Читать книгу The Greatest German Classics (Vol. 1-14) - Various - Страница 915

Poor Son of Earth, without my aid,

How would thy weary days have flown?

Thee of thy foolish whims I've cured,

Thy vain imaginations banished.

And but for me, be well assured,

Thou from this sphere must soon have vanished.

In rocky hollows and in caverns drear,

Why like an owl sit moping here?

Wherefore from dripping stones and moss with ooze embued,

Dost suck, like any toad, thy food?

A rare, sweet pastime. Verily!

The doctor cleaveth still to thee.