Johann Wolfgang von Goethe George Gordon, Lord Byron Catherine Maria Fanshawe The Complete Songs, Vol. October Deletion date: January Archive Service. September 10CDs Boxed set at a special price. The site is also available in several languages. Please use the dropdown buttons to set your preferred options, or use the checkbox to accept the defaults. Two towering settings by Wolf of poems by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe provide the philosophical underpinning for the rest of the disc. In Prometheus [Track 1], the eponymous demigod rejects the gods as pathetic and redundant scroungers.
As yet unbound, Prometheus exults in his own achievements, declaring that he will fashion men in his own image, to despise the gods as he does. These testosterone-driven bars threaten to overwhelm the limits of the genre with their tumult. Yet, Wolf decided that the bitter triumph of this poem would not be a fitting close to his Goethe songbook. Instead he chose to end his fifty-one settings with Grenzen der Menschheit [Track 2]. Written just a week after Prometheus, this song presents a much humbler protagonist who reminds us that Man, with his brief and transient life, is fundamentally weak and constantly buffeted by the fates.
Hence he should not venture to measure himself against the gods. These conflicting states of self-belief and selfdoubt were very familiar to Wolf. He was no coward; setting such a large number of poems by Goethe—without a doubt the most significant poet of the century—was itself an act of bravado. As he said to his friend Gustav Schur: The pathos of this song is twofold.
Mr. Honey's Beginner's Dictionary (German-English) by Winfried Honig
Singing as the birds sing could not have been more distant an ideal. In , Wolf approached the most famous composer in the city of Vienna, Johannes Brahms, for an opinion of his composition. Brahms paid no heed to the young critic. He was at the peak of his profession, an acknowledged master in all genres apart from opera, lionized in his adopted city and beyond. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, --The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb: But never reached the town. The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept--and, turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet;" --When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone-wall; And then an open field they crossed: The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none! O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. Solitude To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean; This is not solitude, 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.
Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings?
Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;-- I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more. Comment When we two are parted When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning Sank chill on my brow It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well: Long, long shall I rue thee Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met In silence I grieve That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? With silence and tears. Comment Als wir uns trennten Lord Byron: Der Tau fiel schaurig Im Morgenrot: In Schweigen und Leid. JULY 13, No poem of mine was composed under circumstances more pleasant for me to remember than this.
I began it upon leaving Tintern, after crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol in the evening, after a ramble of four or five days, with my Sister. Not a line of it was altered, and not any part of it written down till I reached Bristol. It was published almost immediately after in the little volume of which so much has been said in these Notes. FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses.
Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild: With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration: Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: For nature then The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by To me was all in all.
The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompence. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue.
And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels 0 All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear,--both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognise In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being.
Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes.
Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee: Nor, perchance-- If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence--wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!
Twinkling with delight in the house twinkling with the moonlight, Bless my baby bless my baby bright,. Gertrude Stein - http: Comment The Yellow Gas The yellow gas is fired from street to street past rows of heartless homes and hearths unlit, dead churches, and the unending pavement beat by crowds - say rather, haggard shades that flit Round nightly haunts of their delusive dream, where'er our paradisal instinct starves: Ay, we had saved our days and kept them whole, to whom no part in our old joy remains, had felt those bright winds sweeping thro' our soul and all the keen sea tumbling in our veins, Had thrill'd to harps of sunrise, when the height whitens, and dawn dissolves in virgin tears, or caught, across the hush'd ambrosial night, the choral music of the swinging spheres, Or drunk the silence if nought else - But no!
I only pray, red flame or deluge, may that end be soon! Christopher Brennan — Seele des Menschen, wie gleichst du dem Wasser! Schicksal des Menschen, wie gleichst du dem Wind! Goethe Meine Seele;- http: Comment Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose Gertrude Stein. In garb, then, resembling Some gay gondolier, I'll whisper thee, trembling, "Our bark, love, is near: Ein Schifferkleid trag' ich Zur selbigen Zeit, Und zitternd dir sag' ich: Ferdinand von Freiligrath — Comment Weil es gerade so gut passt: Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren, und auf den Fluren lass die Winde los.
Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr. Comment Das Reden nimmt kein End' 1. Zu Frankfurt an dem Main — Uns soll geholfen sein. Zu Frankfurt an dem Main — Bald zieht der Kaiser ein. Zu Frankfurt an dem Main — So schlag' der Teufel d'rein! Die Welt sie steht in Flammen, Sie sitzen noch beisammen. Wie lange soll es dauern Das Parla — Parla — Parlament? O Volk mach' ihm ein End'!
