The German texts I have used for the poems themselves are from Volumes 1–3 of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: Gedenkausgabe der Werke, Briefe und Gespräche, ed. Ernst Beutler (Artemis Verlag, 1948–53), except in a few cases where I have used titles or variant readings from other editions.

- I -

LOVE AND

SOLITUDE

To Sleep

Your poppy overcomes

Even the eyes of the gods.

You bring the beggar a throne

And bring the shepherd his girl.

But what I ask today

Is not the stuff of dreams:

Grant me the greatest

Of all your favours.

I’m sitting beside my girl;

Her eyes are hinting at pleasure,

And under the envious silk,

Her bosom is visibly swelling.

Cupid has given her up

Often before to my kisses;

But her strict Mama is watching,

So now that pleasure is missing.

I’ll be there again this evening;

I invite you to enter, please,

Spread poppy from your wings,

Make Mother fall asleep,

And with the candles dimmed,

Let my Annette, love-warmed,

Sink into my eager arms

As Mother sinks into yours.

By the Riverside

My much-loved songs, flow away

To the ocean of oblivion.

May you never be sung again

By girl or boy at blossom-time.

You only sang about my lover,

But she scorns my fidelity now.

Since you were written on water,

May you vanish with its flow.

May Song

How gloriously Nature

Is shining for me!

The glittering sunlight!

The laughing fields!

Blossoms are bursting

From every branch,

And thousands of voices

Come from the bushes,

And joy and delight

Fill every heart.

O earth, O sun,

O happiness,

O love, o love!

Your golden beauty

Is like morning clouds

On mountain tops.

Your glory blesses

The fresh fields,

And fills the world

With a mist of blossoms.

My girl, my girl,

How much I love you!

That look in your eyes:

How much you love me!

Just as the lark

Loves song and air,

And the morning flowers

Love heaven’s breath:

Just as full-blooded

Is my love for you,

Who give me youth

And joy and courage

For new songs

And new dances.

Blessings on you

For loving me.

Hail and Farewell

My heart was pounding! To horseback, fast!

Done, almost as soon as thought.

Evening was putting Earth to rest,

And Night was hanging from the hills

The oak, a towering giant, stood

Already wrapped in mist; nearby,

Darkness lurked among the bushes,

Peering through its hundred eyes.

The moon, behind a bank of clouds

Looked sadly through the misty air;

The night-wind gently stirred its wings,

And whistled as it brushed my ear.

Darkness created monstrous shapes,

And yet my mood was bold and light.

A fire was running through my veins.

And what a glow was in my heart.

And then I saw you—gentle joy

Came flowing through your loving look.

My heart was beating just for you,

And just for you was every breath I took.

A rosy-coloured light of spring

Surrounded the beauty of your face.

Dear gods! though I was undeserving,

I hoped to feel your tender grace.

Already with the morning light

Our parting gave my heart a pang.

In your kisses there was such delight,

But in your eyes I saw such pain.

I turned—you stood with downcast eyes,

Then tearfully you watched me leave:

Yet being loved is such a joy! And, gods!

What an equal joy it is to love!

The King in Thule

In Thule once there was a king

Who was faithful until the grave;

A golden goblet was given to him

By his dying lady-love.

Nothing he had could be more dear—

He emptied it at every banquet;

His eyes would always fill with tears

When he drank from the golden goblet.

And when it came his turn to die,

He counted all his cities up,

And left his heirs his property,

Except the golden cup.

At the royal feast he sat with all

His knights around his seat,

There in the high ancestral hall

In his castle by the sea.

The aged drinker then stood up,

Drank off life’s final glow,

And threw away the sacred cup

Into the sea below.

He watched it fall and fill with drink,

And sink beneath the waves;

His eyelids too began to sink:

He never drank again.

Bonding Song

On every happy occasion

Let this song be sung

In joyful unison,

Enhanced by wine and love.

The god who brought us here

Keeps us together still,

And he who lit our fire

Is fuelling it well.

So feel a joyful glow,

Your hearts all beating in time.

Drink to the joys of tomorrow

From this glass of vintage wine.

In this festive moment, please

Clink your glasses and kiss:

For each new bond refreshes

Those that already exist.

Whoever enters and stays

Within our circle is happy,

Enjoys our liberated ways,

And our true community.

Our hearts are always turned

Towards each other;

Our bond is not disturbed

By any trivial worry.

A god inspired our free

And open attitude:

Whatever happens, we

Find happiness renewed.

Not driven by caprice,

No pleasure need be curbed;

Not cramped by formality,

Our hearts beat undisturbed.

Our rapid path through life

With every step grows wider;

Serenely, always serenely,

Our gaze is lifted higher.

For we are not frightened by

The transience of all we see;

Our bond will last a long, long time:

For all eternity.

A god has given us

Freedom and openness;

So whatever happens must

Renew our happiness.

Autumnal Feeling

Let the vine leaves grow

Greener up the trellis

To my window here.

Let the berries flourish

More vigorously, and ripen

Faster, to brighter fullness!

The parting gaze

Of mother sun

Broods over you;

The fruitful plenitude

Of the bountiful sky

Drifts around you;

The benign and magical

Moon-breath cools you;

And from these eyes

You are sprinkled with dew,

The welling tears

Of endless life-giving love.

The Hunter’s Evening Song

I stalk the fields, silent and morose,

My gun at the ready;

But then your beloved image glows

Softly before me.

Perhaps you wander quietly through

The fields and well-loved valleys;

Does my image never appear to you,

Then quickly vanish?

The image of a man who roams the world

In a frustrated, angry mood,

Back and forth between East and West

Because he had to abandon you.

But when I think of you, I seem

To see the moon.

Then somehow joy and peace

Comfort me soon.

The Wanderer’s Night Song (I)

You who come down from heaven

To comfort our sorrow and pain,

And refresh the doubly unhappy

Twice as much again,

Oh, I am tired of the struggle.

Why all these joys and troubles?

Come, sweet Peace,

Enter my heart.

Restless Love

Into the wind,

The snow and rain,

Through misty valleys

And banks of haze:

Keep on! Keep on!

No peace or repose!

I would prefer

To struggle through sorrows

Than endure so many

Of life’s joys.

All this aching

Of heart for heart

Is strangely creating

More and more pain.

How to escape?

Hide in the forest?

No use! No use!

The crown of life,

Joy without rest:

Love, this is you!

To the Moon

Your misty light returns to fill

The bushes and the valley,

And once again you give my soul

Its total liberty.

You spread your comforting gaze

Across my estate,

And look down in a friendly way

Upon my fate.

My heart responds to every echo

Of happy times, and sad ones too,

Veering between delight and sorrow,

In my solitude.

Beloved river, flow on.

I will never find happiness.

Fidelity has gone,

Along with the laughter and kisses.

I once possessed,

The most precious gift;

I’m tormented by its loss

And cannot forget.

River, rushing along

The valley restlessly,

Accompany my song

With whispered melodies

When on winter nights

You flow in raging floods,

Or in your springtime pride

You water the growing buds.

Happy are those who end

Retired from the world without hate,

Content with one bosom friend

With whom to enjoy the quiet

Which others do not find

Or even know about,

And which wanders in the night

Through the labyrinth of the heart.

The Elf-King

Who’s riding so late through night and wind?

It is the father, and his child is with him.

He has the boy cradled under his arm,

Holding him tight and keeping him warm.

My son, why hide your face in fear?

— Father, can’t you see, the elf-king is here,

The elf-king dressed in his robe and his crown.

— My son, there’s a patch of mist on the ground.

“Dear child, come away with me, come away!

I’ll show you wonderful games we can play,

And colourful flowers along the shore—

And my mother has golden robes galore.”

— My father, my father, didn’t you hear

What the elf-king whispered in my ear?

— Be quiet, my child, and rest in peace;

The wind is stirring up the dry leaves.

“My beautiful boy, won’t you come with me?

My daughters will wait on you gracefully.

My daughters will dance tonight, and keep

Dancing and singing, and rock you to sleep.”

— My father, my father, why won’t you look?

The elf-king’s daughters are there in the dark!

— My son, my son, I can see their shapes:

They’re only old willows gleaming grey.

