Читать книгу The Greatest German Classics (Vol. 1-14) - Various - Страница 528

What, sorry Devil, hast thou to bestow?

Was ever mortal spirit, in its high endeavor,

Fathom'd by Being such as thou?

Yet food thou least which satisfieth never;

Hast ruddy gold, that still doth flow

Like restless quicksilver away;

A game thou hast, at which none win who play—

A girl who would, with amorous eyen,

E'en from my breast a neighbor snare,

Lofty ambition's joy divine,

That, meteor-like, dissolves in air.

Show me the fruit that, ere 'tis pluck'd, doth rot,

And trees, whose verdure daily buds anew!