POEMS OF GOETHE
363
His voice so fraught
With magic bliss,
His hand's soft pressure,
And, ah, his kiss!
My heart is sad,
My peace is o'er;
I find it never
And nevermore.
My bosom yearns
For his form so fair;
Ah, could I clasp him
And hold him there!
My kisses sweet
Should stop his breath,
And 'neath his kisses
I'd sink in death!
VI.
SCENE.—A GARDEN.
Margaret. Faust.
MARGARET.
FAUST.
Doth mortal live
Who dares to say that he believes in God?
Go, bid the priest a truthful answer give,
Go, ask the wisest who on earth e'er trod,—
Their answer will appear to be
Given alone in mockery.
