Margarete Münsterberg, ed., trans. A Harvest of German Verse. 1916.
By GretchenJohann Wolfgang von Goethe (17491832)
I
O mother of sorrow,
Thy gracious face upon my need!
Thy heart is tearing.
Thou seest how thine own Son must bleed.
Thy sighs outpouring,
Thou prayest for His and thy great need.
How stealeth
My pain through every bone?
How my poor, poor heart is quaking,
How with longing it is aching,
Thou canst know alone, alone!
With what a sore, sore burning
My bosom ever aches!
When I am left alone now,
I weep and weep and moan now,
My heart within me breaks.
I watered with tears—oh, see!—
When in the early morning
I broke these flowers for thee.
In at my room to-day,
In bed I sat up pining
So early, in dismay.
Incline thou,
Oh, mother of sorrow,
Upon my need thy gracious face!