"From my grave to wander I am forc'd Still to seek The God's long-sever'd link, Still to love the bridegroom I have lost, And the life-blood of his heart to drink; When his race is run, I must hasten on, And the young must 'neath my vengeance sink. "Beauteous youth! no longer mayst thou live; Here must shrivel up thy form so fair; Did not tI to thee a token give. Taking in return this lock of hair? View it to thy sorrow! Grey thou'lt be to-morrow, Only to grow brown again when there." "Mother, to this final prayer give ear! Let a funeral pile be straightway dress'd; Open then my cell so sad and drear, That the flames may give the lovers rest! When ascends the fire From the glowing pyre, To the gods of old we'll hasten, blest."
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - 1749-1832
To break one's word is pleasure–fraught, To do one's duty gives a smart; While man, alas! will promise nought, That is repugnant to his heart. Using some magic strains of yore, Thou lurest him, when scarcely calm, On to sweet folly's fragile bark once more, Renewing, doubling chance of harm. Why seek to hide thyself from me? Fly not my sight—be open then! Known late or early it must be, And here thou hast thy word again. My duty is fulfill'd to–day, No longer will I guard thee from surprise; But, oh, forgive the friend who from thee turns away, And to himself for refuge flies!