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Friedrich Schiller - The Favor Of The Moment
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Once more, then, we meet
  In the circles of yore;
Let our song be as sweet
  In its wreaths as before,
Who claims the first place
  In the tribute of song?
The God to whose grace
  All our pleasures belong.
Though Ceres may spread
  All her gifts on the shrine,
Though the glass may be red
  With the blush of the vine,
What boots—if the while
  Fall no spark on the hearth;
If the heart do not smile
  With the instinct of mirth?—
From the clouds, from God`s breast
  Must our happiness fall,
`Mid the blessed, most blest
  Is the moment of all!
Since creation began
  All that mortals have wrought,
All that`s godlike in man
  Comes—the flash of a thought!
For ages the stone
  In the quarry may lurk,
An instant alone
  Can suffice to the work;
An impulse give birth
  To the child of the soul,
A glance stamp the worth
  And the fame of the whole.
On the arch that she buildeth
  From sunbeams on high,
As Iris just gildeth,
  And fleets from the sky,
So shineth, so gloometh
  Each gift that is ours;
The lightning illumeth—
  The darkness devours!
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