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WINTER JOURNEY OVER THE HARTZ MOUNTAINS. - 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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WINTER JOURNEY OVER THE HARTZ MOUNTAINS.

lf0841-01_figure_075
    • LIKE the vulture
    • Who on heavy morning clouds
    • With gentle wing reposing
    • Looks for his prey,—
    • Hover, my song!
    • For a God hath
    • Unto each prescrib’d
    • His destin’d path,
    • Which the happy one
    • Runs o’er swiftly
    • To his glad goal:
    • He whose heart cruel
    • Fate hath contracted,
    • Struggles but vainly
    • Against all the barriers
    • The brazen thread raises,
    • But which the harsh shears
    • Must one day sever.
    • Through gloomy thickets
    • Presseth the wild deer on,
    • And with the sparrows
    • Long have the wealthy
    • Settled themselves in the marsh.
    • Easy ’tis following the chariot
    • That by Fortune is driven,
    • Like the baggage that moves
    • Over well-mended highways
    • After the train of a prince.
    • But who stands there apart?
    • In the thicket, lost is his path;
    • Behind him the bushes
    • Are closing together,
    • The grass springs up again,
    • The desert engulfs him.
    • Ah, who’ll heal his afflictions
    • To whom balsam was poison,
    • Who, from love’s fulness,
    • Drank in misanthropy only?
    • First despis’d, and now a despiser,
    • He, in secret, wasteth
    • All that he is worth
    • In a selfishness vain.
    • If there be, on thy psaltery,
    • Father of Love, but one tone
    • That to his ear may be pleasing,
    • Oh, then, quicken his heart!
    • Clear his cloud-envelop’d eyes
    • Over the thousand fountains
    • Close by the thirsty one
    • In the desert.
    • Thou who createst much joy,
    • For each a measure o’erflowing,
    • Bless the sons of the chase
    • When on the track of the prey,
    • With a wild thirsting for blood,
    • Youthful and joyous,
    • Avenging late the injustice
    • Which the peasant resisted
    • Vainly for years with his staff.
    • But the lonely one veil
    • Within thy gold clouds!
    • Surround with wintergreen
    • Until the roses bloom again
    • The humid locks,
    • Oh, Love, of thy minstrel!
    • With thy glimmering torch
    • Lightest thou him
    • Through the fords when ’tis night,
    • Over bottomless places,
    • On desert-like plains;
    • With the thousand colors of morning
    • Gladd’nest his bosom;
    • With the fierce-biting storm
    • Bearest him proudly on high;
    • Winter torrents rush from the cliffs,—
    • Blend with his psalms;
    • An altar of grateful delight
    • He finds in the much-dreaded mountain’s
    • Snow-begirded summit,
    • Which foreboding nations
    • Crown’d with spirit-dances.
    • Thou stand’st with breast inscrutable,
    • Mysteriously disclos’d,
    • High o’er the wondering world,
    • And look’st from clouds
    • Upon its realms and its majesty,
    • Which thou from the veins of thy brethren
    • Near thee dost water.