Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/341

Rh He gave me to a husbandman, And in our arms expired.— Hast thou been sleeping, dearest heart? How lively, and how full of play, Sweet rogue!

Nature, thou ever budding one, Thou formest each for life's enjoyments, And, like a mother, all thy children dear Blessest with that sweet heritage,—a home. The swallow builds the cornice round, Unconscious of the beauties She plasters up. The caterpillar spins around the bough, To make her brood a winter house; And thou dost patch, between antiquity's Most glorious relics, For thy mean use, O man, a humble cot,— Enjoyest e'en mid tombs! Farewell, thou happy woman!

Thou wilt not stay, then?

May God preserve thee, And bless thy boy!

A happy journey!

Whither conducts the path Across yon hill?