Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832)

BUSH and vale are filled by thee

With a silver haze,

And my soul thou hast set free

With thy soothing rays.

And thy gentle beams descend

Kindly where I go,

Like the mild eye of a friend

On my joy and woe.

Echoes of the times gone by

Tremble through my heart,

‘Twixt delight and grief I ply,

Evermore apart.

Dearest river, flow, oh flow!

Joy cannot abide.

Play and kisses vanished so,

Faithfulness beside.

Once—oh, could I but forget!—

It was mine: the rare!

And it is a torture yet

Memories to bear.

River, flow the vale along,

Without rest or ease,

Murmur, whisper to my song

Gentle melodies!

Swelling in the winter night

With thy roaring flood,

Bubbling in the spring’s delight

Over leaf and bud!

Blessed is he who walks apart,

Though no hate he bears,

Holds a friend within his heart;

And with him he shares

All that steals, by men unguessed,

Or by men unknown,

Through the maze of his own breast

In the night alone.