Social streamlets
Join his waters.  And now moves he
O’er the plain in silv’ry glory,
And the plain in him exults,
And the rivers from the plain,
And the streamlets from the mountain,
Shout with joy, exclaiming:  “Brother,
Brother, take thy brethren with thee,
With thee to thine aged father,
To the everlasting ocean,
Who, with arms outstretching far,
Waiteth for us;
Ah, in vain those arms lie open
To embrace his yearning children;
For the thirsty sand consumes us
In the desert waste; the sunbeams
Drink our life-blood; hills around us
Into lakes would dam us!  Brother,
Take thy brethren of the plain,
Take thy brethren of the mountain
With thee, to thy father’s arms!

Let all come, then!—­
And now swells he
Lordlier still; yea, e’en a people
Bears his regal flood on high! 
And in triumph onward rolling,
Names to countries gives he,—­cities
Spring to light beneath his foot.

Ever, ever, on he rushes,
Leaves the towers’ flame-tipp’d summits,
Marble palaces, the offspring
Of his fullness, far behind.

Cedar-houses bears the Atlas
On his giant shoulders; flutt’ring
In the breeze far, far above him
Thousand flags are gaily floating,
Bearing witness to his might.

And so beareth he his brethren,
All his treasures, all his children,
Wildly shouting, to the bosom
Of his long-expectant sire.

1774.
-----
Spirit song over the waters.

The soul of man
Resembleth water: 
From heaven it cometh,
To heaven it soareth. 
And then again
To earth descendeth,
Changing ever.

Down from the lofty
Rocky wall
Streams the bright flood,
Then spreadeth gently
In cloudy billows
O’er the smooth rock,
And welcomed kindly,
Veiling, on roams it,
Soft murmuring,
Tow’rd the abyss.

Cliffs projecting
Oppose its progress,—­
Angrily foams it
Down to the bottom,
Step by step.

Now, in flat channel,
Through the meadowland steals it,
And in the polish’d lake
Each constellation
Joyously peepeth.

Wind is the loving
Wooer of waters;
Wind blends together
Billows all-foaming.

Spirit of man,
Thou art like unto water! 
Fortune of man,
Thou art like unto wind!

1789.*
-----
My goddess.

Say, which Immortal
Merits the highest reward? 
With none contend I,
But I will give it
To the aye-changing,
Ever-moving
Wondrous daughter of Jove. 
His best-beloved offspring. 
Sweet Phantasy.

For unto her
Hath he granted
All the fancies which erst
To none allow’d he
Saving himself;
Now he takes his pleasure
In the mad one.

She may, crowned with roses,
With staff twined round with lilies,
Roam thro’ flow’ry valleys,
Rule the butterfly-people,
And soft-nourishing dew
With bee-like lips
Drink from the blossom: