POEMS OF GOETHE
47
O love! thou enchanter,
So golden and bright—
Like the red clouds of morning
That rest on yon height;—
It is thou that art clothing
The fields and the bowers,
And everywhere breathing
The incense of flowers!
O maiden! dear maiden!
How well I love thee—
Thine eye, how it kindles
In answer to me!
Oh! well the lark loveth
Its song 'midst the blue;
Oh, gladly the flowerets
Expand to the dew.
And so do I love thee;
For all that is best,
I draw from thy beauty
To gladden my breast!
And all my heart's music
Is thrilling for thee!
Be evermore blest, love,
And loving to me!
