Goethe: “The Son of the Muses”



“The Son of the Muses”


Through wood and vale I wander,’

And on my sonnets ponder,

At morn and eventime.

Oh, what internal pleasure,

My thoughts to write, in measure,

And all reduce to rhyme!


I wait no opening flower,

That decks field – garden – bower,

No buds that hidden lie.

Spring – flowerets haste to greet me:

When Winter’s tempests meet me,

I sing of joys, flown by.


I sing of frozen fountain,

Of Alps – of polar mountain,

Of avalanche – of snow!

When winter’s charms are over,

New themes I still discover,

From wood – hill – valley, flow.


Youth’s votaries of pleasure,

At my enlivening measure,

Flock to the linden-tree.

The shepherd is excited,

The shepherdess delighted;

They dance with heart-felt glee.


Thy Favourite doth revere thee,

Thy heavenly wing doth steer me

O’er mountain, vale, and plain.

Muse! – when shall I behold thee,

And, to my bosom fold thee,

Never to part again?