Читать книгу The Poems of Schiller — Suppressed poems - Фридрих Шиллер, Friedrich von Schiller - Страница 5

   Her likeness Madame Ramler bids me find;

    I try to think in vain, to whom or how

   Beneath the moon there's nothing of the kind. —

    I'll show she's like the moon, I vow!

   The moon — she rouges, steals the sun's bright light,

    By eating stolen bread her living gets, —

   Is also wont to paint her cheeks at night,

    While, with untiring ardor, she coquets.

   The moon — for this may Herod give her thanks! —

    Reserves her best till night may have returned;

   Our lady swallows up by day the francs

    That she at night-time may have earned.

   The moon first swells, and then is once more lean,

    As surely as the month comes round;

   With Madame Ramler 'tis the same, I ween —

    But she to need more time is found!

   The moon to love her silver-horns is said,

    But makes a sorry show;

   She likes them on her husband's head, —

    She's right to have it so