POEMS OF GOETHE
191
Stretches his talons,
On thee falls,
In thy shoulders
Cunningly plants them.
Strong are his skinny arms,
As panther-claws;
He shaketh thee,
And rends thy frame.
Death 'tis to part;
'Tis threefold death
To part, not hoping
Ever to meet again.
Thou wouldst rejoice to leave
This hated land behind,
Wert thou not chained to me
With friendship's flowery chains.
Burst them! I'll not repine.
No noble friend
Would stay his fellow captive
If means of flight appear.
The remembrance
Of his dear friend's freedom
Gives him freedom
In his dungeon.
Thou goest,—I'm left.
But e'en already
The last year's winged spokes
Whirl round the smoken axle.
