An seine Spröde

     Siehst du die Pomeranze?
Noch hängt sie an dem Baume,
Schon ist der März verflossen,
Und neue Blüthen kommen,
Ich trete zu dem Baume
Und sage: Pomeranze,
Du reife Pomeranze,
Du süße Pomeranze,
Ich schüttle, fühl’, ich schüttle,
O fall' in meinen Schooß!

Collection: 
1789

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