Dowsing-Rod
Wünschelrute
Joseph von Eichendorff (1788-1857)
Wünschelrute
Schläft ein Lied in allen Dingen,
Die da träumen fort und fort,
Und die Welt hebt an zu singen,
Triffst du nur das Zauberwort.
Dowsing-Rod
There’s a song in everything,
sleeping things that dream and dream.
Make the world strike up and sing!
Simply say the magic meme.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Joseph von Eichendorff...
The Night Flower
Die Nachtblume
Joseph von Eichendorff (1788-1857)
Die Nachtblume
Nacht ist wie ein stilles Meer,
Lust und Leid und Liebesklagen
Kommen so verworren her
In dem linden Wellenschlagen.
Wünsche wie die Wolken sind,
Schiffen durch die stillen Räume,
Wer erkennt im lauen Wind,
Ob’s Gedanken oder Träume?
Schließ ich nun auch Herz und Mund,
Die so gern den Sternen klagen;
Leise doch im Herzensgrund
Bleibt das linde Wellenschlagen.
The Night Flower
Night is like a silent sea,
Joys and pains and plaints of love
Coming so confusedly
On the gently breaking wave.
Each desire is like a cloud,
Sailing through the silent realms.
Who can tell, as winds blow mild,
Are ye thoughts? or are ye dreams?
Lips and heart at last I close,
Plaintive to the stars above;
In my heart in deep repose
Bides the gently breaking wave.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Joseph von Eichendorff...
Shepherd’s Sunday Song
Schäfers Sonntagslied
Ludwig Uhland (1787-1862)
Schäfers Sonntagslied
Das ist der Tag des Herrn!
Ich bin allein auf weiter Flur;
Noch eine Morgenglocke nur
Nun Stille nah und fern.
Anbetend knie' ich hier.
O süßes Graun, geheimes Wehn,
Als knieten viele ungesehn
Und beteten mit mir!
Der Himmel nah und fern,
Er ist so klar und feierlich,
So ganz, als wollt' er öffnen sich.
Das ist der Tag des Herrn!
Shepherd’s Sunday Song
On this day of the Lord
Alone in open field
The final morning-bell has pealed
Now silence far and near.
I kneel in worship here
Sweet dawn and breezes mild!
As if unseen companions kneeled
And joined with me in prayer.
Heaven is far and near
So festive and so clear
As if its gates might be unbarred
On this day of the Lord!
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Ludwig Uhland...
Love
Liebe
Justinus Kerner (1786-1862)
Liebe
Wenn ein Liebes dir der Tod
aus den Augen fortgerückt,
such es nicht im Morgenrot,
nicht im Stern, der abends blickt.
Such es nirgends früh und spät,
als im Herzen immerfort,
was man so geliebet, geht
nimmermehr aus diesem Ort.
Love
Friend, if Death despoils your eyes,
robs you of the thing you love,
seek it not in bright sunrise,
nor in stars that shine at eve:
seek it not at dawn, nor late,
but directly in the heart:
what we loved with love so great
there shall stay, and never part.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Justinus Kerner...
The Women of Weinsberg
Die Weiber von Weinsberg
Adelbert von Chamisso (1781-1838)
Die Weiber von Weinsberg
Der erste Hohenstaufen, der König Konrad lag
Mit Heeresmacht vor Winsperg seit manchem langen Tag.
Der Welfe war geschlagen, noch wehrte sich das Nest,
Die unverzagten Städter, die hielten es noch fest.
Der Hunger kam, der Hunger! das ist ein scharfer Dorn!
Nun suchten sie die Gnade, nun trafen sie den Zorn:
„Ihr hab mir hier erschlagen. gar manchen Degen wert,
Und öffnet ihr die Tore, so trifft euch doch das Schwert.“
Da sind die Weiber kommen: „Und muss es also sein,
Gewährt uns freien Abzug, wir sind vom Blute rein.
“Da hat sich vor den Armen des Helden Zorn gekühlt,
Da hat ein sanft Erbarmen im Herzen er gefühlt.
„Die Weiber mögen abziehn und jede habe frei,
Was sie vermag zu tragen und ihr das Liebste sei;
Lasst ziehn mit ihrer Bürde sie ungehindert fort,
Das ist des Königs Meinung, das ist des Königs Wort.“
Und als der frühe Morgen im Osten kam gegraut,
Da hat ein seltnes Schauspiel vom Lager man geschaut;
Es öffnet leise, leise sich das bedrängte Tor,
Es schwankt ein Zug von Weibern mit schwerem Schritt hervor.
Tief beugt die Last sie nieder, die auf dem Nacken ruht,
Sie tragen ihre Eh’herrn, das ist ihr liebstes Gut.