“Your beauty I love, desire and adore,

And if you’re not willing, I’ll have to use force.”

— My father, my father, now he has seized me!

The elf-king has done me some injury!

The father shudders, and speeds up his ride,

And holds in his arms the moaning child,

Arriving at home in exhaustion and dread;

But there in his arms the child lies dead.

Night Thoughts

You have my pity, unfortunate stars,

Beautiful and radiant though you are,

And glad to guide the sailor with your light,

Though gods and humans give you no reward.

You do not love, or know what love is like.

Eternal hours lead your endless dance

Across the vast expanse of heaven;

And what a journey you’ve already made

While I was lying in my lover’s arms,

Oblivious of midnight—and of you!

The Harpist (I)

He who gives himself to solitude

Will soon be all alone;

People live and people love,

And leave him to his pain.

“Yes, leave me to my misery.

And if only I could once

Be truly solitary, then

I would not be alone.

As a lover steals up, listening

To see if his love is alone,

So all day long and all night through

Pain and misery creep up

On my solitude.

Ah, only when I am in

A grave of my own at last

Will they finally leave me alone!”

The Harpist (II)

Those who have never eaten their bread

In tears, or spent the long night hours

Sitting and weeping on their bed,

They do not know you, heavenly Powers.

Leading us onwards into life,

You let a poor wretch succumb to guilt

And then abandon him to grief,

For every sin is punished on earth.

The Harpist (III)

I will creep from door to door;

Silent and humble, I will wait

Until a kind hand gives me food;

Then I’ll continue on my way.

They feel their own good fortune when

They see my figure at the door;

They shed a tear, but I have no

Idea what they’re crying for.

Ballad of the Harpist

“What’s that I hear outside the gate,

What’s sounding on the bridge?

Let the song echo in our ears

Here inside the hall.”

Thus spoke the King, the page ran out,

The page returned, the King called out,

“Let the old man enter!”

“I greet you, noble lords,

I greet you, ladies fair.

What a heaven full of stars!

Who could name them all?

But let me close my eyes

In this great and splendid hall—

This is no time to be amazed.”

The singer duly closed his eyes

And played his fullest notes;

Boldly the knights looked on,

While the ladies gazed at their laps.

The King was pleased with the song,

And as a reward for the singer,

Sent for a golden chain.

“Don’t give this golden chain to me,

But give it to your knights,

Before whose valiant faces

The enemy lances shatter.

Give it to your chancellor,

And add this golden burden to

The other burdens he must bear.

“I sing the way a bird sings

Who lives among the branches;

The song which bursts from my throat

Is its own most precious reward.

But if I may venture one request,

Let me be served your finest wine

In a goblet of purest gold.”

When this was brought, he drank it off:

“What a sweet, refreshing drink.

This is blessed house indeed

Where this is a small favour.

Enjoy yourselves and think of me;

Give thanks to God as heartily

As I thank you for this drink!”

Mignon (I)

Do you know the land of flowering lemon trees?

The golden orange glows among dark leaves;

A breeze blows gently from the clear blue sky;

The myrtle is still, the laurel rises high.

Is that perhaps a place you know?

That’s where—with you, my love—I long to go.

Do you know the house? Pillars bear the roof;

The gleaming hall leads on to shining rooms;

The marble statues look me through and through:

Poor child, whatever have they done to you?

Is that perhaps a place you know?

That’s where—with you, my guardian—I long to go.

Do you know the mountain and its cloudy trail?

Lost in the mist, the mule must find its way.

In caves, the ancient brood of dragons dwells;

The cliffs plunge down behind their waterfalls.

Is that perhaps a place you know?

Our path, my father, leads there: let us go!

Mignon (II)

Do not urge me to break my silence:

My duty is to keep my secret:

I long to open my heart to you,

But that is not the will of Fate.

At the right moment in its course

The sun must lighten the darkest night.

The hardest rock will open up

And bless the earth from hidden springs.

A friend’s embrace can comfort us,

And let us pour out our heart’s laments;

But since an oath has sealed my lips,

Only a god can open them again.

Mignon (III)

Let me look like an angel until

I become one; leave me my white robe.

I hasten from this beautiful earth

To the safety of my true home.

There I will rest for a while, and then

My eyes will open to see a fresh view,

And I will shed this pure garment,

The girdle and the garland too.

Who is man and who is woman,

These heavenly beings do not care;

No clothing and no drapery

Cover the transfigured body there.

It’s true I’ve lived a carefree life,

And yet I’ve felt enough deep pain

To make me prematurely old from grief:

Make me eternally young again!

The Spinster

Once I was quietly spinning

Without a break,

When a handsome youth came in

Behind my back.

He praised what was there to praise

(No harm in that!):

The beauty of my flaxen hair

And my thread of flax.

He was far from nonchalant now—

Things changed, and quickly too;

The thread I’d kept intact somehow

Abruptly broke in two.

The total stone-weight of the flax

Continued mounting up,

But I no longer could—alas—

Take pride in what I’d done.

As I took the flax to the weaver

I felt something in me stir;

My poor heart started beating

Faster than ever before.

And now, when the sun is hot,

I bring the flax to be bleached,

But find it difficult to stoop

Down to the nearest stream.

What I have spun so soft and fine

Inside my little room—

How could it be otherwise? —

Must come to light quite soon.

My Love Is Near

I think of you when sunlight shimmers

Out at sea;

I think of you when moonlight glimmers

Across a stream.

I see you when dust is raised

On a distant road

In the depths of night, when the narrow way

Makes the traveller afraid.

I hear you when the thundering

Waves are rising;

In the quiet woods, when I’m wandering

And listening to the silence.

I’m with you—however far away you are,

You’re always near!

The sun is setting; soon I’ll see the stars.

If only you were here!

The Coy Shepherdess

One fine morning in spring

A shepherdess sang as she walked along,

Young and beautiful and free of care,

Until the meadows echoed her song.

Thyrsis offered her two or three lambs

For a little kiss in exchange;

She gave him a roguish look for a while,

Then started to sing and laugh again.

Another shepherd offered her ribbons,

And a third one offered his heart;

But she treated the heart and the ribbons,

Like the lambs, as good for a laugh.

The Shepherd

There once was a lazy shepherd

Who loved to sleep all the time,

And couldn’t care less for his sheep.

But when he succumbed to a girl,

He was far gone, poor fool:

Gone were his appetite and sleep.

He’s driven far afield

Counting the stars at night,

Bemoaning his grief and pain.

But now she gives him relief

It’s back to normality:

Appetite, thirst and sleep again!

The Repentant Shepherdess

I walked in silence through the wood

In the sunset’s brilliant glow,

As Damon sat playing his flute

And making the cliffs re-echo.

He drew me down by his side;

His kisses were gentle and sweet.

When I asked him to play some more

The good youth kindly agreed.

Now my peace of mind is gone;

My joy has flown away,

And the only thing that I can hear

Is the tune he used to play.

The Mountain Castle

An ancient castle stands

Upon that mountain height;

Behind its gates and doors

Were horses once, and knights.

Now the doors and gates are gone,

And everywhere is still;

Around the ruined walls

I’m free to climb at will.

Nearby there was a cellar

Full of vintage wine,

But now the stewardess never

Appears with a bottle and a smile.

Nor does she set out glasses

For all the dinner guests;

Nor does she fill the bottle

At communion for the priest.

Nor does she hand out drinks

To the squires in the hall,

Nor get their casual thanks

For how she served them all.

For all the beams and ceilings

Were long ago burned down,

And stairway, hall, and chapel

Are simply rubble now.

Yet once I saw my lover

Climb up this rocky height,

With a bottle and a zither

On a day of cloudless sky.

A sudden joyful mood

Dispelled my quiet despair —

As if the good old days

Were now returning there;

As if the best rooms were ready

For guests of dignity;

As if a young couple had come

From that time of piety;

As if the good priest were standing

In his chapel with this request:

“Do you take each other in marriage?”

And we were smiling, Yes!

And hymns had deeply moved

The heart to its inmost core—

But no guests were there to witness,

Only Echo’s voice once more.

Then everything dissolved

Into the evening’s peace,

Until the sun shone out again

On the towering mountain peak.

