His
presence
stirs my blood, I own.
Faust, a Tragedy by Goethe
All hearts, too, in all places,
Wherever Heaven pours down the day's broad blessing,
Each in its way the truth is confessing;
And why not I in mine, too?
_Margaret_. Well, all have a way that they incline to,
But still there is something wrong with thee;
Thou hast no Christianity.
_Faust_. Dear child!
_Margaret_. It long has troubled me
That thou shouldst keep such company.
_Faust_. How so?
_Margaret_. The man whom thou for crony hast,
Is one whom I with all my soul detest.
Nothing in all my life has ever
Stirred up in my heart such a deep disfavor
As the ugly face that man has got.
_Faust_. Sweet plaything; fear him not!
_Margaret_.
His presence stirs my blood, I own.
I can love almost all men I've ever known;
But much as thy presence with pleasure thrills me,
That man with a secret horror fills me.
And then for a knave I've suspected him long!
God pardon me, if I do him wrong!
_Faust_. To make up a world such odd sticks are needed.
_Margaret_. Shouldn't like to live in the house where he did!
Whenever I see him coming in,
He always wears such a mocking grin.
Half cold, half grim;
One sees, that naught has interest for him;
'Tis writ on his brow and can't be mistaken,
No soul in him can love awaken.
I feel in thy arms so happy, so free,
I yield myself up so blissfully,
He comes, and all in me is closed and frozen now.
_Faust_. Ah, thou mistrustful angel, thou!
_Margaret_. This weighs on me so sore,
That when we meet, and he is by me,
I feel, as if I loved thee now no more.
Nor could I ever pray, if he were nigh me,
That eats the very heart in me;
Henry, it must be so with thee.
Wherever Heaven pours down the day's broad blessing,
Each in its way the truth is confessing;
And why not I in mine, too?
_Margaret_. Well, all have a way that they incline to,
But still there is something wrong with thee;
Thou hast no Christianity.
_Faust_. Dear child!
_Margaret_. It long has troubled me
That thou shouldst keep such company.
_Faust_. How so?
_Margaret_. The man whom thou for crony hast,
Is one whom I with all my soul detest.
Nothing in all my life has ever
Stirred up in my heart such a deep disfavor
As the ugly face that man has got.
_Faust_. Sweet plaything; fear him not!
_Margaret_.
His presence stirs my blood, I own.
I can love almost all men I've ever known;
But much as thy presence with pleasure thrills me,
That man with a secret horror fills me.
And then for a knave I've suspected him long!
God pardon me, if I do him wrong!
_Faust_. To make up a world such odd sticks are needed.
_Margaret_. Shouldn't like to live in the house where he did!
Whenever I see him coming in,
He always wears such a mocking grin.
Half cold, half grim;
One sees, that naught has interest for him;
'Tis writ on his brow and can't be mistaken,
No soul in him can love awaken.
I feel in thy arms so happy, so free,
I yield myself up so blissfully,
He comes, and all in me is closed and frozen now.
_Faust_. Ah, thou mistrustful angel, thou!
_Margaret_. This weighs on me so sore,
That when we meet, and he is by me,
I feel, as if I loved thee now no more.
Nor could I ever pray, if he were nigh me,
That eats the very heart in me;
Henry, it must be so with thee.
