The thistles' heads, Disport with oaks and mountain-peaks; Yet thou must leave My earth still standing; My cottage, too, which was not raised by thee; Leave me my hearth, Whose kindly glow By thee is envied.

I know nought poorer Under the sun, than ye gods! 