POEMS OF GOETHE
63
Happy he who, hating none,
Leaves the world's dull noise,
And, with trusty friends alone,
Quietly enjoys
What, for ever unexpressed,
Hid from common sight,
Through the mazes of the breast
Softly steals by night!
HUNTSMAN'S EVENING SONG.
In silence sad, from heath to hill
With rifle slung I glide.
But thy dear shape, it haunts me still,
It hovers by my side.
Across the brook, and past the mill,
I watch thee gaily fleet;
Ah, does one shape, that ne'er is still,
E'er cross thy fancy, sweet?
'Tis his, who, tortured by unrest,
Roams ever to and fro,
Now ranging east, now ranging west,
Since forced from thee to go.
And yet at times the thought of thee,
Like moonlight in a dream,
Doth bring, I know not how, to me
Content and peace supreme.
