Up with its roots I dug it,
I bore it as it grew,
And in my garden-plot at home
I planted it anew;
All in a still and shady place,
Beside my home so dear,
And now it thanks me for my pains
And blossoms all the year.
THE MUSES' SON.
[Goethe quotes the beginning of this song in his Autobiography, as expressing the manner in which his poetical effusions used to pour out from him.]
Through field and wood to stray
And pipe my tuneful lay,—
'Tis thus my days are passed;
And all keep tune with me,
And move on in harmony,
And so on, to the last.
To wait I scarce have power
The garden's earliest flower.
The tree's first bloom in spring;
They hail my joyous strain,—
When winter comes again,
Of that sweet dream I sing.
My song sounds far and near,
O'er ice it echoes clear,
Then winter blossoms bright;
And when his blossoms fly,
Fresh raptures meet mine eye,
Upon the well-tilled height.
