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THE BEAUTEOUS FLOWER. Song of the Imprisoned Count. - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Goethe’s Works, vol. 1 (Poems) [1885]

Edition used:

Goethe’s Works, illustrated by the best German artists, 5 vols. (Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1885). Vol. 1.

Part of: Goethe’s Works, 5 vols.

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THE BEAUTEOUS FLOWER.

Song of the Imprisoned Count.

lf0841-01_figure_043
    • Count.
    • I KNOW a flower of beauty rare,
    • Ah, how I hold it dear!
    • To seek it I would fain repair,
    • Were I not prison’d here.
    • My sorrow sore oppresses me,
    • For when I was at liberty,
    • I had it close beside me.
    • Though from this castle’s walls so steep
    • I cast mine eyes around,
    • And gaze oft from the lofty keep,
    • The flower cannot be found.
    • Whoe’er would bring it to my sight,
    • Whether a vassal he, or knight,
    • My dearest friend I’d deem him.
    • The Rose.
    • I blossom fair,—thy tale of woes
    • I hear from ’neath thy grate.
    • Thou doubtless meanest me, the rose,
    • Poor knight of high estate!
    • Thou hast in truth a lofty mind;
    • The queen of flowers is then enshrin’d,
    • I doubt not, in thy bosom.
    • Count.
    • Thy red, in dress of green array’d,
    • As worth all praise I hold;
    • And so thou’rt treasur’d by each maid,
    • Like precious stones or gold.
    • Thy wreath adorns the fairest face,
    • But still thou’rt not the flower whose grace
    • I honor here in silence.
    • The Lily.
    • The rose is wont with pride to swell,
    • And ever seeks to rise;
    • But gentle sweethearts love full well
    • The lily’s charms to prize.
    • The heart that fills a bosom true,
    • That is, like me, unsullied too,
    • My merit values duly.
    • Count.
    • In truth, I hope myself unstain’d,
    • And free from grievous crime;
    • Yet I am here a prisoner chain’d,
    • And pass in grief my time.
    • To me thou art an image sure
    • Of many a maiden, mild and pure,
    • And yet I know a dearer.
    • The Pink.
    • That must be me, the pink, who scent
    • The warder’s garden here;
    • Or wherefore is he so intent
    • My charms with care to rear?
    • My petals stand in beauteous ring,
    • Sweet incense all around I fling,
    • And boast a thousand colors.
    • Count.
    • The pink in truth we should not slight,
    • It is the gardener’s pride;
    • It now must stand expos’d to light,
    • Now in the shade abide.
    • Yet what can make the Count’s heart glow
    • Is no mere pomp of outward show;
    • It is a silent flower.
    • The Violet.
    • Here stand I, modestly half hid,
    • And fain would silence keep;
    • Yet since to speak I now am bid,
    • I’ll break my silence deep.
    • If, worthy Knight, I am that flower,
    • It grieves me that I have not power
    • To breathe forth all my sweetness.
    • Count.
    • The violet’s charms I prize indeed,
    • So modest ’tis, and fair,
    • And smells so sweet; yet more I need
    • To ease my heavy care.
    • The truth I’ll whisper in thine ear:
    • Upon these rocky heights so drear,
    • I cannot find the lov’d one.
    • The truest maiden ’neath the sky
    • Roams near the stream below,
    • And breathes forth many a gentle sigh,
    • Till I from hence can go.
    • And when she plucks a flow’ret blue,
    • And says “Forget-me-not!”—I, too,
    • Though far away, can feel it.
    • Ay, distance only swells love’s might,
    • When fondly love a pair;
    • Though prison’d in the dungeon’s night,
    • In life I linger there;
    • And when my heart is breaking nigh,
    • “Forget-me-not!” is all I cry,
    • And straightway life returneth.