My head swam round as in a dream;

I well-nigh fell into the stream,
And earth seem’d with me whirling there.

Sudden I heard a voice that cried—­

I had just turn’d my face from thence—­

It was a voice to charm each sense: 
“Beware, for deep is yonder tide!”

A thrill my blood pervaded now,

I look’d and saw a beauteous maid

I asked her name—­twas Kate, she said—­
“Oh lovely Kate! how kind art thou!

“From death I have been sav’d by thee,

’Tis through thee only that I live;

Little ’twere life alone to give,
My joy in life then deign to be!”

And then I told my sorrows o’er,

Her eyes to earth she sweetly threw;

I kiss’d her, and she kiss’d me too,
And—­then I talked of death no more.

1775.*
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The muses’ son.

[Goethe quotes the beginning of this song in his Autobiography, as expressing the manner in which his poetical effusions used to pour out from him.]

Through field and wood to stray,
And pipe my tuneful lay,—­

’Tis thus my days are pass’d;
And all keep tune with me,
And move in harmony,

And so on, to the last.

To wait I scarce have power
The garden’s earliest flower,

The tree’s first bloom in Spring;
They hail my joyous strain,—­
When Winter comes again,

Of that sweet dream I sing.

My song sounds far and near,
O’er ice it echoes clear,

Then Winter blossoms bright;
And when his blossoms fly,
Fresh raptures meet mine eye,

Upon the well-till’d height.

When ’neath the linden tree,
Young folks I chance to see,

I set them moving soon;
His nose the dull lad curls,
The formal maiden whirls,

Obedient to my tune.

Wings to the feet ye lend,
O’er hill and vale ye send

The lover far from home;
When shall I, on your breast,.

Ye kindly muses, rest,
And cease at length to roam?

1800.*
------
Found.

Once through the forest

Alone I went;
To seek for nothing

My thoughts were bent.

I saw i’ the shadow

A flower stand there
As stars it glisten’d,

As eyes ’twas fair.

I sought to pluck it,—­

It gently said: 
“Shall I be gather’d

Only to fade?”

With all its roots

I dug it with care,
And took it home

To my garden fair.

In silent corner

Soon it was set;
There grows it ever,

There blooms it yet.

1815.*
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Like and like.

A fair bell-flower

Sprang tip from the ground;
And early its fragrance

It shed all around;
A bee came thither