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Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - November Song
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To the great archer—not to him

To meet whom flies the sun,
And who is wont his features dim

With clouds to overrun—

But to the boy be vow`d these rhymes,

Who `mongst the roses plays,
Who hear us, and at proper times

To pierce fair hearts essays.

Through him the gloomy winter night,

Of yore so cold and drear,
Brings many a loved friend to our sight,

And many a woman dear.

Henceforward shall his image fair

Stand in yon starry skies,
And, ever mild and gracious there,

Alternate set and rise.
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