Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Poems

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'TIS easier far a wreath to bind,
Than a good owner fort to find.

I KILL'D a thousand flies overnight,
Yet was waken'd by one, as soon as twas light.

To the mother I give;
For the daughter I live.

A BREACH is every day,

By many a mortal storm'd;
Let them fall in the gaps as they may,

Yet a heap of dead is ne'er form'd.

WHAT harm has thy poor mirror done, alas?
Look not so ugly, prythee, in the glass!

1815.*

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