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Sonnets. - 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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Sonnets.

Lovingly I’ll sing of love;

Ever comes she from above.

THE FRIENDLY MEETING.

    • ENROB’D with mantle to my chin conceal’d,
    • I trod the rocky path, so steep and gray,
    • 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.

IN A WORD.

    • THUS to be chain’d forever can I bear?
    • A very torment that, in truth, would be.
    • This very day my new resolve shall see,—
    • I’ll not go near the lately-worshipp’d Fair.
    • Yet what excuse, my heart, can I prepare
    • In such a case, for not consulting thee?
    • But courage! while our sorrows utter we
    • In tones where love, grief, gladness have a share.
    • But see! the minstrel’s bidding to obey,
    • Its melody pours forth the sounding lyre,
    • Yearning a sacrifice of love to bring.
    • Scarce would’st thou think it—ready is the lay;
    • Well, but what then? Methought in the first fire
    • We to her presence flew, that lay to sing.

THE MAIDEN SPEAKS.

    • HOW grave thou lookest, lov’d one! wherefore so?
    • Thy marble image seems a type of thee;
    • Like it, no sign of life thou giv’st to me;
    • Compar’d with thee, the stone appears to glow.
    • Behind his shield in ambush lurks the foe,
    • The friend’s brow all-unruffled we should see.
    • I seek thee, but thou seek’st away to flee;
    • Fix’d as this sculptur’d figure, learn to grow!
    • Tell me, to which should I the preference pay?
    • Must I from both with coldness meet alone?
    • The one is lifeless, thou with life art bless’d.
    • In short, no longer to throw words away,
    • I’ll fondly kiss and kiss and kiss this stone,
    • Till thou dost tear me hence with envious breast.

GROWTH.

    • O’ER field and plain, in childhood’s artless days,
    • Thou sprang’st with me, on many a springmorn fair.
    • “For such a daughter, with what pleasing care,
    • Would I, as father, happy dwellings raise!”
    • And when thou on the world didst cast thy gaze,
    • Thy joy was then in household toils to share.
    • “Why did I trust her, why she trust me e’er?
    • For such a sister, how I Heaven should praise!”
    • Nothing can now the beauteous growth retard;
    • Love’s glowing flame within my breast is fann’d.
    • Shall I embrace her form, my grief to end?
    • Thee as a queen must I, alas, regard:
    • So high above me plac’d thou seem’st to stand;
    • Before a passing look I meekly bend.

FOOD IN TRAVEL.

    • IF to her eyes’ bright lustre I were blind,
    • No longer would they serve my life to gild.
    • The will of destiny must be fulfill’d,—
    • This knowing, I withdrew with sadden’d mind.
    • No further happiness I now could find;
    • The former longings of my heart were still’d;
    • I sought her looks alone, whereon to build
    • My joy in life,—all else was left behind.
    • Wine’s genial glow, the festal banquet gay,
    • Ease, sleep, and friends, all wonted pleasures glad
    • I spurn’d, till little there remain’d to prove.
    • Now calmly through the world I wend my way:
    • That which I crave may everywhere be had,
    • With me I bring the one thing needful—love.

DEPARTURE.

lf0841-01_figure_072
    • WITH many a thousand kiss not yet content,
    • At length with One kiss I was forc’d to go;
    • After that bitter parting’s depth of woe,
    • I deem’d the shore from which my steps I bent,
    • Its hills, streams, dwellings, mountains, as I went,
    • A pledge of joy, till daylight ceas’d to glow;
    • Then on my sight did blissful visions grow
    • In the dim-lighted, distant firmament.
    • And when at length the sea confin’d my gaze,
    • My ardent longing fill’d my heart once more;
    • What I had lost, unwillingly I sought.
    • Then Heaven appear’d to shed its kindly rays;
    • Methought that all I had possess’d of yore
    • Remain’d still mine—that I was reft of nought.

THE LOVING ONE WRITES.

    • THE look that thy sweet eyes on mine impress,
    • The pledge thy lips to mine convey,—the kiss,—
    • He who, like me, hath knowledge sure of this,
    • Can he in aught beside find happiness?
    • Remov’d from thee, friend-sever’d, in distress,
    • These thoughts I vainly struggle to dismiss:
    • They still return to that one hour of bliss,
    • The only one; then tears my grief confess.
    • But unawares the tear makes haste to dry:
    • He loves, methinks, e’en to these glades so still,—
    • And shalt not thou to distant lands extend?
    • Receive the murmurs of this loving sigh;
    • My only joy on earth is in thy will,
    • Thy kindly will tow’rd me; a token send!

THE LOVING ONE ONCE MORE.

    • WHY do I o’er my paper once more bend?
    • Ask not too closely, dearest one, I pray:
    • For, to speak truth, I’ve nothing now to say;
    • Yet to thy hands at length ’twill come, dear friend.
    • Since I can come not with it, what I send
    • My undivided heart shall now convey,
    • With all its joys, hopes, pleasures, pains, to-day:
    • All this hath no beginning, hath no end.
    • Henceforward I may ne’er to thee confide
    • How, far as thought, wish, fancy, will, can reach,
    • My faithful heart with thine is surely blended.
    • Thus stood I once enraptur’d by thy side,
    • Gaz’d on thee, and said nought. What need of speech?
    • My very being in itself was ended.

