War poems
/ page 362 of 504 /
Trilogy of Passion: I. TO WERTHER.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
The farewell sunbeams bless'd our ravish'd view;
Fate bade thee go,--to linger here was mine,--
Going the first, the smaller loss was thine.
Dedication
© Rainer Maria Rilke
I have great faith in all things not yet spoken.
I want my deepest pious feelings freed.
What no one yet has dared to risk and warrant
will be for me a challenge I must meet.
A Woman's Question
© Adelaide Anne Procter
Before I trust my fate to thee,
Or place my hand in thine,
Warning.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
WAKEN not Amor from sleep! The beauteous urchin still slumbers;
The Walking Bell
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
A CHILD refused to go betimesTo church like other people;
He roam'd abroad, when rang the chimesOn Sundays from the steeple.His mother said: "Loud rings the bell,Its voice ne'er think of scorning;
Unless thou wilt behave thee well,'Twill fetch thee without warning."The child then thought: "High over headThe bell is safe suspended--"
So to the fields he straightway spedAs if 'twas school-time ended.The bell now ceas'd as bell to ring,Roused by the mother's twaddle;
Rinaldo.*
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
[This Cantata was written for Prince Frederick
of Gotha, and set to music by Winter, the Prince singing the part
of Rinaldo.--See the Annalen.]
Constancy In Change.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Thank the mould within thy heart,
That the Muses' favour blest
Ne'er will perish, ne'er depart.
The German Parnassus.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
With her modest pinions, see,
Philomel encircles me!
In these bushes, in yon grove,
The Maid Of The Mill's Treachery.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
[This Ballad is introduced in the Wanderjahre,
in a tale called The Foolish Pilgrim.]WHENCE comes our friend so hastily,When scarce the Eastern sky is grey?
Hath he just ceased, though cold it be,In yonder holy spot to pray?
The brook appears to hem his path,Would he barefooted o'er it go?
"How Long I Sailed . . ."
© Hartley Coleridge
HOW long I sailed, and never took a thought
To what port I was bound! Secure as sleep,
The Beauteous Flower.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Were I not prison'd here.
My sorrow sore oppresses me,
For when I was at liberty,
Christel.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
My senses ofttimes are oppress'd,Oft stagnant is my blood;
But when by Christel's sight I'm blest,I feel my strength renew'd.
I see her here, I see her there,And really cannot tell
The manner how, the when, the where,The why I love her well.If with the merest glance I viewHer black and roguish eyes,
The Spagnoletto. Act IV
© Emma Lazarus
Night. RIBERA'S bedroom. RIBERA discovered in his dressing-gown,
seated reading beside a table, with a light upon it. Enter from
an open door at the back of the stage, MARIA. She stands
irresolute for a moment on the threshold behind her father,
watching him, passes her hand rapidly over her brow and eyes,
and then knocks.
Explanation Of An Antique Gem,
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
A YOUNG fig-tree its form lifts highWithin a beauteous garden;
And see, a goat is sitting by.As if he were its warden.But oh, Quirites, how one errs!The tree is guarded badly;
For round the other side there whirrsAnd hums a beetle madly.The hero with his well-mail'd coatNibbles the branches tall so;
A mighty longing feels the goatGently to climb up also.And so, my friends, ere long ye seeThe tree all leafless standing;
The Friendly Meeting.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Lovingly I'll sing of love;
Ever comes she from above.THE FRIENDLY MEETING.IN spreading mantle to my chin conceald,I trod the rocky path, so steep and grey,Then to the wintry plain I bent my way
Uneasily, to flight my bosom steel'd.But sudden was the newborn day reveal'd:A maiden came, in heavenly bright array,Like the fair creatures of the poet's lay
In realms of song. My yearning heart was heal'd.Yet turn'd I thence, till she had onward pass'd,While closer still the folds to draw I tried, As though with heat self-kindled to grow warm;But follow'd her. She stood. The die was cast!No more within my mantle could I hide; I threw it off,--she lay within mine arm. 1807-8.
Lily's Menagerie.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
[Goethe describes this much-admired Poem, which
he wrote in honour of his love Lily, as being "designed to change
his surrender of her into despair, by drolly-fretful images."]
