Ye Muses, hover round me!Ye Graces also!That is water, that is earth,And the son of water and of earthOver which I wander,Like the gods.。， THESE are the most singular of all the Poems of Goethe, and tomany will appear so wild and fantastic, as to leave anything buta pleasing impression. Those at the beginning, addressed to hisfriend Behrisch, were written at the age of eighteen, and most ofthe remainder were composed while he was still quite young.Despite, however, the extravagance of some of them, such as theWinter Journey over the Hartz Mountains, and the Wanderer'sStorm-Song, nothing can be finer than the noble one entitledMahomet's Song, and others, such as the Spirit Song' over theWaters, The God-like, and, above all, the magnificent sketch ofPrometheus, which forms part of an unfinished piece bearing thesame name, and called by Goethe a 'Dramatic Fragment.'
Ah! upon thy bosomLay I, pining,And then thy flowers, thy grass,Were pressing against my heart.Thou coolest the burningThirst of my bosom,Beauteous morning breeze!The nightingale then calls meSweetly from out of the misty vale.I come, I come!Whither? Ah, whither?。， Alas! how changed!With cold demeanour.