She Cannot End.

A poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

When unto thee I sent the page all white,

Instead of first thereon inscribing aught,

The space thou doubtless filledst up in sport.
And sent it me, to make my joy grow bright.

As soon as the blue cover met my sight,

As well becomes a woman, quick as thought

I tore it open, leaving hidden nought,
And read the well-known words of pure delight:


How kindly thou my yearning then didst still

With gentle words, enthralling me to thee.

In truth methought I read thy whispers mild

Wherewith thou lovingly my soul didst fill,

E'en to myself for aye ennobling me.

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