Faust

While fresh upon my legs, so long I naught require, Except this knotty staff. Beside, What boots it to abridge a pleasant way? Along the labyrinth of these vales to creep, Then scale these rocks, whence, in eternal spray, Adown the cliffs the silvery fountains leap: Such is the joy that seasons paths like these! Spring weaves already in the birchen trees; E'en the late pine-grove feels her quickening powers; Should she not work within these limbs of ours?