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Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - Trilogy Of Passion 01 To Werther
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ONCE more, then, much-wept shadow, thou dost dare

  Boldly to face the day`s clear light,
To meet me on fresh blooming meadows fair,

  And dost not tremble at my sight.
Those happy times appear return`d once more.

  When on one field we quaff`d refreshing dew,
And, when the day`s unwelcome toils were o`er,

  The farewell sunbeams bless`d our ravish`d view;
Fate bade thee go,—to linger here was mine,—
Going the first, the smaller loss was thine.

The life of man appears a glorious fate:
The day how lovely, and the night how great!
And we `mid Paradise-like raptures plac`d,
The sun`s bright glory scarce have learn`d to taste.

When strange contending feelings dimly cover,
Now us, and now the forms that round us hover;
One`s feelings by no other are supplied,
`Tis dark without, if all is bright inside;
An outward brightness veils my sadden`d mood,
When Fortune smiles,—how seldom understood!
Now think we that we know her, and with might
A woman`s beauteous form instils delight;
The youth, as glad as in his infancy,
The spring-time treads, as though the spring were he
Ravish`d, amazed, he asks, how this is done?
He looks around, the world appears his own.
With careless speed he wanders on through space,
Nor walls, nor palaces can check his race;
As some gay flight of birds round tree-tops plays,
So `tis with him who round his mistress strays;
He seeks from AEther, which he`d leave behind him,
The faithful look that fondly serves to bind him.

Yet first too early warn`d, and then too late,
He feels his flight restrain`d, is captur`d straight
To meet again is sweet, to part is sad,
Again to meet again is still more glad,
And years in one short moment are enshrin`d;
But, oh, the harsh farewell is hid behind!

Thou smilest, friend, with fitting thoughts inspired;
By a dread parting was thy fame acquired,
Thy mournful destiny we sorrow`d o`er,
For weal and woe thou left`st us evermore,
And then again the passions` wavering force
Drew us along in labyrinthine course;
And we, consumed by constant misery,
At length must part—and parting is to die!
How moving is it, when the minstrel sings,
To `scape the death that separation brings!
Oh grant, some god, to one who suffers so,
To tell, half-guilty, his sad tale of woe.
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