Es nannten ihre Bücher
 Die alten sonst nach Göttern,
 Nach Musen und nach Freunden,
 Doch keiner nach der Liebsten;
  Warum sollt’ ich, Annette,
 Die Du mir Gottheit, Muse,
 Und Freund mir bist, und alles,
 Dieß Buch nicht auch nach Deinem
 Geliebten Nahmen nennen? 
An Annetten
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  From the German by Thomas Carlyle From “Wilhelm Meister” “KNOW’ST thou the land where citron-apples bloom, And oranges like gold in leafy gloom, A gentle wind from deep-blue heaven blows, The myrtle thick, and high the laurel grows? Know’st thou it then? ’T is there! ’T is... 
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  Qui chevauche si tard à travers la nuit et le vent ? 
 C’est le père avec son enfant.
 Il porte l’enfant dans ses bras,
 Il le tient ferme, il le réchauffe.« Mon fils, pourquoi cette peur, pourquoi te cacher ainsi le visage ? 
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