POEMS OF GOETHE
135
BROOK.
Then careering—ah, so proudly!
Rush I o'er the wheel,
And the merry mill speaks loudly
All the joy I feel.
Show me but the miller's daughter,
And more swiftly flows my water.
YOUTH.
Nay, but, brooklet, tell me truly,
Feelest thou no pain,
When she smiles, and bids thee duly
Go, nor turn again?
Hath that simple smile no cunning.
Brook, to stay thee in thy running?
BROOK.
Hard it is to lose her shadow,
Hard to pass away;
Slowly, sadly, down the meadow,
Uninspired I stray.
Oh, if I might have my will,
Back to her I'd hasten still!
YOUTH.
Brook! my love thou comprehendest;
Fare thee well awhile;
One day, when thou hither wendest,
May'st thou see me smile.
Go, and in thy gentlest fashion,
Tell that maiden all my passion!
