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The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/Anacreon's Grave


Where the rose is fresh and blooming—where the vine and myrtle spring—
Where the turtle-dove is cooing—where the gay cicalas sing—
Whose may be the grave surrounded with such store of comely grace,
Like a God-created garden? 'Tis Anacreon's resting-place.
Spring and summer and the autumn poured their gifts around the bard,
And, ere winter came to chill him, sound he slept beneath the sward.