The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/Huntsman's Evening Song


In silence sad, from heath to hill
With rifle slung I glide.
But thy dear shape, it haunts me still,
It hovers by my side.

Across the brook, and past the mill,
I watch thee gaily fleet;
Ah, does one shape, that ne'er is still,
E'er cross thy fancy, sweet?

'Tis his, who, tortured by unrest,
Roams ever to and fro,
Now ranging east, now ranging west,
Since forced from thee to go.

And yet at times the thought of thee,
Like moonlight in a dream,
Doth bring, I know not how, to me
Content and peace supreme.