 | Poetical remains |  |
iii
Vainly, too vainly 'gainst the power I strive,
Which, night and day, comes rushing through my soul!
Without that pouring forth of thought and song
My life is life no more!
Wilt thou forbid the silkworm to spin on,
When hourly with the laboured line he draws
Nearer to death?—In vain! the costly web
Must from his inmost being still be wrought,
Till he lies wrapt in his consummate shroud.
Oh! that a gracious God to us may give
The lot of that blest worm!—to spread free wings
And burst exultingly on brighter life,
In a new realm of sunshine!
Translated by F. H. from the Tasso of Goethe.
Which, night and day, comes rushing through my soul!
Without that pouring forth of thought and song
My life is life no more!
Wilt thou forbid the silkworm to spin on,
When hourly with the laboured line he draws
Nearer to death?—In vain! the costly web
Must from his inmost being still be wrought,
Till he lies wrapt in his consummate shroud.
Oh! that a gracious God to us may give
The lot of that blest worm!—to spread free wings
And burst exultingly on brighter life,
In a new realm of sunshine!
Translated by F. H. from the Tasso of Goethe.
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