Your summer's reign was grand. Beshadow now the dials of your sun and let your winds run rough across the land. The latest fruits command to fill and shine: For them, let two more warmer days arrive to push them to perfection and to drive the final sweetness in the heavy wine. The man without a house will build no more, the man without a mate will sole remain, will wake, will read, write letters long with pain and walk the boulevards, restless to the core, where falling leaves are drifting with the rain.
Translation by Walter A. The summer was immense. Let thine shadows upon the sundials fall, and unleash the winds upon the open fields. Command the last fruits into fullness; give them just two more ripe, southern days, urge them into completion and press the last bit of sweetness into the heavy wine. He who has no house now, will no longer build.
He who is alone now, will remain alone, will awake in the night, read, write long letters, and will wander restlessly along the avenues, back and forth, as the leaves begin to blow. Frankfurter Anthologie FAZ — Juni — Nr. Seele des Menschen, Wie gleichst du dem Wasser! Schicksal des Menschen, Wie gleichst du dem Wind! Karl Friedrich von Gerok deutscher Theologe und Lyriker.
Und kam in Pantinen ein Junge daher, So rief er: So ging es viel Jahre, bis lobesam Der von Ribbeck auf Ribbeck zu sterben kam. Legt mir eine Birne mit ins Grab. Und die Kinder klagten, das Herze schwer: Wer giwt uns nu 'ne Beer? Theodor Fontane — Entstanden Comment Michelsode Ihr habet Anno 13 den Michel gewecket und ihn aus dem bleiernen Schlaf geschrecket: Ihr habt die Zensur gelobt und gepriesen und ihre Notwendigkeit Micheln bewiesen: Hoffmann von Fallersleben, Ode to Psyche O Goddess!
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes? I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet, scarce espied: Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass; Their arms embraced, and their pinions too; Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: The winged boy I knew; But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
O latest born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy! Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor altar heap'd with flowers; Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan Upon the midnight hours; No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet From chain-swung censer teeming; No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming; Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same: And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!
Zephir; eine Windgottheit aus der griech. Dryaden; Baumgeister der griech. Comment Survivor Everyday, I think about dying. About disease, starvation, violence, terrorism, war, the end of the world. It helps keep my mind off things. A largesse of life and self, brushed all calm and out, its abstracted attempts on her mouth weren't seen, not its showering, its tenting.
Just the detail that swam in its flow-lines, glossing about— as she paced on, comet-like, face to the sun. A silent suffering, and intense; The rock, the vulture, and the chain, All that the proud can feel of pain, The agony they do not show, The suffocating sense of woe, Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until its voice is echoless. The wretched gift Eternity Was thine--and thou hast borne it well.
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee Was but the menace which flung back On him the torments of thy rack; The fate thou didst so well foresee, But would not to appease him tell; And in thy Silence was his Sentence, And in his Soul a vain repentance, And evil dread so ill dissembled, That in his hand the lightnings trembled. Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, To render with thy precepts less The sum of human wretchedness, And strengthen Man with his own mind; But baffled as thou wert from high, Still in thy patient energy, In the endurance, and repulse Of thine impenetrable Spirit, Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit: Thou art a symbol and a sign To Mortals of their fate and force; Like thee, Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source; And Man in portions can foresee His own funereal destiny; His wretchedness, and his resistance, And his sad unallied existence: To which his Spirit may oppose Itself--and equal to all woes, And a firm will, and a deep sense, Which even in torture can descry Its own concenter'd recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making Death a Victory.
George Gordon Lord Byron Wer rettete vom Tode mich, Von Sklaverei? Hast du die Schmerzen gelindert Je des Beladenen? Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Entstanden zwischen und Der Wind hat sich in einem Baum gefangen. An einem Fenster klebt ein fetter Mann. Ein grauer Clown zieht sich die Stiefel an. Ein Kinderwagen schreit und Hunde fluchen. Alfred Lichtenstein — Comment Le Jardin The lily's withered chalice falls Around its rod of dusty gold, And from the beech-trees on the wold The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.
The gaudy leonine sunflower Hangs black and barren on its stalk, And down the windy garden walk The dead leaves scatter, - hour by hour. Pale privet-petals white as milk Are blown into a snowy mass: The roses lie upon the grass Like little shreds of crimson silk. Comment Thank you, meera. Au Jardin O you away high there, you that lean From amber lattices upon the cobalt night, I am below amid the pine trees, Amid the little pine trees, hear me!
