Читать книгу Der goldene Spiegel - Jakob Wassermann - Страница 4

O thou whose face hath felt the Winter’s wind

Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist

And the black elm-tops ’mong the freezing stars

To thee the Spring will be a harvest time.

O thou, whose only book has been the light

Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on

Night after night when Phoebus was away,

Tho thee the Spring shall be a triple morn,

O fret not after knowledge, I have none,

And yet my songs comes native with the warmth

O fret not after knowledge, I have none

And yet the evening listens.

He who saddens

At thought of idleness cannot be idle,

And he’s awake who thinks himself asleep.

Keats