---

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - The Beauteous Flower - Son Of The Imprisioned Count
Work rating: Low

COUNT.

I KNOW a flower of beauty rare,

Ah, how I hold it dear!
To seek it I would fain repair,

Were I not prison`d here.
My sorrow sore oppresses me,
For when I was at liberty,

I had it close beside me.

Though from this castle`s walls so steep

I cast mine eyes around,
And gaze oft from the lofty keep,

The flower can not be found.
Whoe`er would bring it to my sight,
Whether a vassal he, or knight,

My dearest friend I`d deem him.

THE ROSE.

I blossom fair,—thy tale of woes

I hear from `neath thy grate.
Thou doubtless meanest me, the rose.

Poor knight of high estate!
Thou hast in truth a lofty mind;
The queen of flowers is then enshrin`d,

I doubt not, in thy bosom.

COUNT.

Thy red, in dress of green array`d,

As worth all praise I hold;
And so thou`rt treasured by each maid

Like precious stones or gold.
Thy wreath adorns the fairest face
But still thou`rt not the flower whose grace

I honour here in silence.

THE LILY.

The rose is wont with pride to swell,

And ever seeks to rise;
But gentle sweethearts love full well

The lily`s charms to prize,
The heart that fills a bosom true,
That is, like me, unsullied too,

My merit values duly.

COUNT.

In truth, I hope myself unstain`d,

And free from grievous crime;
Yet I am here a prisoner chain`d,

And pass in grief my time,
To me thou art an image sure
Of many a maiden, mild and pure,

And yet I know a dearer.

THE PINK.

That must be me, the pink, who scent

The warder`s garden here;
Or wherefore is he so intent

My charms with care to rear?
My petals stand in beauteous ring,
Sweet incense all around I fling,

And boast a thousand colours.

COUNT.

The pink in truth we should not slight,

It is the gardener`s pride
It now must stand exposed to light,

Now in the shade abide.
Yet what can make the Count`s heart glow
Is no mere pomp of outward show;

It is a silent flower.

THE VIOLET.

Here stand I, modestly half hid,

And fain would silence keep;
Yet since to speak I now am bid,

I`ll break my silence deep.
If, worthy Knight, I am that flower,
It grieves me that I have not power

To breathe forth all my sweetness.

COUNT.

The violet`s charms I prize indeed,

So modest `tis, and fair,
And smells so sweet; yet more I need

To ease my heavy care.
The truth I`ll whisper in thine ear:
Upon these rocky heights so drear,

I cannot find the loved one.

The truest maiden `neath the sky

Roams near the stream below,
And breathes forth many a gentle sigh,

Till I from hence can go.
And when she plucks a flow`ret blue,
And says "Forget-me-not!"—I, too,

Though far away, can feel it.

Ay, distance only swells love`s might,

When fondly love a pair;
Though prison`d in the dungeon`s night,

In life I linger there
And when my heart is breaking nigh,
"Forget-me-not!" is all I cry,

And straightway life returneth.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.