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POEMS OF GOETHE
BROOK.
Youth! I was a brooklet lately,
Wandering at my will;
Then I might have moved sedately,
Now, to yonder mill,
Must I hurry, swift and strong,
Therefore do I race along.
YOUTH.
Brooklet, happy in thy duty,
Nathless thou art free;
Kuowest not the power of beauty
That enchaineth me!
Looks the miller's comely daughter
Ever kindly on thy water?
BROOK.
Early comes she every morning,
From some blissful dream;
And, so sweet in her adorning,
Bends above my stream.
Then her bosom, white as snow.
Makes my chilly waters glow.
YOUTH.
If her beauty brings such gladness,
Brooklet, unto thee,
Marvel not if I to madness
Should enflamèd be.
Oh, that I could hope to move her!
Once to see her is to love her.
