POEMS OF GOETHE
189
Hov'ring thither,
From out her yew-tree dwelling,
The gaudy foe advances
Against the kindly tree,
And cannot hurt it.
But the more artful one
Defiles with nauseous venom
Its silver leaves;
And sees with triumph
How the maiden shudders,
The youth, how mourns he,
On passing by.
Transplant the beauteous tree!
Gardener, it gives me pain.
Tree, thank the gardener
Who moves thee hence!
SECOND ODE.
Thou goest! I murmur—
Go! let me murmur.
Oh, worthy man,
Fly from this land!
Deadly marshes,
Steaming mists of October
Here interweave their currents,
Blending for ever.
Noisome insects
Here are engendered;
Fatal darkness
Veils their malice.
