Frühe Gedichte -- Ganymede -- Ganymede

    Ganymede

Like the rising sun, my beloved spring,  

you make all the world glow.  With thousand fold

the joy of love, you press your warmth

against my heart. A sacred touch your beauty only

knows.

Oh, that I could hold you in these arms.

Across your breast I stretch myself,

and your flowers, your brush, you push into my heart.

Your soft wind cools the burning of my chest,

as the nightingale calls me from the misted valley.  

Love, I am coming.

I am coming, Love, but to where?

Up, look above!

It floats the clouds

into the valley – the clouds bow, longingly, to love!

Take me, take me in your arms,

wrap me tightly in your weeds,

O all loving mother, I am yours.

Die ersten Weimarer Jahre -- Nachtgedanken -- Night Thoughts

    Night thoughts

I pity you, unlucky stars,

that with such beauty you shine,

leading ships through perilous seas

while keeping no duty to god nor man.

Such beauty you will never love.  You cannot know love.

Hours over eons spent spreading

your light through the vast heavens--

such a journey, just to end here:

Me, lingering in the arms of my beloved,

forgetting both of you and of midnight.

"Klassik" -- from Zur Farbenlehre -- Of the Sun

   Of the Sun

The eyes, as they cannot possess it,

see the sun, and so its beauty;

Yet,

if in us lies no air of godly things,

how then could they stir in us their pleasures?

Die ersten Weimarer Jahre -- Wandrers Nachtlied -- Wanderer's Night Song

  Wanderer’s Night Song

You, who are of heaven,

who stills both pain and sorrow –

You, who fills the wretched

with such pleasures doubled:

I would that this strife might cease.

What pain, and what desire;

Come, sweet peace

come at last into my breast.

Unbekannt -- Die Freude -- Joy

    Joy

It flitters o’re the spring,

the dragonfly of silver,

And gives the light to change

and pleases me to singing.

First black, then white,

chameleon entrancing,

first white, then red

then red, then green, forever changing.

Oh that I held its many colors,

but it so constant flutters,

hovers steady o’re the spring.

But there it rests!  There, in the reeds!

At last, I have it!  At last I see!  

And so I cup my shaking palms and peer

and see exact: a deep sad blue.

So it is for you, dissector of your pleasures.

Frühe Gedichte -- Heidenröslein -- Rose of Morning’s Bed

    Rose of Morning’s Bed

Saw a boy a little rose

fresh as morning dew.

Quick he ran to see it close,

to see it shine, this lovely rose

among the wild shoots.

Rose, oh rose, oh little rose red,

little rose of morning’s bed.

Said the boy, “I’ll pinch you off,

rose of wild flowers.”

Said the rose, “I’ll prick your hands

with wild thorns and you will yield,

and you alone will suffer.”

Rose, oh rose, oh little rose red,

little rose of morning’s bed.

And still the boy broke the rose,

morning’s wild rose,

for no pain would stop him.

And for this he suffered eternal,

and so suffered too, the rose.

Rose, oh rose, oh little rose red,

little rose of morning’s wild bed.

Frühe Gedichte -- Der Neue Amadis -- The New Amadis

    The New Amadis

When I was just a little boy

they locked me up.

And so I sat for many years

alone in a room,

as though inside my mother’s womb.

How you were my play, my pastime,

golden fantasy.

And, oh, how I was a hero,

like dear Prince Arthur,

and traveled cross all the world.

I built crystal palaces,

and sundered just the same,

and with heavens thundering spear

I slayed the dragon.

How truly a man I was!

And as this knight, I freed

the princess Fisch,

for which she was certainly obligeant.

She led me to  her table

me! the gallant knight!

And her kiss was bread from God

that glowed like wine.

Oh! how I nearly loved to death

a golden statue

forged of iron bars and the sun!

Now who is it that has torn her from my arms?

Was there no magic holding her from such flight?

Pray tell.  Where has she gone?

Tell! How’s the way there?

Die ersten Weimarer Jahre -- An Luna -- To the Moon

    To the Moon

Sister of the morning’s light,

image of tenderness in sorrow,

this silver mist of radiance

let your brilliance borrow.

Your silent foot-fall through the night,

brings out from caves of pagan rights  

sweet birds that gladly turn from light

and me, souls fated as forsaken.

The future sees your piercing gaze,

and piercing sees a great many things.

So sweet Luna help me, lift me to

your side! Give the raptured this one mercy:

Through the eye of the world’s peace, thread

this noble knight, unstitch the quilt of fog

and drag me to a brighter light, to you.

And you the blessing of sweet vision

bestow on me to ease the pain of distance.

So swift you raise me up above the robing mist!

Oh how her naked love appears behind

the garden’s limbs!  Yes, soon she’ll pull me to her,

as once, long ago, sweet Endymion did you.

Frühe Gedichte -- Brautnacht -- Wedding Night

     Wedding Night

Love trembles in the room far from the feast.
What if the raucous of the guests
should echo through the halls
and break the peace of the bridal bed?

His candles with pale gold flames
swirl incense to heaven
so the married might enjoy their sacred pleasure.

How their hearts beat the time of the hours
until each guest disappears.
How their lips quiver with anticipation
as each lip burns for the other.
They soar, with all the world to celebrate,
and enter the sanctuary together.

His flames of waxen little palms
will light this coming night – still, and small.

Frühe Gedichte -- Wechsel -- Change

     Change

So light, he lie on the stream’s smoothed pebbles;
The waves spread their arms around him;
Openly press themselves to his body;
All the world seeps from his body;
He and the waves are one;
So feels he the joy of changing moments.

And yet, and sadly so, he drags the precious
hours of this fugitive life for nothing
if he forget each lovely little blessing.

Bring back those lost memories;

So sweet, the kiss of the second
wet by the lips of the first.

Frühe Gedichte -- Scheintod -- At the Grave

     At the Grave

Weep, my love, here by Love’s grave; here
where the hint of nothing felled the nest of Love.
My love, believe it not dead.
Often, that same hint will bring the nest to stir again.