And quiet Weimar, hush'd of look and staid,
As if she knew the passing stranger came,
Drawn to her by the splendour and the fame
Of her two mighty sons, whose dust is laid
Within her bosom side by side. And she
Covers their ashes still with flowers that bind
Mortals to all the high Immortals. He,
Goethe—a sea without one waft of wind;
Schiller—the river yearning for that sea,
High, pure and restless, with an upward mind.
So let her keep their sacred dust. For through
The march of ages as they sweep along,
Will rise the potent voices of these two—
The ocean and the river of her song.