Faust

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The highest right, supreme Humanity, Forfeit so wantonly, to swell your treasure? Whence o'er the heart his empire free?

Joy in Illusion, ardent thirst for Truth. Give, unrestrained, the old emotion, The bliss that touched the verge of pain, The strength of Hate, Love's deep devotion,— O, give me back my youth again!

No true refreshment can restore thee, Save what from thine own soul spontaneous breaks.

Yet in each soul is born the pleasure Of yearning onward, upward and away, When o'er our heads, lost in the vaulted azure, The lark sends down his flickering lay,—

But I was angry with myself, to feel That I could not be angrier with you.

To yield one wholly, and to feel a rapture In yielding, that must be eternal!

There, in a corner pressed and sundered, Itself detaches, spreads and fades. Here gush the sparkles incandescent Like scattered showers of golden sand;— But, see! in all their height, at present, The rocky ramparts blazing stand.

Under the old ribs of the rock retreating, Hold fast, lest thou be hurled down the abysses there! The night with the mist is black; Hark! how the forests grind and crack! Frightened, the owlets are scattered: Hearken! the pillars are shattered. The evergreen palaces shaking! Boughs are groaning and breaking, The tree-trunks terribly thunder, The roots are twisting asunder! In frightfully intricate crashing Each on the other is dashing, And over the wreck-strewn gorges The tempest whistles and surges! Hear'st thou voices higher ringing? Far away, or nearer singing?

My mother have I put to death; I've drowned the baby born to thee. Was it not given to thee and me? Thee, too!—'Tis thou! It scarcely true doth seem— Give me thy hand! 'Tis not a dream! Thy dear, dear hand!—But, ah, 'tis wet! Why, wipe it off! Methinks that yet There's blood thereon.

Judgment of God! myself to thee I give.