Outside of the Gate by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

With this grandiose poem from his magnum opus "Faust", Johann Wolfgang von Goethe proves pictorially why he is one of the greatest German poets. The special thing about Goethe's poem "Easter Walk" is certainly its eternal validity. Because it is always true: Doctor Faust can go for a walk in the hills above the city every year on Easter Sunday and he will see the same thing every year: An awakening nature. Sunshine, blossoming greenery and cheerfully walking people. Dr. Faust, who can speak so enthusiastically about the beginning of spring, probably captured this magical moment best in his poetry - according to common reading.
In addition to his poetic works, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe also excelled in art theory and, knowing Leonardo da Vinci's "Treatise on Painting," attempted to develop his own theory of color.

The famous painting Goethe in the Campagna testifies to his enthusiasm for painting. The index finger of Goethe's right hand, which almost jokingly refers to the missing right leg, points to the fact that Goethe has two left feet painted here. Through this irritation, the painting gained a certain attention. Possibly, however, it is also a faulty image composition of the painter Tischbein.

Goethe in der Campagna, Johann Heinrich Wilhelm Tischbein

Goethe in the Campagna
Johann Heinrich Wilhelm Tischbein, 1787
Oil on canvas, 206 × 164cm
Städel Museum, Frankfurt am Main

Faust, Part I

Outside of the Gate, 1808, by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Rivers and streams are freed from ice
By Spring’s sweet enlivening glance.
Valleys, green with Hope’s happiness, dance:
Old Winter, in his weakness, sighs,
Withdrawing to the harsh mountains.
From there, retreating, he sends down
Impotent showers of hail that show
In stripes across the quickening ground.
But the sun allows nothing white below,
Change and growth are everywhere,
He enlivens all with his colours there,
And lacking flowers of the fields outspread,
He takes these gaudy people instead.
Turn round, and from this mountain height,
Look down, where the town’s in sight.
That cavernous, dark gate,
The colourful crowd penetrate,
All will take the sun today,
The Risen Lord they’ll celebrate,
And feel they are resurrected,
From low houses, dully made,
From work, where they’re constricted,
From the roofs’ and gables’ weight,
From the crush of narrow streets,
From the churches’ solemn night
They’re all brought to the light.
Look now: see! The crowds, their feet
Crushing the gardens and meadows,
While on the river a cheerful fleet
Of little boats everywhere it flows.
And over-laden, ready to sink,
The last barge takes to the stream.
From far off on the mountain’s brink,
All the bright clothing gleams.
I hear the noise from the village risen,
Here is the people’s true Heaven,
High and low shout happily:
Here I am Man: here, dare to be!