Go, let the diving Negro seek 



For gems hid in some forlorn creek : 



We all pearls scorn, 



Save what the dewy morn 

 Congeals upon each little spire of grass, 

 Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass ; 



And gold ne'er here appears, 



Save what the yellow Ceres bears. 



SIR HENRY WOOTTON. 



Das Wasser rauscht, das Wasser schwoll ; 



Ein Fischer sass daran, 

 Sah nach dem Angel ruhevoll, 



Kuril bis an 's Herz hinan. 



GOETHE. 