The stewardess and the squire

Were glorious, shining far:

Now she had time for pouring wine

And he for thanking her.

Your Presence

Everything heralds you!

If the glorious sun comes out

I hope you will follow soon.

When you enter the garden,

You are the rose of roses,

And also the lily of lilies.

The stars will move

Whenever you dance

With you and around you.

Night! So let it be night!

Now you outshine the moon’s

Beautiful welcoming light.

Your beauty is welcoming, too:

The flowers, the moon and the stars

Celebrate only you.

So be like the sun to me,

Creator of wonderful days

For life and eternity.

The Lost Ring

SULEIKA:

I was boating on the Euphrates once

When my golden ring slipped off my finger

To sink into the watery depths—

And you had just given me that ring.

That was my dream. Then my eyes were dazzled

By the morning light behind the trees.

Tell me, poet, tell me, prophet,

What the meaning of my dream might be.

HATEM:

I’m happy to interpret this.

Haven’t I told you repeatedly

How the Doge of Venice

Is married to the sea?

This is how the ring fell off your finger

Into the Euphrates’ stream.

Oh, thousands of heavenly songs

Are inspired by this wonderful dream!

I have travelled to Damascus

All the way from Hindustan,

Then onwards as far as the Red Sea

With another caravan,

But now I am married to all of this:

Your river, this terrace, this grove;

And here, until the final kiss,

My soul is bonded to your love.

West Wind

O, moist west wind, I envy you

As you pass me on your way;

For you can tell my lover how

I suffer while he is away!

The motion of your passing wings

Awakes the longing that I feel;

Your breath moves everything to tears:

Eye and flower, wood and hill.

Although your mild and gentle air

Cools my sore eyelids, all the same

I’d die of grief if I lost hope

Of ever seeing him again.

Hurry away to my lover, then

Speak to his heart in a soft whisper,

But do not make him feel guilt,

And keep my suffering well hidden.

Tell him (with discretion, please)

My life depends upon his love;

And if he should come back to me,

What heartfelt joy, for both of us!

The Presence of the Past

The rose and lily, full of dew,

Bloom in the gardens nearby;

The friendly wooded slope beyond

Rises up into the sky;

The forest-girdled peak is crowned

With a castle from long ago,

And the curving slopes reach down

To join the valley below.

The fragrance is just the same

As when we still suffered from love,

And the strings of my lyre came

To compete with the morning sun;

When the hunting-song’s full tones

Resounded through the thickets,

To warm us up, or cool us down,

According to our needs and wishes.

Let the ever-growing forests

Hearten you with this idea:

What you once enjoyed for yourselves

Can be enjoyed through others now.

Let no one, then, reproach us if

We keep our happiness to ourselves:

You must, in every stage of life,

Be able to experience that joy.

And so to complete our song

We return to Hafiz again.

With those who can still enjoy,

Let’s share the end of the day.

A Phenomenon

When the sun god unites

With a curtain of rain,

A colourful bow

Is born right away.

Curved through the mist

Is a similar sight;

That bow is heavenly too,

Although it is white.

So, spry old man,

Do not despair:

You can still fall in love,

Despite your white hair.

The Chestnut Tree

Look at these leafy branches,

My love, and please look well:

Let me show you this fruit

In its green and prickly shell.

It has long been hanging,

Round and quiet and unaware,

On a gently swaying branch

Which rocks it with patient care.

But the swelling brown kernel

Constantly ripens within,

Eager to reach the air

And longing to see the sun.

The shell splits open, and then

The kernel is free to drop;

Just so, my collection of songs

Falls softly into your lap.

Behramgur

Behramgur, they say, discovered rhyme

Expressing the rapture that his soul had found;

And Dilaram, companion of his hours, replied

At once with corresponding word and sound.

And so, my love, you were meant for me,

So that we too might find the joys of rhyme.

I need not envy Behramgur, the King

Of the Sassanids; his gift is also mine.

You gave me inspiration for this book,

For what I sang with joy from a full heart

Re-echoed from the beauty of your life—

And we exchanged our rhymes like loving looks.

May you hear the rhyming, even from afar;

The words can reach you, though their sounds disperse;

They still create the garment sown with stars,

And love’s transfigured universe.

Gingko Biloba

This leaf, from an oriental tree

Entrusted to my garden now,

Provides a feast of secret meaning

For the benefit of those who know.

Is it a single living thing,

Internally divided?

Or two that have chosen each other

So they are seen as united?

When I get questions like these,

I know how to answer people:

“When you hear my songs, don’t you see

That I’m one, but also double?”

Suleika

I never want to lose you!

Love gives love its strength.

May you celebrate my youth

With powerful passion.

Oh, how it gratifies my heart

When people praise my poet.

For life consists of love

And the life of life is spirit!

The Bridegroom

At midnight, though I slept, my loving heart

Was wide awake, as if it were broad day;

But when day dawned, it seemed like night to me,

So little did I care what it might bring.

Yes, she was absent; but for her alone

I bore the stress of all my busy work

Through the heat of the day; then my reward,

In the cool of evening, was resurgent life.

The sun was sinking; hand in trusted hand,

Greeting its final look of blessing,

We gazed into each other’s eyes and spoke,

“Keep up hope: it will return in the east.”

At midnight, starlight guides my dream

To the very threshold where she sleeps.

Let there be room for me to rest as well.

However that may be, yet life is good.

To the Rising Full Moon

DORNBURG, 25 AUGUST 1828

Will you abandon me so soon!

A moment ago you were so near.

Thick clouds have overshadowed you,

And now you’ve completely disappeared.

And yet you sense how sad I am:

Your radiance rises like a star.

You prove to me that I am loved,

Although my lover is afar.

Rise up, then! Full of glory,

Follow your pathway, glowing bright!

My heart beats faster, painfully;

Yet joy has overwhelmed the night.

DORNBURG, SEPTEMBER 1828

When valley, mountaintop, and garden

Lift their veils of mist at early hours,

And, to eager expectation,

Colour fills the cups of flowers;

And when the brilliant light of day

Competes with the cloudy atmosphere,

And an east wind drives the clouds away,

Leaving the sun’s blue pathway clear;

If you thank the Lord with a pure heart

And absorb this sight as it unfolds,

The reddening sun, as it departs,

Will make the whole horizon gold.

- II -

GODS AND

HUMANS

A Song about Mohammed

Look at this mountain stream,

Bright with joy,

Like a glint of starlight.

Benign spirits

Above the clouds

Nourished his childhood

Among cliffs and bushes.

With the freshness of youth

He dances from the clouds

Down to the marble rocks,

Expressing his joy

Again to the sky.

Between the peaks he hunts

For bright-coloured stones,

And takes the lead early,

Carrying brother streams

Along with him.

In the valley below

Flowers spring up from his footprint,

And he breathes life

Into the meadows.

But no shady valley

Can hold him back,

No flowers clustering

Around his knees,

Or flattering him

With loving looks.

His momentum carries him

Down to the plain

Winding like a snake.

Streams approach

To accompany him. Now he reaches

The plain, silvery-shining,

And the plain shines with him,

And the rivers of the plain

And the mountain streams

Joyfully cry, “Brother!

Take your brothers with you

To your ancient father,

The eternal ocean

Who waits for us all

With outspread arms,

Which open in vain, alas,

To embrace those who long for him.

For we are swallowed up in the desert

By thirsty sand. The sun above

Sucks up our blood, or a hill

Obstructs our flow and makes a pond.

Brother! Take your brothers with you

From the plains and mountains

Out to your father!”

“Come, all of you!”

Now he swells

More powerfully — a whole tribe

Carries its prince aloft

In triumphant procession;

He gives the regions their names,

And cities emerge from under his feet.

Rushing inexorably onwards,

He leaves flame-topped towers behind him,

And houses of marble created

Out of his plenitude.

Like Atlas he carries cedar houses

On his giant shoulders;

A thousand flags flap in the wind

Above his head,

Witnesses to his magnificence.

And so he carries his brothers,

His treasures, his children,

In a tumult of joy, to the heart

Of his waiting father!

