I know nought poorer
Under the sun, than ye gods! 
Ye nourish painfully,
With sacrifices
And votive prayers,
Your majesty: 
Ye would e’en starve,
If children and beggars
Were not trusting fools.

While yet a child
And ignorant of life,
I turned my wandering gaze
Up tow’rd the sun, as if with him
There were an ear to hear my wailings,
A heart, like mine,
To feel compassion for distress.

Who help’d me
Against the Titans’ insolence? 
Who rescued me from certain death,
From slavery? 
Didst thou not do all this thyself,
My sacred glowing heart? 
And glowedst, young and good,
Deceived with grateful thanks
To yonder slumbering one?

I honour thee! and why? 
Hast thou e’er lighten’d the sorrows
Of the heavy laden? 
Hast thou e’er dried up the tears
Of the anguish-stricken? 
Was I not fashion’d to be a man
By omnipotent Time,
And by eternal Fate,
Masters of me and thee?

Didst thou e’er fancy
That life I should learn to hate,
And fly to deserts,
Because not all
My blossoming dreams grew ripe?

Here sit I, forming mortals
After my image;
A race resembling me,
To suffer, to weep,
To enjoy, to be glad,
And thee to scorn,
As I!

1773.
-----
Ganymede.

How, in the light of morning,
Round me thou glowest,
Spring, thou beloved one! 
With thousand-varying loving bliss
The sacred emotions
Born of thy warmth eternal
Press ’gainst my bosom,
Thou endlessly fair one! 
Could I but hold thee clasp’d
Within mine arms!

Ah! upon thy bosom
Lay I, pining,
And then thy flowers, thy grass,
Were pressing against my heart. 
Thou coolest the burning
Thirst of my bosom,
Beauteous morning breeze! 
The nightingale then calls me
Sweetly from out of the misty vale. 
I come, I come! 
Whither?  Ah, whither?

Up, up, lies my course. 
While downward the clouds
Are hovering, the clouds
Are bending to meet yearning love. 
For me,
Within thine arms
Upwards! 
Embraced and embracing! 
Upwards into thy bosom,
Oh Father all-loving!

1789.*
-----
The boundaries of humanity.

When the primeval
All-holy Father
Sows with a tranquil hand
From clouds, as they roll,
Bliss-spreading lightnings
Over the earth,
Then do I kiss the last
Hem of his garment,
While by a childlike awe
Fiil’d is my breast.

For with immortals
Ne’er may a mortal
Measure himself. 
If he soar upwards
And if he touch
With his forehead the stars,
Nowhere will rest then
His insecure feet,
And with him sport
Tempest and cloud.

Though with firm sinewy
Limbs he may stand
On the enduring
Well-grounded earth,
All he is ever
Able to do,
Is to resemble
The oak or the vine.