From heaven he asks each loveliest star,
Earth’s chiefest joy must jump to his demand,
And all that’s near, and all that’s far,
Soothes not his deep-moved spirit’s war.
The Lord.
Though for a time he blindly grope his way,
Soon will I lead him into open day;
Well knows the gardener, when green shoots appear,
That bloom and fruit await the ripening year.
Mephistopheles.