The Christmas-Box.

A poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

This box, mine own sweet darling, thou wilt find

With many a varied sweetmeat's form supplied;

The fruits are they of holy Christmas tide,
But baked indeed, for children's use design'd.

I'd fain, in speeches sweet with skill combin'd,

Poetic sweetmeats for the feast provide;

But why in such frivolities confide?
Perish the thought, with flattery to blind!

One sweet thing there is still, that from within,

Within us speaks, that may be felt afar;

This may be wafted o'er to thee alone.

If thou a recollection fond canst win,

As if with pleasure gleam'd each well-known star,

The smallest gift thou never wilt disown.

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