SHE CANNOT END.

    • WHEN unto thee I sent the page all white,
    • Instead of first thereon inscribing aught,
    • The space thou doubtless filledst up in sport,
    • And sent it me, to make my joy grow bright.
    • As soon as the blue cover met my sight,
    • As well becomes a woman, quick as thought
    • I tore it open, leaving hidden nought,
    • And read the well-known words of pure delight:
    • My only being! Dearest heart! Sweet child!
    • How kindly thou my yearning then didst still
    • With gentle words, enthralling me to thee.
    • In truth methought I read thy whispers mild
    • Wherewith thou lovingly my soul didst fill,
    • E’en to myself for aye ennobling me.

NEMESIS.

    • WHEN through the nations stalks contagion wild,
    • We from them cautiously should steal away.
    • E’en I have oft with ling’ring and delay
    • Shunn’d many an influence, not to be defil’d.
    • And e’en though Amor oft my hours beguil’d,
    • At length with him preferr’d I not to play,
    • And so, too, with the wretched sons of clay,
    • When four and three-lin’d verses they compil’d.
    • But punishment pursues the scoffer straight,
    • As if by serpent-torch of furies led
    • From hill to vale, from land to sea to fly.
    • I hear the genie’s laughter at my fate;
    • Yet do I find all power of thinking fled
    • In sonnet-rage and love’s fierce ecstasy.

THE CHRISTMAS-BOX.

    • THIS box, mine own sweet darling, thou wilt find
    • With many a varied sweetmeat’s form supplied;
    • The fruits are they of holy Christmas tide,
    • But bak’d indeed, for children’s use design’d.
    • I’d fain, in speeches sweet with skill combin’d,
    • Poetic sweetmeats for the feast provide;
    • But why in such frivolities confide?
    • Perish the thought, with flattery to blind!
    • One sweet thing there is still, that from within,
    • Within us speaks,—that may be felt afar;
    • This may be wafted o’er to thee alone.
    • If thou a recollection fond canst win,
    • As if with pleasure gleam’d each well-known star,
    • The smallest gift thou never wilt disown.

THE WARNING.

    • WHEN sounds the trumpet at the Judgment-Day,
    • And when forever all things earthly die,
    • We must a full and true account supply
    • Of ev’ry useless word we dropp’d in play.
    • But what effect will all the words convey
    • Wherein with eager zeal and lovingly,
    • That I might win thy favor, labor’d I,
    • If on thine ear alone they die away?
    • Therefore, sweet love, thy conscience bear in mind,
    • Remember well how long thou hast delay’d,
    • So that the world such sufferings may not know.
    • If I must reckon, and excuses find
    • For all things useless I to thee have said,
    • To a full year the Judgment-Day will grow.

THE DOUBTERS AND THE LOVERS.

    • The Doubters.
    • YE love, and sonnets write! Fate’s strange behest!
    • The heart, its hidden meaning to declare,
    • Must seek for rhymes, uniting pair with pair:
    • Learn, children, that the will is weak, at best.
    • Scarcely with freedom the o’erflowing breast
    • As yet can speak, and well may it beware;
    • Tempestuous passions sweep each chord that’s there,
    • Then once more sink to night and gentle rest.
    • Why vex yourselves and us, the heavy stone
    • Up the steep path but step by step to roll?
    • It falls again, and ye ne’er cease to strive.
    • The Lovers.
    • But we are on the proper road alone!
    • If gladly is to thaw the frozen soul
    • The fire of love must aye be kept alive.

THE EPOCHS.

    • ON Petrarch’s heart, all other days before,
    • In flaming letters written, was impress’d
    • Good Friday. And on mine, be it confess’d,
    • Is this year’s Advent, as it passeth o’er.
    • I do not now begin,—I still adore
    • Her whom I early cherish’d in my breast,
    • Then once again with prudence dispossess’d,
    • And to whose heart I’m driven back once more.
    • The love of Petrarch, that all-glorious love,
    • Was unrequited, and, alas, full sad;
    • One long Good Friday ’twas, one heartache drear;
    • But may my mistress’ Advent ever prove,
    • With its palm-jubilee, so sweet and glad,
    • One endless Mayday, through the livelong year!

CHARADE.

    • TWO words there are, both short, of beauty rare,
    • Whose sounds our lips so often love to frame,
    • But which with clearness never can proclaim
    • The things whose own peculiar stamp they bear.
    • ’Tis well in days of age and youth so fair
    • One on the other boldly to inflame;
    • And if those words together link’d we name,
    • A blissful rapture we discover there.
    • But now to give them pleasure do I seek;
    • And in myself my happiness would find;
    • I hope in silence, but I hope for this:
    • Gently, as lov’d one’s names, those words to speak,
    • To see them both within one image shrin’d,
    • Both in one being to embrace with bliss.