Prometheus

Zeus, cover your sky with clouds,

And, like a boy beheading thistles,

Practice pitting yourself

Against oaks and mountain peaks;

But leave my earth standing,

My hut, not built by you,

And my fireplace, whose warmth

You begrudge me.

I know of nothing under the sun

More pathetic than you, you gods.

Your majesties are fed a meagre diet

Of sacrifices and prayers;

You’d starve if children and beggars

Were not such optimistic fools.

As a child, not knowing where to turn,

I lifted my deluded eyes

To the sun, as if somewhere beyond

Was an ear to hear my complaints,

And a heart like my own

To relieve my oppression.

Who aided me

Against the pride of the Titans?

Who saved me from death

And slavery?

Didn’t my sacred, glowing heart

Achieve all this by itself?

And wasn’t I young and naïve enough

To give mistaken thanks

To the Sleeper up there for my salvation?

I should honour you? Whatever for?

Did you ever lessen

The pains that oppressed me?

Did you ever dry my tears

When I was afraid?

Was I not created man

By almighty Time

And eternal Fate—

Your masters as well as mine?

Perhaps you thought

I’d come to hate life,

And escape to the desert

Because my blossoming dreams

Did not all reach fruition?

Here I sit, making humans

Formed in my image,

A race to resemble me,

Suffer and cry,

Enjoy and delight,

As indifferent to you

As I am!

Ganymede

My beloved Spring,

How you shine all around me

In morning’s brilliance.

Touching my heart

With rapturous love

Is the sacred feeling

Of your eternal warmth,

O infinite beauty!

I long to hold you

In these arms of mine!

Yearning, I lie at your breast,

And your flowers and grass

Brush against my heart.

Beloved morning breeze,

You cool the burning

Thirst of my breast!

The nightingale calls to me

Lovingly out of the misty valley.

I’m coming, I’m coming!

But to where?

Upwards! Moving upwards!

The clouds float down

To meet my ardent love.

To me, to me!

Upwards,

To your bosom.

Embracing and embraced!

Upwards to your bosom,

All-loving father!

The Feeling of Humanity

Gods, you great gods up there

In the vastness of heaven.

Grant us here on earth

Courage and resolution,

And we’ll gladly leave you

The vastness of heaven!

Winter Journey in the Harz Mountains

Let my song float

Like a hawk

On low morning clouds,

Resting on its wings

And looking for prey.

For a god

Has preordained

A path for each one of us:

For fortunate people

It leads straight on

To its joyous goal;

But those disheartened

By their misfortunes

Strive in vain

Against the bond

Of the bronze thread

Which is cut once and for all

By shears they still find bitter.

Wild animals thrust

Into thick undergrowth,

And the rich have long since,

Like birds, secured

Their nests in the swamp.

It’s easy to follow

Fortune’s carriage

Like a prince’s retinue

Of troops at ease

On well-made roads.

But who is left by the wayside?

His overgrown path

Disappears in the bushes

Which close behind him; the grass

Soon springs back upright

As the wilderness swallows him.

Who will relieve his suffering?

All comfort is poison for him,

Who drank the hatred of humans

Out of the fullness of love.

Victim turned perpetrator,

He secretly eats away

At his own self-worth

With insatiable selfishness.

Loving Father,

If your harp possesses

A note he can hear,

Let it awaken his heart.

Open his cloud-covered eyes

To the thousands of wellsprings

Surrounding his thirst

In the desert.

You who create so much joy,

A superabundance for each,

Bless my hunting brothers

On the track of their quarry

With youthful high spirits,

Keen for the kill,

Avenging the damage

Done by the boars,

Where the peasants’ cudgels could not.

But Love! wrap the solitary

In your golden cloud.

Until roses bloom again,

Crown with evergreens

The rain-soaked hair

Of your poet.

With your flickering torch

You light his way

Through fords at night,

Over treacherous paths

And barren landscapes;

You fill him with laughter

In the bright-coloured dawn;

You hold him up high

In the piercing storm;

Winter waterfalls drop down cliffs

And into his songs;

And the snow-covered head

Of the dreaded mountain,

Which local belief has crowned

With dancing spirits,

Serves as his altar

Of heartfelt thanks.

The mountain stands

With its unexplored heart

Mysteriously opened

Above the astonished world,

Looking down from the clouds

At the glorious realms

Watered from the veins

Of its mountain-brothers.

Song of the Spirits above the Waters

The human soul

Resembles water.

Coming from heaven

And rising to heaven,

It must come down

To earth again,

An eternal cycle.

The pure stream

Pours from the sheer

High cliff face,

Dissolves into spray,

Into rolling clouds

Down the slippery rock

To a gentle impact,

Falling in veils,

Quietly murmuring

Down to the depths.

Towering cliffs

Encounter its plunge;

It foams in anger

In several stages

Into the abyss.

On its level bed

It flows through the meadows,

And all of the stars

Bathe their faces

In the calm of the lake.

Wind is the wave’s

Eager lover;

Wind stirs from the depths

The foaming surf.

The human soul

Resembles water!

And human fate

Resembles wind!

Human Limits

When the ancient

Holy Father

Blesses the earth

By scattering lightning

With open hand

From the rolling clouds,

I kiss the trailing

Hem of his gown

With childlike awe

In my trusting heart.

No human being

Should measure himself

Against the gods.

If he rises upwards

Until his head

Touches the stars,

His uncertain feet

Will lose their hold,

And he’ll be the sport

Of clouds and winds.

If he stands fast

With strong bones

On the firmly founded

Enduring earth,

He cannot even

Reach up as far

As the oak or the vine.

What distinguishes

Gods from humans?

For gods, the waves

Lead onwards before them,

An eternal stream.

But for us, the waves

Lift us, swallow us,

And leave us to sink.

A narrow circle

Limits our lives;

Many generations

Follow each other

In our existence’s

Endless chain.

The Divine

We should be noble,

Compassionate and good.

For only that

Distinguishes us

From all the beings

We know about.

I greet the unknown

Higher beings

We can only intuit.

A human should be like them,

And teach us by example

To believe in them.

For Nature itself

Is quite unfeeling;

The sun shines equally

On the good and the evil,

While the moon and stars

Shine on the thief

As well as the best.

Winds and rivers,

Thunder and hailstorms

Rush on their way,

And in their haste

Attack first one of us,

And then another.

So Fortune feels its way

Through the crowd,

Now seizing the curls

Of an innocent boy,

And now the bald head

Of a guilty old man.

According to great

Eternal laws

Set in bronze,

Each of us must

Complete the cycles

Of our existence.

Only humans

Can do the impossible,

Make distinctions,

Choices, judgments;

And endow the moment

With permanence.

Let humans alone

Reward the good

And punish the wicked,

Heal and redeem,

And reintegrate those

Who err and stray.

We honour the immortals

As if they were human,

And did on the grand scale

What the best of us

Achieve or attempt

In a smaller way.

May noble, good

And compassionate humans

Never tire of achieving

What is useful and right,

And be models for us

Of those higher beings

That we intuit.

The Song of the Fates

The human race

Should fear the gods,

Who hold their powers

In immortal hands,

Deploying their might

However they please.

Those they raise up

Should be twice as fearful!

On clouds and clifftops

The seats are ready

At golden tables.

But if quarrels take place

The guests are thrown out

In disgrace and shame

To the depths of night,

Where they wait in vain,

Chained up in the dark,

For Justice’s verdict.

But the gods remain

At eternal banquets

On golden tables.

They stride across

From mountain to mountain;

From the depths of chasms

Arises the breath

Of choking Titans

In a mist, like the smell

Of burnt offerings.

The rulers avert

Their beneficent gaze

From entire peoples,

And fail to acknowledge

The eloquent features

Of former favourites

In the later offspring.

The song of the Fates

Is heard by the exile

In his dark caves.

The old man thinks

Of his descendants

And shakes his head.

Permanence within Change

If only these early blossoms

Could last for more than an hour!

But already the moist west wind

Brings them down in a shower.

Should I enjoy the foliage,

Grateful for its shade?

Storms will soon scatter it

Once Autumn sees it fade.

If you want to reach for the fruits,

Hurry to get what you need.

Some are beginning to ripen,

While others have gone to seed.

