Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/289

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But none can love the withered husk, though even A glorious noble kernel it containèd. To me, an adept, was the writing given Which not to all its holy sense explainèd. When 'mid the crowd, their icy shadows flinging, I saw a form that glorious still remainèd. And even there, where mould and damp were clinging, Gave me a blest, a rapture-fraught emotion, As though from death a living fount were springing. What mystic joy I felt! What rapt devotion! That form, how pregnant with a godlike trace! A look, how did it whirl me toward that ocean Whose rolling billows mightier shapes embrace! Mysterious vessel! Oracle how dear! Even to grasp thee is my hand too base, Except to steal thee from thy prison here With pious purpose, and devoutly go Back to the air, free thoughts, and sunlight clear. What greater gain in life can man e'er know Than when God-Nature will to him explain How into Spirit steadfastness may flow, How steadfast, too, the Spirit-Born remain.

 ON THE DIVAN. 