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Full Online Book HomePoemsGod, Soul, And World - Procemion
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God, Soul, And World - Procemion Post by :Turboface Category :Poems Author :Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe Date :July 2011 Read :1200

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God, Soul, And World - Procemion


IN His blest name, who was His own creation,
Who from all time makes making his vocation;
The name of Him who makes our faith so bright,
Love, confidence, activity, and might;
In that One's name, who, named though oft He be,
Unknown is ever in Reality:
As far as ear can reach, or eyesight dim,
Thou findest but the known resembling Him;
How high so'er thy fiery spirit hovers,
Its simile and type it straight discovers
Onward thou'rt drawn, with feelings light and gay,
Where'er thou goest, smiling is the way;
No more thou numbrest, reckonest no time,
Each step is infinite, each step sublime.


WHAT God would outwardly alone control,
And on his finger whirl the mighty Whole?
He loves the inner world to move, to view
Nature in Him, Himself in Nature too,
So that what in Him works, and is, and lives,
The measure of His strength, His spirit gives.


WITHIN us all a universe doth dwell;
And hence each people's usage laudable,
That ev'ry one the Best that meets his eyes
As God, yea e'en his God, doth recognise;
To Him both earth and heaven surrenders he,
Fears Him, and loves Him too, if that may be.


Content of Procemion (Johann Wolfgang von Goethe's poem collection: God, Soul, and World)

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Sic Semper Liberatoribus! Sic Semper Liberatoribus!

Sic Semper Liberatoribus!
March 13, 1881. As one who feels the breathless nightmare grip His heart-strings, and through visioned horrors fares, Now on a thin-ledged chasm's rock-crumbling lip, Now on a tottering pinnacle that dare The front of heaven, while always unawares Weird monsters start above, around, beneath, Each glaring from some uglier mask of death, So the White Czar imperial progress made Through terror-haunted days. A

Agamemnon's Tomb Agamemnon's Tomb

Agamemnon's Tomb
Uplift the ponderous, golden mask of death, And let the sun shine on him as it did How many thousand years agone! Beneath This worm-defying, uncorrupted lid, Behold the young, heroic face, round-eyed, Of one who in his full-flowered manhood died; Of nobler frame than creatures of to-day, Swathed in fine linen cerecloths fold on fold, With carven weapons wrought of bronze