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The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Christmas-Box


This box, mine own sweet darling, thou wilt find
With many a varied sweetmeat's form supplied;
The fruits are they of holy Christmas-tide,
But baked, indeed, for children's use designed.

I'd fain, in speeches sweet with skill combined,
Poetic sweetmeats for the feast provide;
But why in such frivolities confide?
Perish the thought, with flattery to blind!

One sweet thing there is still, that from within,
Within us speaks,—that may be felt afar;
This may be wafted o'er to thee alone.
If thou a recollection fond canst win.
As if with pleasure gleamed each well-known star,
The smallest gift thou never wilt disown.