Just as your beautiful valley

Is changed with each shower of rain:

The second time you go swimming

The river is never the same.

And what about you yourself?

You see walls and palaces rise

Solid as rock before you; and yet

You see them with changing eyes.

Those lips have vanished completely

That once were healed by a kiss;

The feet that rivalled mountain goats

Have vanished from the cliffs.

The hand, so gentle and kind,

Comforting, reaching out:

Its anatomical form

Is utterly different now.

And whatever your very name

Might seem to mean at present

Has passed on like a wave

Going back to its element.

Let the beginning and the end

Come together and fuse;

Let yourself change and flow

Faster than objects do.

But thank the Muses’ promise

Of gifts immune to time:

The meaning in your heart

And the form within your mind.

Longing

Tell this only to the wise,

For it would draw the crowd’s contempt:

I want to praise the urge in life

Which longs for a fiery death.

In the coolness of those nights of love

Where you were begotten, and where you beget,

An unfamiliar feeling fills you

When the silent candle is lit.

Darkness and shadow

No longer embrace you;

You are raised by a new desire

To a higher union.

No distance makes you falter

In your spellbound flight,

Until you’re burned to death,

A moth, so eager for the light.

As long as you fail to grasp these words:

“Die and become!”

You’ll only be a wretched guest

On this dark earth.

Memorial

On the barren shores of life,

Where dunes are piled upon dunes,

Where storms are raging in the dark,

Set yourself a goal to strive for.

Under long-obliterated signs

Lie thousands of your ancestors,

And more recent burial mounds

Cover many of your friends.

If you have come to terms with yourself,

Night and atmosphere grow clear,

And the swarm of everlasting stars

Portends enlivened hours for you,

Where you would love to stay and work

Faithfully, in unspoiled company,

And hasten faithfully to meet

The eternal beings that you love.

Prooemion

In the name of Him who made himself,

Whose work is endless creativity;

In the name of Him who has created faith

And trust and love and strength and energy;

In the name of Him who, though so often named,

Always remains essentially unknown:

As far as ear and eye can reach, you find

Only what you know—mere semblances of Him;

And even your spirit’s highest flights

Are satisfied with likenesses and symbols:

Their bountiful attractions lure you on —

Each path, each place you reach, is beautiful;

You give up counting, lose all track of time,

And every step you take is measureless.

-

What God would only act externally

To spin the universe around his finger?

Instead, he moves the world from deep within,

Loves Nature in Himself, Himself in Nature,

So that what lives and moves and is in Him

Will never go without his strength and spirit.

-

There is an inner universe as well,

The source of a people’s highest custom

By which each person gives the name of God—

His God—to what he values most in life,

Surrendering all heaven and earth to Him,

In fear of Him—and, possibly, in love.

Orphic Words

DESTINY

On the day that gave you to the world,

The way the sun stood greeting the planets

Controlled your fortune from that moment on,

By the horoscope prevailing at your birth.

You must be thus: you can’t escape your self;

Thus have decreed the sybils and the prophets.

No power, no length of time, can break the form

Imprinted on a life’s development.

CHANCE

The drift of change within us and around us

Can cross the strictest boundary at will.

Your self is formed by your society,

And you will likely act as others act.

In life, events may go your way, or not;

It is a game that all of us must play.

The circle of the years is now complete;

The lamp is waiting for a flame to light it.

LOVE

And so Love’s flame arrives! He rushes down

From Heaven, to which he rose from ancient chaos;

Throughout the spring day he is fluttering

On airy wings around your head and heart.

He seems to fly away, but then returns.

So pleasure causes pain, and sweetness fear.

Some hearts diffuse their love in general,

But the noblest heart devotes itself to one.

FATE

Things are again the way the stars ordained;

Conditioning and law prevail; our will

Is merely wanting what we’re bound to do:

Faced with this will, our wishes are silent;

Our hearts reject the things we most desired;

Our will, our whims, submit to this hard “must.”

Our freedom is deceptive; year by year,

Our lives are more constrained than ever.

HOPE

Yet it can be unbarred, the daunting gate

That leads through solid walls and barriers,

Although it stands as firm as ancient cliffs.

A spirit gently stirs, and frees itself;

Out of the clouds and mist and showers of rain,

It rises up with us and gives us wings.

You know it well, it wanders everywhere;

One wingbeat, and the ages drop behind us.

Symbolum

The bricklayer’s task

Is like life itself,

And his efforts at work

Are like all endeavours

Of humans on earth.

The future hides

Both joys and sorrows

From our eyes;

Yet, undeterred,

We press forward.

Its veil hangs low,

Long, and heavy.

The stars above

And the graves below

Are always at rest.

Yet voices of spirits,

Voices of masters call

From beyond the veil:

“Don’t fail to use

Your powers for the good.

Here wreaths are woven

In peaceful eternity,

Amply rewarding

Human activity.

We urge you, be hopeful!”

Antepirrhema

Now watch with a humble gaze

The Eternal Weaver’s masterpiece:

One pedal moves a thousand threads,

The shuttles go shooting to and fro,

The threads flow across each other,

One stroke creates a thousand ties.

She hasn’t improvised all this,

But has designed it from eternity,

So that the Eternal Master can

With confidence complete her plan.

Talismans

To God belongs the East!

To God belongs the West!

Within his hands, at peace,

The North and South can rest.

He is Justice, he alone;

He wills what is right for men:

Among his hundred names, this one

Receives our highest praise. Amen.

When wandering confuses me,

You can set me straight.

Whether in action or in poetry,

You show me the right way.

Although concerned with worldly things,

My thoughts can still encompass higher ends.

The spirit does not scatter with the dust,

But gathers itself in order to ascend.

Breathing is a double blessing:

Inhaling and exhaling air

First constrains and then refreshes,

Life is so wonderfully mixed.

So thank God once for the pressure,

And once again for the release.

The Wanderer’s Equanimity

It’s pointless to wail

About human spite;

It always prevails,

Say what you like.

It makes great profits

Among the wicked,

And torments good people

Any way it wishes.

Wanderer, you cannot win

Against malice like that.

Let the whirlwind spin

And stir the dry dirt.

Saint Nepomuk’s Eve

Look at the river’s floating lights;

On the bridge, hear the children singing,

While cathedral bells are ringing

Out of devotion and delight.

The lights and stars are growing dim;

Thus did our saint’s soul melt away

After he refused to betray

The sins that were confessed to him.

Keep the lights afloat, children!

Play on! And let your choir sing,

Revealing what that star will bring

To all the other stars in heaven.

One and All

The individual is glad

To vanish in the infinite

Where all our suffering dissolves:

Instead of fierce desires and wild urges,

Or strict commands and onerous duties,

We find the joy of self-surrender.

Come, World-soul, and penetrate us,

For the highest purpose of our gifts

Is to engage with the World-spirit.

Friendly beings lead us onwards,

Accompanied by highest masters,

To him who makes, and made, all things.

To recreate created forms

And stop them from rigidifying

Is endless, living, active work.

And what did not exist will now become

Pure suns and brightly-coloured earths,

None of which is ever motionless.

All has to move and actively create,

To form and then transform itself—

Moments of stillness are illusions.

Eternity moves through it all,

And vainly clinging to existence

Comes to nothing in the end.

Spirit Hovering over the Earth

Living between the depths and heights,

I’m drawn to everything I view;

Bright colours offer me delight,

And I find refreshment in the blue.

And if blue mountains from afar

Attract my longing in the day,

At night the splendour of the stars

Completely carries me away.

So every night and every day

I sing the praise of human fate:

Once we accept our rightful place,

We’re always beautiful and great.

All of the stars are imbued with life:

They love to move together on

Their pure and self-determined ways.

And throbbing deep within the earth

Are powers that take us into night,

Then bring us back into the day.

When, in infinity, the same

Flows on in endless repetition,

And all this multifarious globe

Closes its power within itself,

All things express the joy of life,

The smallest and the greatest star;

All strife and struggle have become

Eternal peace in God the Lord.

Legacy

No being can melt into nothingness.

The eternal permeates everything:

And so rejoice in your existence.

Being is everlasting; there are laws

Protecting all the living treasury

From which the universe is made.

