Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/397

Rh His voice so fraught With magic bliss, His hand's soft pressure, And, ah, his kiss!

My heart is sad, My peace is o'er; I find it never And nevermore.

My bosom yearns For his form so fair; Ah, could I clasp him And hold him there!

My kisses sweet Should stop his breath, And 'neath his kisses I'd sink in death!

VI.

SCENE.—A GARDEN.

Margaret. Faust.

thou believe in God? Doth mortal live Who dares to say that he believes in God? Go, bid the priest a truthful answer give, Go, ask the wisest who on earth e'er trod,— Their answer will appear to be Given alone in mockery.