Well, there's no use your loving me That way, Lady; For I've nothing but songs to give you. Heinrich Heine — Na, un denn --? Denn jehn die Beeden brav ins Bett. Wat tun se, wenn se sich nich kissn? Denn kricht det junge Paar 'n Kind. Denn kocht sie Milch. Denn macht er Krach. Denn is det Kind nich uffn Damm. Denn bleihm die Beeden doch zesamm. Er will noch wat mit blonde Haare: Denn sind se alt. Der Sohn haut ab. Der Olle macht nu ooch bald schlapp. Wie der noch scharf uff Muttern war, det is schon beinah nich mehr wahr! Comment Ode To A Chestnut On The Ground From bristly foliage you fell complete, polished wood, gleaming mahogany, as perfect as a violin newly born of the treetops, that falling offers its sealed-in gifts, the hidden sweetness that grew in secret amid birds and leaves, a model of form, kin to wood and flour, an oval instrument that holds within it intact delight, an edible rose.
In the heights you abandoned the sea-urchin burr that parted its spines in the light of the chestnut tree; through that slit you glimpsed the world, birds bursting with syllables, starry dew below, the heads of boys and girls, grasses stirring restlessly, smoke rising, rising. You made your decision, chestnut, and leaped to earth, burnished and ready, firm and smooth as the small breasts of the islands of America.
You fell, you struck the ground, but nothing happened, the grass still stirred, the old chestnut sighed with the mouths of a forest of trees, a red leaf of autumn fell, resolutely, the hours marched on across the earth. Because you are only a seed, chestnut tree, autumn, earth, water, heights, silence prepared the germ, the floury density, the maternal eyelids that buried will again open toward the heights the simple majesty of foliage, the dark damp plan of new roots, the ancient but new dimensions of another chestnut tree in the earth.
They numb Fast-locked, and fill with fear. Aue ist sehr gut gelungen.
September Morning The world's adream in fog's embrace, Still slumber woods and meadows: But soon, through the dissolving lace, You'll see the blue of endless space, The milder grace of autumn's face Transcending golden shadows. Comment The Tuft of Flowers I went to turn the grass once after one Who mowed it in the dew before the sun. The dew was gone that made his blade so keen Before I came to view the levelled scene. I looked for him behind an isle of trees; I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.
But he had gone his way, the grass all mown, And I must be, as he had been,—alone, As all must be,' I said within my heart, Whether they work together or apart. And once I marked his flight go round and round, As where some flower lay withering on the ground. Comment A Minor Bird I have wished a bird would fly away, And not sing by my house all day; Have clapped my hands at him from the door When it seemed as if I could bear no more.
The fault must partly have been in me. The bird was not to blame for his key. And of course there must be something wrong In wanting to silence any song. Comment Die freie Marktwirtschaft Ihr sollt die verfluchten Tarife abbauen. Ihr sollt auf euern Direktor vertrauen. Kein Betriebsrat quatsche uns mehr herein, wir wollen freie Wirtschaftler sein!
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Ihr sollt nicht mehr zusammenstehn - wollt ihr wohl auseinandergehn! Keine Kartelle in unserm Revier! Wir stehen neben den Hochofenflammen in Interessengemeinschaften fest zusammen. Gut organisiert sitzen wir hier Kurt Tucholsky — Comment Herbstaugen Presse dich eng an den Boden. Die Erde riecht noch nach Sommer,.
So kommt es denn zuletzt heraus, Dass ich ein ganz famoses Haus. Der Dorfschulmeister stieg hinauf auf seines Blechschilds Messingknauf und sprach zum Wolf, der seine Pfoten geduldig kreuzte vor dem Toten: Doch da er kein Gelehrter eben, so schied er dankend und ergeben. Comment Herbstbild Dies ist ein Herbsttag, wie ich keinen sah! Christian Friedrich Hebbel — Comment The Teasers Not but they die, the teasers and the dreams, Not but they die, and tell the careful flood To give them what they clamour for and why.
You could not fancy where they rip to blood You could not fancy nor that mud I have heard speak that will not cake or dry. Our claims to act appear so small to these Our claims to act colder lunacies That cheat the love, the moment, the small fact. Comment Missing Dates Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills. It is not the effort nor the failure tires. The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.
