The Poetry Corner

Margaret, Placing Fresh Flowers In The Flower-Pots.

By Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

O thou well-tried in grief, Grant to thy child relief, And view with mercy this unhappy one! The sword within thy heart, Speechless with bitter smart, Thou Lookest up towards thy dying son. Thou look'st to God on high, And breathest many a sigh O'er his and thy distress, thou holy One! Who e'er can know The depth of woe Piercing my very bone? The sorrows that my bosom fill, Its trembling, its aye-yearning will, Are known to thee, to thee alone! Wherever I may go, With woe, with woe, with woe, My bosom sad is aching! I scarce alone can creep, I weep, I weep, I weep, My very heart is breaking. The flowers at my window My falling tears bedewed, When I, at dawn of morning, For thee these flow'rets strewed. When early to my chamber The cheerful sunbeams stole, I sat upon my pallet, In agony of soul. Help! rescue me from death and misery! Oh, thou well-tried in grief, Grant to thy child relief, And view with mercy my deep agony!