This truth, discovered long ago,

Has formed a noble company:

So take this ancient truth to heart.

And thank the wisdom, son of earth,

Which showed the earth and other planets

Their paths to orbit round the sun.

But now immediately go within

And find the centre in yourself,

Something a noble soul can never doubt.

You do not need a set of rules:

Your independent conscience is

The sun which lights your moral day.

You need to trust your senses, too:

They will not give you false perceptions

If your mind is keeping you alert.

Enjoy observing with fresh eyes,

And wander safely through the fields,

Open to the riches of this world.

Enjoy your blessings temperately:

Always let reason be present

When life is celebrating life.

For then the past is permanent,

The future lives before its time,

And this moment is eternity.

And if you achieve this state at last,

And are now imbued with the feeling

That only what bears fruit is true—

You challenge the general opinion.

Let others do whatever they like:

You’ll join the most exclusive group.

Since ancient times, in solitude,

The poet or philosopher has made

A labour of love as he freely wills;

You too can win the highest grace:

Intimations of the noblest souls

Create the best vocation you could have.

From Faust, Part Two, Final Scene

CHORUS AND ECHO

Forests astir on the height,

Rock faces plunging below,

Roots all clinging tight,

Tree trunks clustering close,

Waters cascading down,

Caves, protected and deep;

Lions prowling around

Silently and in peace,

Respecting this holy ground,

Love’s most sacred retreat.

PATER PROFUNDIS

The chasm drops from my feet

To a deeper chasm below;

Thousands of sparkling streams

Feed the waterfall’s foam;

The trees reach high above

With power from deep within;

Each shows how almighty love

Creates and sustains all things.

CHORUS MYSTICUS

Everything mutable

Is only a semblance;

The unattainable

Here is achieved;

The indescribable

Here is shown;

The eternal feminine

Beckons us on.

- III -

NATURE

AND ART

Artist’s Evening Song

Oh, let creative power

Come surging through my mind!

And let my fingers shape

A truly living design.

Although I tremble and stutter,

I never give up on the task;

I feel and know you, Nature,

And must take you in my grasp.

And then I think how many years

My mind has spent in your employ;

And how, instead of barren moors,

It now finds many springs of joy.

Nature, how much I long for you,

To feel your love and loyalty.

Playing through a thousand jets,

You’ll be a fount of joy for me.

May you illuminate them all,

The powers that dwell in me,

And let this small existence here

Expand into eternity.

On the Lake

I draw fresh strength, new blood,

From this world of freedom;

Nature is kind and good

To hold me to her bosom!

Our boat is rocked by the waters

In the rhythm of the oars,

And cloudy peaks salute us

As we pursue our course.

But why are my eyes not open?

Are golden dreams reviving?

Away with dreams, however golden!

Here too is love and living.

Thousands of floating stars

Are sparkling in the waves;

And the soft mists slowly start

To drink the scene away.

And now the morning breeze

Brushes the shadowed bay,

And the ripening fruit can see

Its image in the lake.

Hope

Grant that my handiwork each day

May reach completion — highest joy!

And let my energy not fade!

No, these are not idle fantasies:

Though only saplings now, these trees

In time will give us fruit and shade.

My Goddess

Which of the immortals

Deserves the highest praise?

I’ve no wish to argue,

But my choice would be

The always active,

Always new,

Strangest daughter of Jove,

His favourite child:

Imagination.

For he has granted her

Every whim

That he otherwise keeps

For himself alone,

And he enjoys

Indulging her follies.

He lets her walk, rose-crowned,

Holding the stem of a lily,

Through valleys of flowers,

Summon the summer birds,

And sip the delicate dew

With her bee-like lips

From every blossom;

Or ride the wind

Along the cliffs

With flying hair

And a menacing look,

Or, many-coloured

As morning and evening,

Or changeable as moonlight,

Shine down on mortals.

Let us all

Praise the ancient

Father on high,

Who gave to mortals

Such a beautiful

And ageless bride!

For he has bound her

To us alone

With a heavenly tie,

And ordered her

As a faithful spouse

Never to leave us

In sorrow or joy.

All of the other

Unfortunate species

On our teeming,

Living earth,

Wander and feed

With obscure enjoyment

And dim suffering,

All confined

To life in the moment,

Bent beneath

Necessity’s yoke.

But let us give thanks

That he’s granted to us

His best-loved,

Most talented daughter.

Be as loving to her

As you’d be to a lover.

And respect is due

To the household’s mistress.

And keep old Wisdom,

Her mother-in-law,

From giving offence

To this delicate soul.

But I know her older,

Less excitable sister,

My quiet companion:

May she never leave me

Until the light of life is out,

She who nobly sustains

And comforts us: Hope!

The Wanderer’s Night Song (II)

Above all the hills

Is peace;

Among all the trees

You can hardly feel

The slightest breeze.

The birds in the forest are quiet.

Soon, if you only wait,

You too will be at peace.

Anacreon’s Grave

The rose is out, the laurel and the vine are interlaced;

You hear the cricket’s noise, and the turtle dove’s call.

Whose grave is this, which all the gods have helped surround

With life and beauty? It is Anacreon’s resting place:

This lucky poet enjoyed the spring and summer and fall,

And now he’s sheltered from the winter by this mound.

Flat Calm

On the water, deep stillness reigns.

The sea is at rest, without a sound.

The anxious sailor surveys

The smooth surface all around.

No breeze on any side.

A deathly silence waits.

Far and wide,

No hint of a wave.

Fortunate Voyage

The mists are clearing,

The sky is bright;

Aeolus is loosening

The knot he tied.

The winds are roaring,

The sailor is stirring.

Now we are starting.

The waves are parting,

The distance is nearing;

Land is in sight!

Into the Distance

They sail so gaily

Far out to sea;

It’s free and easy,

Or so they believe.

They’re quite unaware

Of treacherous reefs;

Their happy-go-lucky

Way of steering

Will run them aground

To break into pieces.

Nature and Art

Seeming to move in contrary directions,

Nature and Art meet unexpectedly.

Losing their apparent opposition,

Both of them attract me equally.

Only committed effort really pays:

If we resolve to dedicate to Art

A given period of time each day,

Nature is free to re-inspire our hearts.

This is the way with creativity:

Those who lack discipline — self styled “free spirits” —

Fail to reach achievement’s highest summits.

To do great things needs harnessed energy,

For mastery is manifest through limits,

And only law can give us liberty.

The Sonnet

This sacred duty we impose on you:

The practice of an art that’s been revived.

For you, like us, can move precisely through

The steps that have already been prescribed.

Even constraint can be a pleasure, when

Your spirits have been thoroughly aroused;

And then, whatever frolics they’re allowed,

The work will be completed in the end.

So I myself would dearly love to rhyme

The best of what my feelings give to me

In sonnets, close to speech, and yet refined.

This is no easy bed in which to lie.

For carving wood, I like a single piece,

But here I need some glue from time to time.

Humility

Each time I look at masterpieces,

I see the triumphs art has won.

But in my own work, what I see is

Only what I should have done.

Song and Form

The Greeks liked to form their clay

Into sculpted figures, and found

An ever-increasing joy

In this child of their hands.

But our delight is to float

In the River Euphrates, content

With drifting to and fro

In the liquid element.

Once I have quenched the fire

In my soul, my song will resound:

Water can form a sphere

In the pure poet’s hand.

Unlimited

That you cannot end is what makes you great;

That you never begin, that is your fate.

Your song revolves like the starry vault;

Beginning and end are always the same,

And what the centre contributes is also

The same as the end and the beginning.

You are the joyful source of poetry

Whose water flows continually.

You have lips always ready to kiss

A lovely, flowing, heartfelt song,

A throat always eager to drink,

A good heart pouring itself out.

And even if the whole world perishes,

I will compete with you alone, Hafiz,

With you alone! So let us share

Our joys and sorrows as if we were twins!

To love like you, and drink like you,

That will be my pride, my lifelong care!

Now of its own accord let my song catch fire!

It’s an older song than his, yet also newer.

Epirrhema

Whenever you’re observing Nature,

Be aware, in one and all,

How nothing is internal or external —

For what is inward is always outward.