It is not your system or clear sight that mills Down small to the consequence a life requires; Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills. They bled an old dog dry yet the exchange rills Of young dog blood gave but a month's desires. Was ist die Welt? Ihren Duft atme ich ein und sehne mich nach Bist du minder fest als jene, Bist du heller doch, als sie; Bist du minder hell als dieser, Bist du fester doch, als er, Und beide - willst du ruhig quellen - Spiegeln sich vereint in deinen Wellen.
Franz Grillparzer Comment To Autumn O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
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Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers. William Blake — http: Es hielt sich lange auf der Flucht auf und sog sich ganz mit Lichte an; - da hob die Nacht die goldne Frucht auf: Schwarz ward die Wolke und zerrann. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Einsam in dem Kampf wie in der Ruh.
Comment Eleanor Rigby Aaaaah look at all the lonely people. Aaaaah look at all the lonely people. Eleanor Rigby Picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been; Lives in a dream. Waits at the window, Wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door. Who is it for? All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong?
Father MacKenzie Writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear; No one comes near. Look at him working, Nodding his socks in the night when there's nobody there. What does he care? Eleanor Rigby Died in the church and was buried alone with her name. Father MacKenzie Wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from her grave. No one was saved. I was wandering round Bristol one day and saw a shop called Rigby. But I just liked the name. I was looking for a name that sounded natural.
Eleanor Rigby sounded natural. Paul McCartney, Playboy, ; cf. Comment Evening Primrose When once the sun sinks in the west, And dewdrops pearl the evening's breast; Almost as pale as moonbeams are, Or its companionable star, The evening primrose opes anew Its delicate blossoms to the dew; And, hermit-like, shunning the light, Wastes its fair bloom upon the night, Who, blindfold to its fond caresses, Knows not the beauty it possesses; Thus it blooms on while night is by; When day looks out with open eye, Bashed at the gaze it cannot shun, It faints and withers and is gone.
John Clare John Clare 13 July — 20 May was an English poet, born the son of a farm labourer who came to be known for his celebratory representations of the English countryside and his lamentation of its disruption. Comment Dog's Death She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car. Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog!
The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver. As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin And her heart was learning to lie down forever. Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed. Seine Mutter, die selber literarische Ambitionen hatte, ermutigte ihn zu schreiben.
Georg Trakl Ein Rondel, frz. Rondeau, ist eine kunstvolle alte Lied- und Gedichtform, bei der zwischen die gleichlautenden Anfangs- und End-Refrainverse zwei oder mehr Verse mit gleichlautendem Endreim gesetzt werden Refraingedicht. Heut keltern sie den braunen Wein. Da zeigt der Mensch sich froh und lind. Da guckt ich dem Storch In das Sommernest dort: O Vater und Mutter, Wie seid ihr so klein. Und sieh dir andre an: Rainer Maria Rilke, aus: Das Buch der Bilder Comment Solar Fire See the morning dancer, crossing the sky, Turning gold to amber travelling by He must know the answer He must know why.
Looking for an answer look to the sky. Shadows getting shorter filling your sight Brightly burning starfire, life giving light Dawning into morning Day into night Looking for an answer, look to the light Sunlight streaming burn through the night First light stealing shine solar fire. Starting from tomorrow look to the sky There's a new day dawning passing you by Follow on life's dancer and than you'll know why Looking for an answer look to the sky.
Comment Der Lesende Ich las schon lang. Seit dieser Nachmittag, mit Regen rauschend, an den Fenstern lag. Den ganzen Himmel scheint sie zu umfassen: Rainer Maria Rilke, September , Westerwede. Comment Poem with Radiometer Four vanes pierced by a spindle, a cotillion in black and white. Moving in atmosphere lighter than air, one searches out the other moving away. As inside the glass, outside.
You move slowly through me, and light bounces from one skin to the other, a kind of feint. To kick at the shadows becomes a function of how we breathe. But what muscles the endless spin? Dark hides from light as light pursues it. If this was an experiment, it could be extrapolated to metaphor.
Led by a single star, She came from very far To seek where shadows are Her pleasant lot. She left the rosy morn, She left the fields of corn, For twilight cold and lorn And water springs. Through sleep, as through a veil, She sees the sky look pale, And hears the nightingale That sadly sings. Rest, rest, a perfect rest Shed over brow and breast; Her face is toward the west, The purple land. She cannot see the grain Ripening on hill and plain; She cannot feel the rain Upon her hand.
Rest, rest, for evermore Upon a mossy shore; Rest, rest at the heart's core Till time shall cease: Sleep that no pain shall wake; Night that no morn shall break Till joy shall overtake Her perfect peace. Christina Rossetti Christina Georgina Rossetti 5 December — 29 December was an English poet who wrote a variety of romantic, devotional, and children's poems.
