Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/387

Rh Awe the delinquent so much, down in the plains of despair, As by the motionless spectre I'm awed, that shows me the fair one Far away; of a truth, open the garden-door stands! And another one cometh! For him the fruit, too, is falling, And for him, also, the fig strengthening honey doth yield! Doth she entice him as well to the arbour? He follows? Oh, make me Blind, ye Immortals! efface visions like this from my mind! Yes, she is but a maiden! And she who to one doth so quickly Yield, to another ere long, doubtless, will turn herself round. Smile not, Zeus, for this once, at an oath so cruelly broken! Thunder more fearfully! Strike!—Stay—thy fierce lightnings withhold! Hurl at me thy quivering bolt! In the darkness of midnight Strike with thy lightning this mast, make it a pitiful wreck! Scatter the planks all around, and give to the boisterous billows All these wares, and let me be to the dolphins a prey!— Now, ye Muses, enough! In vain would ye strive to depicture How, in a love-laden breast, anguish alternates with bliss. Ye cannot heal the wounds, it is true, that love hath inflicted; Yet from you only proceeds, kindly ones, comfort and balm.