My words make bright,
An ever open

And blooming mind,
In sport, unsullied,

In earnest, kind.
Though roses and lilies

By Summer are brought,
Against my sweetheart

Prevails he nought.

1816.
-----
AT MIDNIGHT HOUR.

[Goethe relates that a remarkable situation he was in one bright
moonlight night led to the composition of this sweet song, which
was "the dearer to him because he could not say whence it came
and whither it would."]

AT midnight hour I went, not willingly,

A little, little boy, yon churchyard past,
To Father Vicar's house; the stars on high

On all around their beauteous radiance cast,