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Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - The Muses` Son
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THROUGH field and wood to stray,
And pipe my tuneful lay,—

`Tis thus my days are pass`d;
And all keep tune with me,
And move in harmony,

And so on, to the last.

To wait I scarce have power
The garden`s earliest flower,

The tree`s first bloom in Spring;
They hail my joyous strain,—
When Winter comes again,

Of that sweet dream I sing.

My song sounds far and near,
O`er ice it echoes clear,

Then Winter blossoms bright;
And when his blossoms fly,
Fresh raptures meet mine eye,

Upon the well-till`d height.

When `neath the linden tree,
Young folks I chance to see,

I set them moving soon;
His nose the dull lad curls,
The formal maiden whirls,

Obedient to my tune.

Wings to the feet ye lend,
O`er hill and vale ye send

The lover far from home;
When shall I, on your breast,.

Ye kindly muses, rest,
And cease at length to roam?
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