Comment Color What is pink? Why, an orange, Just an orange! Tritt her in den Reihen und tanz' mit mir. Wenn ich nun aber nicht mehr mag! Schon kratzt die Feder auf dem Bogen - das Geld hat manches schon verbogen. Drum lies doch mal Das Buch, das man dir anempfahl. Es ist beinah wie eine Reise Im alten wohlbekannten Gleise.
Der Weg ist grad und flach das Land, Rechts, links und unten nichts wie Sand. Du bist behaglich eingenickt. Da gibt es weder Bier noch Wein. Schlaf wohl und segne den Verfasser! Comment A Polished Performance Citizens of the polished capital Sigh for the towns up country, And their innocent simplicity.
People in the towns up country Applaud the unpolished innocence Of the distant villages. Dwellers in the distant villages Speak of a simple unspoilt girl, Living alone, deep in the bush. Zeit gab's genug - und Zahlen auch. Wo blieb sein Reich? Wo blieb er selb?
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Bald liegen die Edelkastanien Esskastanien verstreut auf dem Waldboden. Du entschiedest dich, Kastanie, und sprangst auf die Erde, glatt und bereit, fest und eben wie ein kleiner Busen der Inseln Amerikas. Meine Hand ist dir viel zu breit. Rainer Maria Rilke , Er war von einer Prinzessin beleckt. Da war die Liebe in ihm erweckt. So liebte er sie vergebens. Das ist die Tragik des Lebens! Comment The Road Not Taken Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear, Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,.
Den 27ten April Franz Grillparzer. Gottfried Benn — http: Wie theuer dein Tuch und die Elle Gewand? Trotz dieser trennenden Kleinigkeit Lernten sie doch dann sich leiden Und gingen klug und bescheiden Abwechselnd durch die Zeit Und gaben einander Kraft und Mut. Und so ist das gut. In plains that room for shadows make Of skirting hills to lie, Bound in by streams which give and take Their colours from the sky; Or on the mountain-crest sublime, Or down the oaken glade, O what have I to do with time?
For this the day was made. Cities of mortals woe begone Fantastic care derides, But in the serious landscape lone Stern benefit abides. Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy, And merry is only a mask of sad, But, sober on a fund of joy, The woods at heart are glad. There the great Planter plants Of fruitful worlds the grain, And with a million spells enchants The souls that walk in pain. Still on the seeds of all he made The rose of beauty burns; Through times that wear, and forms that fade, Immortal youth returns. The black ducks mounting from the lake, The pigeon in the pines, The bittern's boom, a desert make Which no false art refines.
Down in yon watery nook, Where bearded mists divide, The gray old gods whom Chaos knew, The sires of Nature, hide. Aloft, in secret veins of air, Blows the sweet breath of song, O, few to scale those uplands dare, Though they to all belong! See thou bring not to field or stone The fancies found in books; Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own, To brave the landscape's looks. And if, amid this dear delight, My thoughts did home rebound, I well might reckon it a slight To the high cheer I found. Oblivion here thy wisdom is, Thy thrift, the sleep of cares; For a proud idleness like this Crowns all thy mean affairs.
You have just dined, and however scrupulously the slaughterhouse is concealed in the graceful distance of miles, there is complicity. Sie haben soeben zu Mittag gegessen: Comment Serenade So sweet the hour, so calm the time, I feel it more than half a crime, When Nature sleeps and stars are mute, To mar the silence ev'n with lute. At rest on ocean's brilliant dyes An image of Elysium lies: Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven, Form in the deep another seven: Endymion nodding from above Sees in the sea a second love.
Within the valleys dim and brown, And on the spectral mountain's crown, The wearied light is dying down, And earth, and stars, and sea, and sky Are redolent of sleep, as I Am redolent of thee and thine Enthralling love, my Adeline. But list, O list,- so soft and low Thy lover's voice tonight shall flow, That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem My words the music of a dream.
Thus, while no single sound too rude Upon thy slumber shall intrude, Our thoughts, our souls- O God above! In every deed shall mingle, love. Comment Late September Tang of fruitage in the air; Red boughs bursting everywhere; Shimmering of seeded grass; Hooded gentians all a'mass. Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind Tearing off the husky rind, Blowing feathered seeds to fall By the sun-baked, sheltering wall. Beech trees in a golden haze; Hardy sumachs all ablaze, Glowing through the silver birches.