Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/67

Rh In the garden where thou go'st, There art thou the rose of roses, First of lilies, fragrant most Of the fragrant posies.

When thou movest in the dance, All the stars with thee are moving And around thee gleam and glance, Never tired of loving.

Night!—and would the night were here! Yet the moon would lose her duty; Though her sheen be soft and clear, Softer is thy beauty!

Fair, and kind, and gentle one! Do not moon, and stars, and flowers Pay that homage to their sun, That we pay to ours?

Sun of mine, that art so dear— Sun, that art above all sorrow! Shine, I pray thee, on me here Till the eternal morrow!

FLOWER-SALUTE. 