Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/242

212 That life I should learn to hate, And fly to deserts, Because not all My blossoming dreams grew ripe?

Here sit I, forming mortals After my image; A race resembling me, To suffer, to weep, To enjoy, to be glad, And thee to scorn, As I!

 LIMITS OF HUMANITY.

the Creator, The Great, the Eternal, Sows with indifferent Hand, from the rolling Clouds, o'er the earth. His Lightnings in blessing, I kiss the nethermost Hem of His garment, Lowly incllning In infantine awe. For never against The immortals, a mortal May measure himself. Upwards aspiring, He toucheth the stars with his forehead, Then do his insecure feet Stumble and totter and reel; Then do the cloud and the tempest Make him their pastime and sport.

Let him with sturdy, Sinewy limbs, 