Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/36

14 Up with its roots I dug it, I bore it as it grew, And in my garden-plot at home I planted it anew;

All in a still and shady place, Beside my home so dear, And now it thanks me for my pains And blossoms all the year.

 THE MUSES' SON.

field and wood to stray And pipe my tuneful lay,— 'Tis thus my days are passed; And all keep tune with me, And move on in harmony, And so on, to the last.

To wait I scarce have power The garden's earliest flower. The tree's first bloom in spring; They hail my joyous strain,— When winter comes again, Of that sweet dream I sing.

My song sounds far and near, O'er ice it echoes clear, Then winter blossoms bright; And when his blossoms fly, Fresh raptures meet mine eye, Upon the well-tilled height. 