Locks of brown, still bind your captive
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
In the circle of her face!
I, beloved sinuous tresses,
Naught possess that's worth your grace-
But a heart whose love enduring
Swells in youthful fervor yet:
Snow and mists envelop Etna,
Making men the fire forget.
Yonder mountain's pride so stately
Thou dost shame like dawn's red glow;
And its spell once more bids Hatem
Thrill of spring and summer know.
Once more fill the glass, the flagon!
Let me drink to my desire.
If she find a heap of ashes,
Say, 'He perished in her fire!'