„Halt an die argen Weiber!“, ruft drohend mancher Wicht; -
Der Kanzler spricht bedeutsam: „Das war die Meinung nicht."
Da hat, wie er’s vernommen, der fromme Herr gelacht:
„Und war es nicht die Meinung, sie haben’s gut gemacht;
Gesprochen ist gesprochen, das Königswort besteht,
Und zwar von keinem Kanzler zerdeutelt und zerdreht.“
So war das Gold der Krone wohl rein und unentweiht.
Die Sage schallt herüber aus halbvergessner Zeit.
Im Jahr elfhundert vierzig, wie ich’s verzeichnet fand,
Galt Königswort noch heilig im deutschen Vaterland.
The Women of Weinsberg
First of the Hohenstaufen, the bold King Conrad lay
Encamped in force at Weinsberg for many a weary day.
The Guelph he had defeated; this eyrie still gave fight;
The burghers kept their courage, and held the fortress tight.
Came hunger then, came hunger, that sharp and painful thorn;
They came to him for mercy, and found his rage and scorn.
‘Ye’ve slain full many a gallant; expect your just reward;
‘Tis vain your gates to open; your portion is the sword’.
Then came to him the women: ‘And if it must be so,
Guiltless are we of slaughter; then let us freely go.’
And when he heard their pleading, the hero’s rage was quelled;
Instead within his bosom a soft compassion swelled.
‘The women have safe conduct, and each may carry free
Whatever she can shoulder that dear to her may be.
Let them proceed unhindered, and bear away their load;
So let it be, for such is our royal will and word!’
And as the early morning rose in the East so grey,
Strange was the scene they witnessed, who in the siege-camp lay:
From that beleaguered gateway that slowly opened wide,
A swaying line of women came forth with heavy stride.
The load their necks supported, it bent them to the ground:
They bore away their husbands, the dearest thing they owned.
‘Arrest the caitiff women!’- harsh cries and threats were heard;
‘This never was intended!’ the chancellor averred.
He smiled when he beheld it, the just and pious King;
‘Perhaps I never willed it, yet here’s a noble thing!
A promise is a promise; the royal word holds good,
By chancellors not ever misprised or misconstrued.’
And so the royal crown of gold was pure and undefiled:
The year, eleven forty, by our chroniclers compiled.
From half-forgotten ages still we hear the story ring:
Sacred in German homeland was the promise of a King.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Adelbert von Chamisso...
The Twelve Days of Christmas
‘sung at King Pepin’s Ball’ 1780
‘sung at King Pepin’s Ball’ 1780
On the first day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
A Partridge in a Pear Tree.
On the second day of Christmas…
2 Turtle Doves
On the third day of Christmas…
3 French Hens
On the fourth day of Christmas…
4 Calling Birds
On the fifth day of Christmas…
5 Gold Rings
On the sixth day of Christmas…
6 Geese a Laying
On the seventh day of Christmas…
7 Swans a Swimming
On the eighth day of Christmas…
8 Maids a Milking
On the ninth day of Christmas…
9 Ladies Dancing
On the tenth day of Christmas…
10 Lords a Leaping
On the eleventh day of Christmas…
11 Pipers Piping
On the twelfth day of Christmas…
12 Drummers Drumming
The Twelve Days of Christmas
prima dies aderat: donavit amatus amanti
I in piro perdicem.
ecce secunda dies: donavit amatus amanti
II teneros turtures.
tertia sancta dies: donavit amatus amanti
III gallinas Gallicas.
quarta beata dies: donavit amatus amanti
IV vocales volucres.
quinta dies aderat: donavit amatus amanti
V annulos aureos.
sexta beata dies: donavit amatus amanti
VI uberas anseres.
septima sancta dies: donavit amatus amanti
VII ob lacus olores.
ecce octava dies: donavit amatus amanti
VIII mugitu mulctrices.
nona beata dies: donavit amatus amanti
IX mulieres mobiles.
bis quinta ecce dies: donavit amatus amanti
X principes praesules.
undecima ecce dies: donavit amatus amanti
XI calamis callidos.
ultima sancta dies: donavit amatus amanti
XII tympanis tonantes!
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
To the Fates
An die Parzen
Friedrich Hölderlin (1770-1843)
An die Parzen
Nur Einen Sommer gönnt, ihr Gewaltigen!
Und einen Herbst zu reifem Gesange mir,
Daß williger mein Herz, vom süßen
Spiele gesättiget, dann mir sterbe.
Die Seele, der im Leben ihr göttlich Recht
Nicht ward, sie ruht auch drunten im Orkus nicht;
Doch ist mir einst das Heil’ge, das am
Herzen mir liegt, das Gedicht, gelungen,
Willkommen dann, o Stille der Schattenwelt!
