Читать книгу The Greatest German Classics (Vol. 1-14) - Various - Страница 364

Oh of the motley throng speak not before me,

At whose aspect the Spirit wings its flight!

Conceal the surging concourse, I implore thee,

Whose vortex draws us with resistless might.

No, to some peaceful heavenly nook restore me,

Where only for the bard blooms pure delight,

Where love and friendship yield their choicest blessing,

Our heart's true bliss, with godlike hand caressing.

What in the spirit's depths was there created,

What shyly there the lip shaped forth in sound;

A failure now, with words now fitly mated,

In the wild tumult of the hour is drown'd;

Full oft the poet's thought for years hath waited

Until at length with perfect form 'tis crowned;

What dazzles, for the moment born, must perish;

What genuine is posterity will cherish.