Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/387

⁠Awe the delinquent so much, down in the plains of despair,
As by the motionless spectre I'm awed, that shows me the fair one
⁠Far away; of a truth, open the garden-door stands!
And another one cometh! For him the fruit, too, is falling,
⁠And for him, also, the fig strengthening honey doth yield!
Doth she entice him as well to the arbour? He follows? Oh, make me
⁠Blind, ye Immortals! efface visions like this from my mind!
Yes, she is but a maiden! And she who to one doth so quickly
⁠Yield, to another ere long, doubtless, will turn herself round.
Smile not, Zeus, for this once, at an oath so cruelly broken!
⁠Thunder more fearfully! Strike!—Stay—thy fierce lightnings withhold!
Hurl at me thy quivering bolt! In the darkness of midnight
⁠Strike with thy lightning this mast, make it a pitiful wreck!
Scatter the planks all around, and give to the boisterous billows
⁠All these wares, and let me be to the dolphins a prey!—
Now, ye Muses, enough! In vain would ye strive to depicture
⁠How, in a love-laden breast, anguish alternates with bliss.
Ye cannot heal the wounds, it is true, that love hath inflicted;
⁠Yet from you only proceeds, kindly ones, comfort and balm.