Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/417

Rh But of the twain, the greater is my sorrow,— Reader, and why?—Bethink thee of the sun, How, when he sets, he waiteth for the morrow, Proudly once more his giant race to run,— Yet e'en when set, a glow behind him leaving, Gladdening the spirit, which had else been grieving.

Thus mayst thou feel, for thou to only Biddest farewell, nor carest aught for me. Twofold my parting, leaving me all lonely,— I now must part from and from thee, Parting at once from comrade and from leader,— Farewell great minstrel! farewell gentle reader!

Hushed is the harp, its music sunk in slumbers, Memory alone can waken now its numbers.