The Poems of Goethe, Translated in the Original Metres · Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
THE WINTER AND TIMUR.
Must a world its treasures give; Yes, a world where life is moving, Which, with impulse full and strong, Could forbode the Bulbul's loving, Sweet, and spirit-stirring song. Since they thus have swell'd our joy, Should such torments grieve us, then? Doth not Timur's rule destroy Myriad souls of living men? ONCE, methought, in the night hours cold, That I saw the moon in my sleep; But as soon as I waken'd, behold Unawares rose the sun from the deep. THAT Suleika's love was so strong For Joseph, need cause no surprise; He was young, youth pleaseth the eyes,-- He was fair, they say, beyond measure Fair was she, and so great was their pleasure. But that thou, who awaitedst me long, Youthful glances of fire dost throw me, Soon wilt bless me, thy love now dost show me, This shall my joyous numbers proclaim, Thee I for ever Suleika shall name. NOT occasion makes the thief; She's the greatest of the whole; For Love's relics, to my grief, From my aching heart she stole. She hath given it to thee,-- All the joy my life had known, So that, in my poverty, Life I seek from thee alone. Yet compassion greets me straight In the lustre of thine eye, And I bless my newborn fate, As within thine arms I lie.
This last cup I pledge to thee!-- By mine ashes if she pass, "He consumed," she'll say, "for me." AND wherefore sends not The horseman-captain His heralds hither Each day, unfailing? Yet hath he horses, He writes well. He waiteth Tali, And Neski knows he To write with beauty On silken tablets. I'd deem him present, Had I his words. The sick One will not, Will not recover From her sweet sorrow; She, when she heareth That her true lover Grows well, falls sick. WRITES he in Neski, Faithfully speaks he; Writes he in Tali, Joy to give, seeks he: Writes he in either, Good!--for he loves! 1819.* ----- THESE tufted branches fair Observe, my loved one, well! And see the fruits they bear In green and prickly shell! They've hung roll'd up, till now, Unconsciously and still; A loosely-waving bough Doth rock them at its will. Yet, ripening from within. The kernel brown swells fast; It seeks the air to win, It seeks the sun at last. With joy it bursts its thrall, The shell must needs give way. 'Tis thus my numbers fall Before thy feet, each day.
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