The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/To His Coy One
TO HIS COY ONE.
Seest thou yon smiling orange?
Upon the tree still hangs it;
Already March hath vanished,
And new-born flowers are shooting.
I draw nigh to the tree then,
And there I say: O orange,
Thou ripe and juicy orange,
Thou sweet and luscious orange,
I shake the tree, I shake it,
Oh, fall into my lap.