Zufrieden bin ich, wenn auch mein Saitenspiel
Mich nicht hinab geleitet; Einmal
Lebt ich, wie Götter, und mehr bedarfs nicht.
To the Fates
Grant me a single summer, ye mighty ones,
Grant me an autumn’s ripeness of melody,
That less reluctant, being sated
With the sweet playing, my heart may perish.
Souls, if denied their sacred inheritance
In life, are unquiet too in the underworld;
I, though, achieved ere now the holy
Poetry, close to my heart, the poem.
Then be you welcome, stillness and shadow–world!
I’ll be content, no less, should my minstrelsy
Not guide me down: time was, when I have
Lived like the gods: nothing more is needed.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Friedrich Hölderlin...
Half of Life
Hälfte des Lebens
Friedrich Hölderlin (1770-1843)
Hälfte des Lebens
Mit gelben Birnen hänget
Und voll mit wilden Rosen
Das Land in den See,
Ihr holden Schwäne,
Und trunken von Küssen
Tunkt ihr das Haupt
Ins heilignüchterne Wasser.
Weh mir, wo nehm’ ich, wenn
Es Winter ist, die Blumen, und wo
Den Sonnenschein,
Und Schatten der Erde?
Die Mauern stehn
Sprachlos und kalt, im Winde
Klirren die Fahnen.
DIMIDIUM VITAE
flava pirus, rosa silvarum: defertur onusta
terra superficie lapsa lacustris aquae.
suaviolis olor ebrius it: fas dedere collum:
sobrius in sacrum dat caput ire lacum.
e nive qua capiam flores, vim solis, et umbram?
signa aquilone sonant; moenia muta rigent.
Half of Life
Golden pears, roses wild, slippety–slip,
land leaning lakeward;
swans’–faces, kissy–drunk, dippety–dip,
depth sober–sacred.
O how’ll I find, come winter, flowers,
sunbeams, earth–shadow?
Walls dumb and numb, banners and vanes
shake, clack and rattle.
A HALF OF LIVING
Gold Williams fruit and wild triantaphylls:
Land tilts towards Loch Lomond, almost spills:
You snazzy swans, half–cut with kissing bills,
In pious prosy liquid dunk your skulls!
O how’ll I find blossoms among snowfalls,
Warm rays of sun, shadows that land on soils?
Our flaps and flags clack; dumb and numb our walls.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Friedrich Hölderlin...
On a Major London Crossing
Lines Composed Upon Westminster Bridge
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
Lines Composed Upon Westminster Bridge
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
On a Major London Crossing
World, you just can’t show anything so fair!
What kind of dismal spirit could pass by
a sight so touching? Such nobility!
This City now has clothing on. Such flair!
A matutinal glory, for our Mayor –
cupolas, atria, auditoria, high
sails, holy halls, ‘twixt rustic sward and sky,
shining in post-Bronowski soot-scant air.
Nobody’s caught such sunlight grandly soaking
in its first warmth, low scarp, or rock, or hill;
I don’t know anything so worry-slaking!
Our liquid history rolls on at will.
O loving God! That housing stock’s not waking,
and that prodigious pump is lying still.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by William Wordsworth...
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
World, you just can’t show anything so fair!
What kind of dismal spirit could pass by
a sight so touching? Such nobility!
This City now has clothing on. Such flair!
A matutinal glory, for our Mayor –
cupolas, atria, auditoria, high
sails, holy halls, ‘twixt rustic sward and sky,
shining in post-Bronowski soot-scant air.
Nobody’s caught such sunlight grandly soaking
in its first warmth, low scarp, or rock, or hill;
I don’t know anything so worry-slaking!
Our liquid history rolls on at will.
O loving God! That housing stock’s not waking,
and that prodigious pump is lying still.
The World Is Too Much With Us – Lipogram
Not from Intimations of Immortality
Let’s see whether he needed the letter E…
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
Not from Intimations of Immortality
Let’s see whether he needed the letter E…
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; —
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
The World Is Too Much With Us – Lipogram
This world is too much with us: fairly soon
working and shopping drain our capital,
and show us almost nothing natural;
our soul is thrown away, a sordid boon.
That flood which flaunts its bosom, moon to moon,
that wind which howls and howls, continual:
all’s a sad bloom, shut down and dropsical
for our disastrous choirs that flatly croon,
lacking all passion. Think of this, good Lord:
brought up a pagan in a faith outworn,
what might I look at, on this dainty sward!
Such sights and sounds, I couldn’t stay forlorn:
a zoomorph, that zooms Apollo–ward,
a Triton, tooting on his wrack–fraught horn.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by William Wordsworth...