TO THE MOON.
FROM THE GERMAN.
Fillest hill and vale again,
Still with softening light!
Loosest from the world’s cold chain
All my soul to-night!
Spreadest round me, far and nigh,
Soothingly thy smile;
From thee, as from friendship’s eye,
Sorrow shrinks the while.
Every echo thrills my heart—
Glad and gloomy mood;
Joy and sorrow both have part
In my solitude.
River, river, glide along!
I am sad, alas!
Fleeting things are love and song—
Even so they pass!
I have had, and I have lost
What I long for yet;
Ah! why will we, to our cost,
Simple joys forget?
River, river, glide along,
Without stop or stay;
Murmur, whisper to my song,
In melodious play:
Whether on a winter’s night
Rise thy swollen floods,
Or in spring thou hast delight,
Watering the young buds.
Happy he, who, hating none,
Leaves the world’s dull noise,
And with trusty friends alone
Quietly enjoys
What, forever unexpressed,
Hid from common sight,
Through the mazes of the breast
Softly steals the night!
Translation of J. S. Dwight. Johann Wolfgang v. Goethe, 1749–1832.