Frühe Gedichte -- Mahomets Gesang -- Mahomet's Song

Mahomet's Song

See the mountain spring

glisten like a sweet star,

so joyous and clear;

Kindly spirits nourished his youth

in thickets between the cliffs

above the clouds.

Now, like a fresh blade

he swings from out the clouds

to kiss the marble rocks,

and shouts for joy

at their rough touch,

then leaps on back to heaven.

Through the mountain passes

he dallies after colorful pebbles,

round and round a trickle of cold pebbles,

till quick then, he surges as a leader

and tears his brother springs away with him.

And the forests wake around his tracks,

though he stops for no valley’s shadow.

And the flowers burst from out his steps,

though no fragrance clings for long to his knees.

To the meadows he coils!

Like a flowing snake.

Streams nestle to his side

as he enters the silver plains

that gather his resplendent splendor

and with his glory blaze.

And the rivers of the plains,

and the streams of the mountains

join with him and call: Brother!

brother, take your brothers with you.

With you to our ancient father,

to the eternal ocean,

who with open arms

waits for us.

Arms which, which open in vain

to carry us who long for him.

For here, here the barren desert sands

consume us.  The sun above us

drinks our very blood.  A hill might form

beside us, and draw us into ponds oh Brother!

Take your brothers from the plains,

take your brothers from the mountains,

take your brothers all, take us to our father.

So join with me all!

And so he swells

magnificent.  A thousand beings

as one, they bear the prince aloft.

And in a rolling triumph, he gives

names to all the lands.  Births cities

in his fertile tracks.

Unrelenting, he rushes on, past

castles tipped with soaring flames,

past mansions shaped of marble, creations

his abundance left behind him.

Cedar houses bears this Atlas

on his shoulders, and snapping

proudly above his head, a thousand

flags dart through the air

testifying to his glory.

And so he bears his brothers,

his treasures, his children,

in a wave of surging joy pressed

against his mighty heart, to their waiting father.

Frühe Gedichte -- Wanderers Sturmlied -- Wanderer's Storm Song

    Wanderer's Storm Song

He whom you do not forsake, Spirit,

not the rain, nor the storm

shall breath shivers o're his heart.

Spirit, he whom you do not forsake

shall to the raincloud,

shall to the hailstorm

sing against,

like the lark,

you, lark, there.

That one you do not forsake, Spirit,

you shall lift above the muddied path

with wings of fire.

He will walk

as with feet of flowers

over Deucalion's devouring flood,

slaying Python, weightless, enormous,

A Pythian Apollo.

That one you do not forsake, Spirit,

you shall wollen wings spread beneath.

When he sleeps on the high cliffs,

you shall wrap him in the guarded pinions

of midnight's thicket.

He whom you do not forsake, Spirit,

you shall in snow flurries

envelope warmly;

To warmth the Muses come,

to warmth come the Graces.

Float round me, Muses,

Graces.

This is water, this the Earth,

and the son of water and the Earth,

over which I walk,

as though a God.

You are pure, like the heart of water,

you are pure, like the pulp of Earth,

you float round me, and I float

over water, over Earth,

as though a God.

Should he return,

the small, blackened, fiery farmer?

Should he return expecting

only your gifts, Father Bromius?

And your bright fire's warmth all around?

The heroic return?

And I, with whom you consort,

Muses and Graces all,

who expect all, that you,

Muses and Graces,

wreathing bliss,

ringing glory around life,

should I return despondent?

Father Bromius!

You are the spirit,

the spirit of the century,

are what the heart’s glow

was to Pindar,

what to the world

Phoebus Apollo is.

Pain! Oh pain!  Innermost warmth!

Soul-warmth,

middle-point!

Glow toward

Phoebus Apollo;

Lest his princely gaze

glide coldly over you,

envy stricken,

to linger on the cedar's art,

that it greens

waiting not for him.

Why does my song name you last?

You from whom it began,

you in whom it ends,

you from whom it pours,

Jupiter Pluvius!

You, from you my song pours forth,

and this Castalian spring

runs like a stream,

a stream for idle wanderer’s,

those mortally blessed,

away from you,

while you shelter me,

Jupiter Pluvius.

Not by the elm tree

have you visited him,

with the dove pair

on his tender arm,

with the friendly rose wreathed,

dallying him with blesséd flowers,

Anacreon,

storm breathing Deity.

Not in the poppy forests

of the Sybaris beach,

not on the sun-glanced brow

of the mountains,

you do not hold him,

the flower-singing,

honey-babbling,

friendly calling,

Theocritus.

When the spokes rattled,

wheel over wheel quick to the finish,

high flew

victory through

the whipcrack of the

annealed youth.

And dust churned

like pebbles storming

to the valley from the mountain.

Did your soul glow against peril, Pindar?

Courage – did it glow?

Poor heart!

There on the mountain,

Heavenly maker,

only so little glow

there, within my cabin,

to guide me home.

Frühe Gedichte -- Willkommen und Abschied -- Welcome and Farewell

    Welcome and Farewell

It stole my heart swift as a horse!  Away!

Yet done with faster than thought.

The night swayed with the Earth

and from the mountains hung the night.

The old oak stood in a robe of fog,

a towering giant where darkness from the thicket

with a hundred black eyes called.

The moon from out a hill of clouds

glimmered sorrowful through the mist.

The wind fluttered with silent wings

whistling eerily past my ears.

The night made a thousand beasts,

yet fresh and joyous was my blood:

In my veins, what burning fire!

In my heart, what warming glow.

I saw you and that mild joy

flowed from your sweet image over me;

wholly was my heart with you

and my every breath for you.

Spring's rose-colored blush

enwrapped your vision fair,

and tenderness for me--oh Gods!

I hoped it, yet deserved no care.

Alas, with the morning sun

came the shrinking of my heart, farewell:

In your kisses, what pleasant bliss,

but in your eyes, such hopeless pain.

I left you planted in the Earth,

watching me with wetted eyes.

And yet, what rapture, to be loved.

And to love, Gods! what joys.

"Klassik" -- An Den Mond -- To the Moon

And I am now out of coffee, but all caught up. See you tomorrow.     To the Moon

Flooding with a quiet mist,

from bush to the valley's river,

at last unloose my wandering soul

to whispers glowing silver.

Spread your light across the fields

in quiet bliss, send the grace  

of an old friend's mild eyes  

to drift beside my fate.

The echoes of my beating heart

haunt me with both joy

and pain: so goes the weight of time

with solitude's rough noise .

Flow, dearest river, flow,

Pleasure's never coming,

and so with merry play and kisses,

and with faith admiring.

Long ago, I held it all–

that precious kiss.  Such pain,

yet gladly does the water fall

never to forget.

River, rush along the valley

free from rest and calm.

Rush, and whisper melodies

for my moonlit song.

Music of the winter’s night

when you drown your banks,

Or springtime's joyous opera

with buds on every colored branch.

Blessed is he who without hate

unlocks himself before

the world.  Blessed is he who has the heart

to stop thought and savor

what man does not know, or does not consider:

And blessed be he who,

through the labyrinth of the soul,

wanders in the night.