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The Goblet.

- EAGERLY a well-carv’d brimming goblet
- In my two hands tightly clasp’d I lifted;
- Ardently the sweet wine sipp’d I from it,
- Seeking there to drown all care and sorrow.
- Amor enter’d in, and found me sitting,
- And he gently smiled in modest fashion,
- Smiled as though the foolish one he pitied.
- “Friend, I know a far more beauteous vessel,
- One wherein to sink thy spirit wholly;
- Say, what wilt thou give me, if I grant it,
- And with other nectar fill it for thee?”
- Oh, how kindly hath he kept his promise!
- For to me, who long had yearn’d, he granted
- Thee, my Lida, fill’d with soft affection.
- When I clasp mine arms around thee fondly,
- When I drink in love’s long-hoarded balsam
- From thy darling lips so true, so faithful,
- Fill’d with bliss thus speak I to my spirit:—
- “No! a vessel such as this, save Amor,
- Never god hath fashion’d or been lord of!
- Such a form was ne’er produc’d by Vulcan
- With his cunning, reason-gifted hammers!
- On the leaf-crown’d mountains may Lyæus
- Bid his Fauns, the oldest and the wisest,
- Pass the choicest clusters through the winepress,
- And himself watch o’er the fermentation:
- Such a draught no toil can e’er procure him!”

NIGHT THOUGHTS.

O UNHAPPY stars! your fate I mourn;
Ye by whom the sea-toss’d sailor’s lighted,
Who with radiant beams the heavens adorn,
But by gods and men are unrequited:
For ye love not,—ne’er have learn’d to love!
Ceaselessly in endless dance ye move,
In the spacious sky your charms displaying.
What far travels ye have hasten’d through,
Since, within my lov’d one’s arms delaying,
I’ve forgotten you and midnight too!

TO LIDA.

THE only one whom, Lida, thou canst love,
Thou claim’st, and rightly claim’st, for only thee;
He too is wholly thine; since doom’d to rove
Far from thee, in life’s turmoils naught I see
Save a thin veil, through which thy form I view
As though in clouds; with kindly smile and true
It cheers me, like the stars eterne that gleam
Across the northern lights’ far-flick’ring beam.

FOREVER.

THE happiness that man, whilst prison’d here,
Is wont with heavenly rapture to compare,—
The harmony of Truth, from wavering clear,—
Of Friendship that is free from doubting care,—
The light which in stray thoughts alone can cheer
The wise,—the bard alone in visions fair,—
In my best hours I found in her all this,
And made mine own, to mine exceeding bliss.

FROM AN ALBUM OF 1604.

HOPE provides wings to thought, and love to hope.
Rise up to Cynthia, love, when night is clearest,
And say, that as on high her figure changeth,
So, upon earth, my joy decays and grows.
And whisper in her ear with modest softness
How doubt oft hung its head, and truth oft wept.
And O ye thoughts, distrustfully inclin’d,
If ye are therefore by the lov’d one chided,
Answer: ’tis true ye change, but alter not,
As she remains the same, yet changeth ever.
Doubt may invade the heart, but poisons not,
For love is sweeter, by suspicion flavor’d.
If it with anger overcasts the eye,
And heaven’s bright purity perversely blackens,
Then zephyr-sighs straight scare the clouds away,
And chang’d to tears dissolve them into rain.
Thought, hope, and love remain there as before,
Till Cynthia gleams upon me as of old.

TO THE RISING FULL MOON.

Dornburg, August 25th, 1828.

- WILT thou suddenly enshroud thee,
- Who this moment wert so nigh?
- Heavy rising masses cloud thee,
- Thou art hidden from mine eye.
- Yet my sadness thou well knowest,
- Gleaming sweetly as a star!
- That I’m lov’d, ’tis thou that showest,
- Though my lov’d one may be far.
- Upward mount then! clearer, milder,
- Rob’d in splendor far more bright!
- Though my heart with grief throbs wilder,
- Fraught with rapture is the night!

BETROTHED.

- I SLEPT,—’twas midnight,—in my bosom woke,
- As though ’twere day, my love-o’erflowing heart;
- To me it seem’d like night when day first broke;
- What is’t to me, whate’er it may impart?
- She was away; the world’s unceasing strife
- For her alone I suffer’d through the heat
- Of sultry day. Oh, what refreshing life
- At cooling eve!—my guerdon was complete.
- The sun now set, and wand’ring hand in hand
- His last and blissful look we greeted then;
- While spake our eyes, as they each other scann’d:
- “From the far east, let’s trust, he’ll come again!”
- At midnight!—the bright stars in vision bless’d
- Guide to the threshold where she slumbers calm:
- Oh, be it mine, there too at length to rest,—
- Yet howsoe’er this prove, life’s full of charm!

AT MIDNIGHT HOUR.

- AT midnight hour I went, not willingly,
- A little, little boy, yon churchyard past,
- To Father Vicar’s house; the stars on high
- On all around their beauteous radiance cast,
- At midnight hour.
- And when, in journeying o’er the path of life,
- My love I follow’d, as she onward mov’d,
- With stars and northern lights o’er head in strife,
- Going and coming, perfect bliss I prov’d
- At midnight hour.
- Until at length the full moon, lustre-fraught,
- Burst through the gloom wherein she was enshrin’d;
- And then the willing, active, rapid thought
- Around the past, as round the future twin’d,
- At midnight hour.

LINES ON SEEING SCHILLER’S SKULL.

WITHIN a gloomy charnel-house one day
I view’d the countless skulls, so strangely mated,
And of old times I thought, that now were gray.
Close pack’d they stand that once so fiercely hated,
And hardy bones that to the death contended
Are lying cross’d,—to lie forever, fated.
What held those crooked shoulder-blades suspended?
No one now asks; and limbs with vigor fired,
The hand, the foot—their use in life is ended.
Vainly ye sought the tomb for rest when tired;
Peace in the grave may not be yours; ye’re driven
Back into daylight by a force inspir’d;
But none can love the wither’d husk, though even
A glorious noble kernel it contained.
To me, an adept, was the writing given
Which not to all its holy sense explained,
When ’mid the crowd, their icy shadows flinging,
I saw a form, that glorious still remained,
And even there, where mould and damp were clinging,
Gave me a bless’d, a rapture-fraught emotion,
As though from death a living fount were springing.
What mystic joy I felt! What rapt devotion!
That form, how pregnant with a godlike trace!
A look, how did it whirl me tow’rd that ocean
Whose rolling billows mightier shapes embrace!
Mysterious vessel! Oracle how dear!
Even to grasp thee is my hand too base,
Except to steal thee from thy prison here
With pious purpose, and devoutly go
Back to the air, free thoughts, and sunlight clear.
What greater gain in life can man e’er know
Than when God-Nature will to him explain
How into Spirit steadfastness may flow,
How steadfast, too, the Spirit-Born remain.

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The Goblet. - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Goethe’s Works, vol. 1 (Poems) [1885]

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Part of: Goethe’s Works, 5 vols.

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