< The Works of J. W. von Goethe < Volume 9
For works with similar titles, see The Misanthrope.
THE MISANTHROPE.
At first awhile sits he,
With calm, unruffled brow;
His features then I see,
Distorted hideously,—
An owl's they might be now.
What is it, asketh thou?
Is't love, or is't ennui?
'Tis both at once, I vow.
Late resounds the early strain;
Weal and woe in song remain.
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