Then you will be quick to grasp

Nature’s sacred open secret.

Enjoy true appearances,

Take games seriously.

Nothing alive is a single thing;

It always is a multiplicity.

Parabasis

For many years now, my intelligence

Has striven, happily and eagerly,

To investigate and to experience

How Nature lives creatively.

Eternal unity is shown in all

Her multifarious designs;

The small is great, the great is small,

Everything according to its kind;

Ever-changing, yet self-maintaining,

Near and far, and far and near,

Creating form and transformation —

To wonder at it, I am here!

Schiller’s Remains

It was in the grim charnel house that I saw

Skulls upon skulls all tidily arranged,

And thought about the old days, now turned grey.

Old enemies are crammed in rows together;

Rough bones that were once engaged in mortal combat

Are now stacked crosswise, resigned to resting here.

Separated shoulder-blades (who cares now what they carried?)

And gracefully active limbs, and hands and feet,

Lie scattered, stripped of their living functions.

And so, you tired bones, you all lay down in vain;

You were not left in peace in the grave,

But were forced back up into the light of day,

And it’s hard to love the brittle shell

That once protected such a precious kernel.

Yet, as an adept, I could understand the writing

Whose sacred sense was not revealed to all,

And as I stood among that stiff assembly

I noticed such a precious, glorious shape,

That in this cold, cramped home of decay,

I felt revived and freed and heart-warmed,

As if a spring of life welled up from death.

That form delighted me mysteriously,

With its surviving traces of the divine.

This was a sight that carried me away

To the sea that pours out streams of noble forms.

Secret vessel, source of oracles,

How am I worthy to hold you in my hand?

Piously saving this treasure from decay,

Respectfully I return to sunlight,

To liberated thoughts, out in the open air.

What more can a human being win from life

Than a revelation of God-in-Nature,

Who causes matter’s sublimation into mind,

And firmly safeguards what the mind creates?

Twilight

Dusk is descending from the sky,

And even nearby things seem far;

But all at once a radiant light

Has risen up— the evening star!

Everything melts into a blur,

And mist creeps upwards, while the lake

Lies placidly reflecting where

The darkness deepens into black.

In the easterly direction, now

I sense the moonlight’s brightening glow;

The hair-thin twigs of slender willows

Dance on the water just below;

While through the lively shadow-play

Comes Luna’s shimmering, magic light;

And now the coolness finds a way

To soothe my eyes and calm my heart.

At Night

At night, when friendly spirits roam

And brush the sleep from your brow,

When starlight glints and moonlight gleams,

Eternity surrounds you, and you seem

To be free of the body; now

You dare approach God’s throne.

But when the next day, all too soon,

Has set the world back on its feet,

Fulfillment is more difficult to find,

Even with your earlier resolve in mind:

And morning dreams, to say the least,

Are somewhat modified by noon.

Always and Everywhere

Go deep into the mountain caves,

Follow the clouds up high;

In valleys and in rivers, praise

The muse a thousand times.

Once the flowers have bloomed afresh,

New songs will soon be heard;

Although time passes in a rush,

The seasons always return.

I like full rhyme to end each line,

But expressing my thoughts in full,

That is the noblest gift of all—

It’s worth any number of rhymes.

Once you are clear about yesterday,

Your work will be strong and free today.

Tomorrow also will be blessed,

You hope, with just as much success.

Our earnest efforts can succeed

Only at unconscious moments.

For would a rose be able to bloom

If conscious of the glory of the sun?

Something is speaking through this silent pain;

A brighter blue illuminates the sky,

And shining there, I see my golden lyre:

Welcome, old friend, to my heart again!

Poems are like stained-glass windows.

Seen from the marketplace outside,

The church appears quite dark and dismal;

That’s how it seems to the philistine,

And he might be put off by poetry,

And stay that way for the rest of his life.

However, once you come inside

And greet the holy chapel,

All becomes colourful and bright;

The story and its decoration shine,

And the noble image conveys its message.

Thus as God’s children you will be baptized:

This will uplift you and delight your eyes.

- IV -

WIT AND

WISDOM

Originality

I

I’d love to forget tradition

For pure originality,

But that is a hard ambition

To achieve, unfortunately.

I’d count it the highest distinction

A human being could gain,

If I weren’t myself a tradition

Already, strange to say!

II

I inherited my father’s build

And his earnest attitude;

My mother’s happy nature,

Her love of storytelling, too;

Great-grandpa’s fondness

For pretty women haunts me,

While love of gems and gold

Is Great-grandma’s legacy.

Since none of these traits

Can be split from the whole,

What in my personality

Could be called original?

Among the princes of Germany, mine, I admit, is minor;

His domain is short and thin, his importance is modest,

But he uses his power so well both within and beyond his realm

That if other rulers did likewise, being a German

Among other Germans would be a pleasure! But why

Such praise, when his achievements speak for themselves?

Perhaps my doing him honour suggests self-interest,

For he’s given me things that patrons seldom provide:

Friendship, leisure, and trust; fields, a house and garden.

I owe my thanks to no-one but him, and I was quite needy,

Since, as a poet, I wasn’t much good at making a living.

Europe has given me praise, but I’ve little to show for it—

Nothing, in fact! My poems have cost me dear.

German writers copied me, French readers loved me,

And, England, you gave a troubled guest a warm reception.

But how does it help me that even in China

Werther and Lotte are painted on glass by nervous hands?

No emperor ever asked about me, no king was concerned;

He was Augustus Caesar to me, and Maecenas, too.

I cannot divide my life

Into inner and outer.

To keep me company

You have to see me whole.

I write just what I feel,

And what I think. Dear friends,

That’s how I diversify myself

While remaining one and the same.

Ownership

Nothing is mine, I know,

Except the thoughts that flow

Out of my mind so freely—

And every moment of grace

That a benevolent Fate

Lets me enjoy so deeply.

The demagogue gathers disciples and sways the crowd,

While the rational man attracts individuals one by one.

Spectacular pictures are usually badly painted;

The masses have little use for works of learning and art.

The powerful ought to reflect on France’s disaster,

The common people should too. The powerful lost power;

But who protected the masses against themselves?

The crowd succumbed to the tyranny of the crowd.

“Aren’t we right to deceive the people?

Look at them, so uncultured and stupid!”

They only seem stupid because you deceive them.

They’re clever enough if you tell them the truth.

Princes often imprint their dignified image on copper

Thinly covered with silver, and the people are fooled.

Demagogues put the stamp of reason on lies and nonsense;

Lacking a touchstone, many mistake this for gold.

A student told me, “Everything’s clear to us

In the theories our top professors are teaching.”

Once you’ve created a suitable wooden cross,

To crucify a living body is easy.

When I heard them yelling, “Equality! Freedom!”

I wanted to follow too.

But because there were so many stairs to descend,

I jumped off the roof.

They really annoy me, the masses,

Supporting first this and then that,

And thinking they somehow matter

Because they hate the aristocrat.

Someone said, “I belong to no school,

And I’ve followed no living master;

What’s more, I’ve learned nothing at all

From any dead master either.”

If I’ve understood this statement well,

It means, “I am a self-made fool!”

Art, Science, Religion

If you have art and science,

Religion is included;

However, if you have neither,

Religion is really needed.

We all see God in our own image:

That’s why he’s frequently disparaged.

Whoever serves the public is a wretched creature;

He wears himself out without a word of thanks.

Age

Old age is a perfect gentleman:

He knocks repeatedly at our door,

But no one ever ever says, “Come in!”

Reluctant to wait outside any more,

He lifts the latch and quickly intrudes,

And now we tell him he’s very rude.

The Years

The years are generous, for yesterday

They brought us presents, and still do today.

And so we younger people learn to live

A life of luxury on what they give.

But then the years decide, quite suddenly,

To stop their former generosity:

They give no more, and will not even lend:

They take back all their presents in the end.

Rumi Speaks

If you linger in the world, it passes like a dream,

And if you travel, your path is determined by fate.

You cannot control the cold or the heat,

And what blooms for you will quickly fade.

“Tell me how you live.” “I just live!

And even if hundreds of years

Were granted to humans, tomorrow

I’d want the same life as I have today.”

