The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Loving One Writes
THE LOVING ONE WRITES.
The look that thy sweet eyes on mine impress,
The pledge thy lips to mine convey,—the kiss,—
He who, like me, hath knowledge sure of this,
Can he in aught beside find happiness?
Removed from thee, friend-severed, in distress,
These thoughts I vainly struggle to dismiss
They still return to that one hour of bliss,
The only one; then tears my grief confess.
But unawares the tear makes haste to dry:
He loves, methinks, e'en to those glades so still,—
And shalt not thou to distant lands extend?
Receive the murmurs of this loving sigh;
My only joy on earth is in thy will,
Thy kindly will tow'rd me; a token send!
Lovingly I'll sing of love;
Ever comes she from above.