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Poems of Goethe

THESE tufted branches fair

Observe, my loved one, well!
And see the fruits they bear

In green and prickly shell!

They've hung roll'd up, till now,

Unconsciously and still;
A loosely-waving bough

Doth rock them at its will.

Yet, ripening from within.

The kernel brown swells fast;
It seeks the air to win,

It seeks the sun at last.

With joy it bursts its thrall,

The shell must needs give way.
'Tis thus my numbers fall

Before thy feet, each day.

                                1815.