Who is happiest? — One who admires another’s merit,

And enjoys another’s pleasure as much as his own.

Time spent looking for cures is wasted.

The answer to our grave condition

Is found between excessive haste

And excessive hesitation.

Every event would work out fine

If we could arrange it a second time.

So, what do you consider sin?

I think the same as most of us:

It’s anything that you begin,

But find that you cannot give up.

You cannot cure your oddities,

So cultivate your qualities.

Always strive for the whole; but if you cannot become

A whole on your own, then serve as a part of one.

Regardless of age, we should all be drunk!

Youth is drunkenness, no need for wine;

And if age can drink itself young,

Drinking’s a virtue beyond compare.

For life takes care to give us cares:

What makes us carefree is the vine.

No one likes giving help to those

Who always keep their wallets closed.

To wash one hand, the other’s needed:

So give, if you enjoy receiving.

Worries are like mosquitos

Floating in front of our eyes;

We see this beautiful world

Through a spider’s web of grey

Which doesn’t block out our view,

But dulls and distorts and obscures.

The clear world keeps its clarity:

The problem is all in our eyes.

You ask if I mean all I say.

Is that a serious question?

Who cares what I say or mean?

All meaning is only asking.

“Whom should we believe?” you ask. My good friend, look:

Believe in life—a better teacher than lecture or book.

If you play at life

You’ll never win;

You always lose

Without discipline.

“Zeus, why am I short-lived?” asked Beauty.

“I only gave beauty to short-lived things,” he replied.

Forget about transiency,

However it occurs.

To earn immortality:

That’s why we are here.

Do you know how to find the joy of life? Just enjoy it all!

And if things go wrong, be content with that as well.

Yes, you’re on the right track

If you’ve no idea what

You’re thinking while you think:

Then everything seems like a gift.

You want the comfort of certainty!

For me, inner struggle is what life’s about:

For where would the joy of certainty be

If we had never experienced doubt?

Let no one resemble another, but let each resemble the highest.

How? Let everyone reach completion within himself.

Rulers and common people

From every era agree

That happiness only derives

From personality.

Every life is worth living

If your self is truly present.

Everything else can be lacking

As long as you stay who you are.

Guidelines for Life

If you want to make a good life

Never worry about the past,

And whatever losses you’ve suffered,

Begin again like a newborn child.

Ask each day what it wants of you,

And each day will tell you what it wants.

Enjoy your own activities,

For then you’ll value what others do.

Above all, don’t hate anyone;

Let God take care of everything else.

Notes on Proper Names

and Greek Titles

Aeolus: God of the winds in classical mythology.

Anacreon: Greek poet (c. 582 BCE–485 BCE), especially known for love lyrics.

Antepirrhema: Continuation of an epirrhema (see below).

Atlas: In Greek mythology, the Titan who holds up the sky, and who gave his name to the Atlantic Ocean.

Behramgur: According to Persian legend, King Behramgur of the Sassanids (d. 440 CE) spoke in verse to one of his slave girls, Dilaram, and she replied in kind, ending her lines with similar sounding words. Thus they jointly invented rhyme.

Dilaram: See Behramgur.

Epirrhema: In classical Greek drama: following the chorus, a verse in which the chorus leader addresses the audience.

Doge of Venice: The Doge, elected leader of the city, was traditionally rowed out into the lagoon each year to throw a ring into the water to symbolize the wedding of Venice, as a maritime trading nation, to the sea.

Elf-King: Goethe’s friend and mentor Johann Gottfried von Herder translated a Danish folk ballad “Elf-king’s Daughter” into German, and this inspired Goethe’s ballad. “Erlking” could mean “alder king” as well as “king of the elves.”

Ganymede: In Greek myth, a beautiful young shepherd abducted by Zeus to serve as his cupbearer.

Ginkgo Biloba: An Asian tree cultivated in European botanical gardens since around 1800. Its broad leaf has a central groove which makes it appear like two leaves that have grown together.

Hafiz (or Hafez): Persian poet of the twelfth century whose “Divan” (poetry collection) was known to Goethe through a translation into German (1814) by the Austrian Orientalist Joseph von Hammer-Purgstall. This inspired Goethe’s own West-Eastern Divan poetry collection (1819), written in collaboration with Marianne von Willemer.

Harz: Mountain range in North Germany.

Hatem: Persian pseudonym for Goethe himself in the West-Eastern Divan.

Maecenas: Wealthy Roman (c. 70 BCE–8 BCE), friend of Augustus Caesar and patron of poets including Horace and Virgil.

Mignon: An androgynous young woman who is devoted to Wilhelm Meister (the eponymous hero of Goethe’s novel), but is suffering from a mysterious trauma in the past, probably in Italy, which she has vowed to conceal. Her father is the Harpist, a lonely wanderer and beggar, who fathered her through an incestuous union with his own sister.

Nepomuk: John of Nepomuk was a saint and martyr of the twelfth century who refused to divulge the confession of the Queen of Bohemia to her husband King Wenceslas, who ordered him to be tortured and drowned.

Parabasis: In classical Greek drama, a direct address to the audience on behalf of the author.

Prometheus: Figure of Greek myth who created humans from clay and gave them the gift of fire in defiance of Zeus and the Olympian gods. He was then punished by being pinned to a rock where an eagle (emblem of Zeus) attacked his liver daily.

Prooemion: Preamble or introduction to a work.

Schiller: Friedrich Schiller, the German dramatist and friend of Goethe, died in 1805 and was buried in a collective grave in Weimar. In 1826 the mayor, Karl Leberecht Schwabe, excavated the grave, collected various bones and skulls, and decided that the largest skull must be Schiller’s. Later, Goethe took home this skull, which he believed showed outward marks of Schiller’s divine genius. Schiller’s supposed remains were later reinterred, but recent DNA tests show that they are probably not his.

Suleika: Persian name corresponding to Marianne von Willemer, Goethe’s beloved and collaborator on the West-Eastern Divan.

Titans: The race of Greek gods, including Atlas and Prometheus, overthrown by the Olympian deities led by Zeus.

Thule: Mythical island supposed to be the furthest land north reached by Greek navigators, variously identified as Greenland, Iceland, the Shetland Islands, or the Orkney Islands.

Werther: Hero of Goethe’s best-selling novel The Sufferings of Young Werther (1774), who committed suicide in the wake of an unhappy love affair with Lotte, the fiancée of another man.

Zeus: King of the Olympian gods in Greek mythology.

ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

Graham Good is professor emeritus of English and Comparative Literature at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver. His career as a translator began at Princeton University, where a version of Rainer Maria Rilke’s Sonnets to Orpheus formed part of his PhD thesis in Comparative Literature. Continuing to work on Rilke over the years, he published Rilke’s Late Poetry: Duino Elegies, The Sonnets to Orpheus, and Selected Last Poems with Ronsdale Press in 2005. Since then, the poems of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe have been the main focus of his translating work. He has also published books on the essay as a literary genre—The Observing Self: Rediscovering the Essay (London and New York: Routledge, 1988, reissued in 2014 in the series Routledge Revivals) — and on recent literary theory—Humanism Betrayed: Theory, Ideology and Culture in the Contemporary University (Kingston and Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2001). Graham makes his home in Vancouver, British Columbia.

PRAISE FOR GRAHAM GOOD’S

RILKE’S LATE POETRY

“Graham Good’s translations of Rilke read like fresh, original poems, fresh in their English rhymes and cadences, fresh as Rilke in transforming elegy into eulogy, sorrow into consolation. . . .”

— Robert Fagles, late Professor of Comparative Literature at Princeton University, translator of Homer, Virgil and Aeschylus

“Graham Good’s translations are quiet and careful, with an ear, especially, for the shimmering experiences behind the words.”

— Norman Fischer, poet, author and Zen Buddhist priest

“Elegant and vigorous, these translations give us the Rilke we know, anew. Graham Good’s sensitivity makes this collection especially intimate and moving.”

— Stephanie Bolster, Governor General’s Award-winner for poetry

“Good’s rendition is respectful and creative, and our perceptions of Rilke are deepened by reading his book.”

— Vancouver Sun

“The work is lucid and accessible, its lambent language as if Rilke had written the poems today. .