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The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/Depression


DEPRESSION

Roses, ah, how fair ye be!
Ye are fading, dying!
Ye should with my lady be,
On her bosom lying;
All your bloom is lost on me,
Here despairing, sighing.

Oh, the golden dreams I nursed,
Ere I knew thy scorning,
When I poured my passion first,
And at break of morning,
Plucked the rosebuds ere they burst
For thy breast's adorning!

Every fruit and floweret rare,
To thy feet I bore it.
Fondly knelt, to see thee there
Bending fondly o'er it.
Gazing on thy face so fair,
To revere, adore it.

Roses, ah.! how fair ye be!
Ye are fading, dying!
Ye should with my lady be,
On her bosom lying;
All your bloom is lost on me,
Here despairing, sighing.