Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LILI'S PARK, by JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LILI'S PARK, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: There's no menagerie, I trow
Last Line: I must be free! Myself will force my freeing!
Subject(s): Gardens & Gardening; Love - Loss Of; Pain; Suffering; Misery


THERE'S no menagerie, I trow,
So varied as my Lili's now.
The strangest beasts she keeps therein, --
Heaven knows how she procured them all!
The wild, the tame, the thick, the thin,
The great, the middling, and the small.
O how they strut and swagger madly,
And flap their close-clipp'd wings in vain!
Poor princes, metamorphosed sadly,
And doom'd to love's eternal pain.

Who the fairy? who the Circe?
Is it Lili? -- ask not me;
But be thankful for the mercy,
If she is not known to thee!
What a gabbling, what a squeaking!
At the door she takes her stand,
With the basket in her hand;
Then the herd comes wildly shrieking!
Trees and bushes, they are bending
With the weight of songsters sweet;
Larger creatures, hither wending,
Roll and grovel at her feet.
Such devotion! 'tis amazing!
Saw ye ever such a rout?
E'en the fishes in the basin,
Bob their stupid noses out!
Then her daily dole she scatters,
With a look, that might ensnare
Jove or Hermes, were they there.
Bent on less terrestrial matters.
What a gaping! what a biting!
What a wrestling! what a fighting!
What a coil with teeth and claws!
What a fight with bill and paws!
What a tumbling, thronging, snatching,
Each at other fiercely catching!
What a chasing, and a racing,
For the crumbs so loosely shed!
Ah! Enchantress Lili, placing
But her hand upon the bread,
Gives it an ambrosial flavour,
Steeps it in celestial savour!

O, but her look! O, but her tone!
'Pipi! Pipi!' you hear her crying;
And Jove's own eagle, from his throne,
Would come before her, gently flying;
The turtle-doves of Aphrodite,
Would answer gladly to her call;
And Juno's peacocks, not too flighty,
Would stoop from the Olympian hall
They could not help it, sage or silly,
If once they heard the voice of Lili!

And what has this enchantress done?
A great wild bear, unlick'd and rude,
She lured from out his native wood,
And made him move in unison
With other beasts that tamer be,
(Up to a certain point, d'ye see?)
For slightly savage still was he!
Alas! how gracious and how good
Seem'd then to me that gentle warden!
She might have ask'd me for my blood,
To nurture flowers within her garden.

'Ask'd you? Pray, sir, explain your riddle!'
In brief, 'tis I that am the bear;
Not prone to dance to every fiddle,
But surely tangled in a snare.
An apron-net was strong enough
To make my capture quite complete;
A silken thread has brought the rough
Half-savage Bruin to her feet.
The story I may tell hereafter --
To-day, I'm not disposed for laughter.

Well! I am standing, rather sulky,
Within a corner; hear the screeching,
And all the manifold beseeching,
Of creatures that are not so bulky.
I turn me round; a growl I utter,
Then move as if to go away.
I cannot; so again I mutter,
And in despite of self must stay.
Suddenly a fit of passion
Comes upon me; wild I grow,
And I hurry to and fro,
Snorting in most bear-like fashion!
'What! be treated like a hare?
Made a fool of, and a noodle?
Like the wretched squirrel there,
Or that meanest beast, her poodle!'
Rise the bristles on my back --
'No! a slave I will not be!'
And I fly; but in my track,
Every bush and every tree,
Upstarts, seem to scoff at me!
O'er the bowling-green I scour,
Slipping on the close-mown grass,
And a box-tree near the bower
Grins derision as I pass!
Crashing thro' the deepest thicket,
Now I try to leap the pale,
Since I cannot ope the wicket:
Woe is me! alas, I fail!
I can neither climb nor vault;
Magic brings me to a halt;
Magic weighs me down like lead.
So, with aching limbs and head,
Plod I to a quiet glade,
Where a miniature cascade,
Fashion'd by some artist's cunning,
Over shells and stones is running.
There I roll, and pant, and blow,
Whine and whimper in my pain;
With rare audience for my woe --
Oreads of porcelain!

Ah, what sound, what voice divine,
Comes upon my senses stealing,
With a strain so rich and fine,
Calming every tortured feeling?
O, the bliss that music bringeth,
Lili in her arbour singeth!

'O matchless voice for ever dear!
The very air grows warm around!
Ah, does she sing that I may hear?'
And, quite distracted by the sound,
I trample down the shrubs and flowers,
I burst into her loved retreat --
Be gracious, O ye heavenly powers;
For lo -- the bear is at her feet!

'Well! you are the drollest creature!
Quite a monster with that hair;
Shagged, ragged, grim in feature,
Yet so gentle for a bear.'
With her foot my back caressing,
Me she sends to Paradise!
Never felt I such a blessing --
O that heavenly, heavenly pressing!
But there's calm within her eyes.
I kiss her shoes, I lick their sole,
As courteous as a bear may be,
And then, entranced beyond control,
I lay my head upon her knee.
She lets me do it: nay, she tickles
My ear in very sportive mood;
I feel as if a thousand prickles
Were running thro' my flesh and blood!
In ecstasy I try to purr,
Perhaps it had been wiser not;
For my attempt extorts from her --
'Allons tout doux! eh la menotte!
Et faites serviteur,
Comme un joli Seigneur.'

So never does she cease her funning;
The poor fond beast, so oft betray'd,
Yet plumes himself upon his cunning,
And thinks that he has pleased the maid.
His abject homage was regarded;
Drop that, and he's at once discarded.

But O, she is a witch indeed!
She carries still a vial precious,
Fill'd with a balsam so delicious,
As shames the draught of Ganymede.
One drop of that, upon my tongue,
She placed with her enchanting finger,
Then forthwith from the arbour sprung;
I could not stay, I could not linger!

I still must follow in her train,
I seek, I tremble, turn again,
But will I have not of my own.
Sometimes I thought I might have flown;
But aye she stands beside the door;
She holds it open, trips before,
But gives me such a witching smile,
That, tho' I know her wonted wile,
I cannot leave her all the while!

Ye gods, of whom the ancients tell!
Witchcraft by you was always hated;
You might relieve me from this spell,
But you are dotards, or translated.
The rage for freedom stirs throughout my being:
I must be free! Myself will force my freeing!





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