O Lord, help me to be pure, but not yet.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Here where the roses blossom, where vines round the laurels are
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.