The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Parting
Let mine eyes the farewell make thee
Which my lips refuse to speak;
Scorn me not, if to forsake thee
Makes my very manhood weak.
Joyless in our joy's eclipse, love,
Are love's tokens, else divine,
Cold the kisses of thy lips, love,
Damp the hand that's locked in mine.
Once thy lip, to touch it only,
To my soul has sent a thrill,
Sweeter than the violet lonely,
Plucked in March-time by the rill.
Garlands never more I'll fashion,
Roses twine no more for thee;
Spring is here, but, ah, my passion,
Autumn dark has come for me!