Anacreon's Grave by Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

HERE where the roses blossom, where vines round the laurels are twining,

Where the turtle-dove calls, where the blithe cricket is heard, Say, whose grave can this be, with life by all the Immortals

Beauteously planted and deck'd? -- Here doth Anacreon sleep Spring and summer and autumn rejoiced the thrice-happy minstrel,

And from the winter this mound kindly hath screen'd him at last.