The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/To Lina
Lina, rival of the linnet,
When these lays shall reach thy hand,
Please transfer them to the spinnet,
Where thy friend was wont to stand.
Set the diapason ringing,
Ponder not the words you see,
Give them utterance by thy singing,
Then each leaf belongs to thee.
With the life of music fill them;
Cold the written verses seem,
That, would Lina deign to trill them,
Might be trancing as a dream.