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POEMS OF GOETHE
That life I should learn to hate,
And fly to deserts,
Because not all
My blossoming dreams grew ripe?
Here sit I, forming mortals
After my image;
A race resembling me,
To suffer, to weep,
To enjoy, to be glad,
And thee to scorn,
As I!
LIMITS OF HUMANITY.
When the Creator,
The Great, the Eternal,
Sows with indifferent
Hand, from the rolling
Clouds, o'er the earth. His
Lightnings in blessing,
I kiss the nethermost
Hem of His garment,
Lowly incllning
In infantine awe.
For never against
The immortals, a mortal
May measure himself.
Upwards aspiring,
He toucheth the stars with his forehead,
Then do his insecure feet
Stumble and totter and reel;
Then do the cloud and the tempest
Make him their pastime and sport.
Let him with sturdy,
