The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/Charade
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CHARADE.
Two words there are, both short, of beauty rare,
Whose sounds our lips so often love to frame,
But which with clearness never can proclaim
The things whose own peculiar stamp they bear.
'Tis well in days of age and youth so fair,
One on the other boldly to inflame;
And if those words together linked we name,
A blissful rapture we discover there.
But now to give them pleasure do I seek,
And in myself my happiness would find;
I hope in silence, but I hope for this:
Gently, as loved ones' names, those words to speak,
To see them both within one image shrined,
Both in one being to embrace with bliss.