Flowers

The bed, already loosened

Get up in the air,

There waver bells

As white as snow;

Saffron unfolds

Violent embers,

emeralds it germinates

And germinates like blood.

Primroses strut

So snooty,

Mischievous violets,

Hidden with diligence;

Whatever else

There it stirs and weaves,

Enough, spring,

It works and lives.

But what in the garden

Flowers are the richest,

This is the sweetheart’s

Lovely mind.

There are glowing looks

To me always,

Exciting little song,

Exhilarating word;

One always open,

A flower heart,

Seriously friendly

And purely in jest.

When Ros’ and Lily

The summer brings,

He but in vain

Wrestling with sweetheart.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, 1749-1832