Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

My Goddess

SAY, which Immortal Merits the highest reward? With none contend I, But I will give it To the aye-changing, Ever-moving Wondrous daughter of Jove. His best-beloved offspring. Sweet Phantasy. For unto her Hath he granted All the fancies which erst To none allow'd he Saving himself; Now he takes his pleasure In the mad one. She may, crowned with roses, With staff twined round with lilies, Roam thro' flow'ry valleys, Rule the butterfly-people, And soft-nourishing dew With bee-like lips Drink from the blossom: Or else she may With fluttering hair And gloomy looks Sigh in the wind Round rocky cliffs, And thousand-hued. Like morn and even. Ever changing, Like moonbeam's light, To mortals appear. Let us all, then, Adore the Father! The old, the mighty, Who such a beauteous Ne'er-fading spouse Deigns to accord To perishing mortals! To us alone Doth he unite her, With heavenly bonds, While he commands her, in joy and sorrow, As a true spouse Never to fly us. All the remaining Races so poor Of life-teeming earth. In children so rich. Wander and feed In vacant enjoyment, And 'mid the dark sorrows Of evanescent Restricted life,— Bow'd by the heavy Yoke of Necessity. But unto us he Hath his most versatile, Most cherished daughter Granted,—what joy! Lovingly greet her As a beloved one! Give her the woman's Place in our home! And oh, may the aged Stepmother Wisdom Her gentle spirit Ne'er seek to harm! Yet know I her sister, The older, sedater, Mine own silent friend; Oh, may she never, Till life's lamp is quench'd, Turn away from me,— That noble inciter, Comforter,—Hope!