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Search the history of over billion web pages on the Internet. Books by Language Additional Collections. Insel Verlag, Wiesbaden, W. With but few exceptions, all of the translations are new, having been done especially for this volume and appearing here for the first time in Enghsh. The editor wishes par- ticularly to thank the following translators and scholars for exceptional devotion and co-operation, often under difficult conditions: Professor A.
No Cry I mabel cotterell 93 Schweig, Herz! At Least to Be At Peace. The Earth Is So Lovely.
Friedrich List (1789-1846)
Lone in the North a Pine Tree. Bird Omens charles e. None but Your Subtle Ear. Elizabeth closs Auf stiller stadt. Barrett Nun wohne DU darin. A Very Grail I Elevate r. He was educated for the church at the Tiibingen Seminary, but declined orders and became tutor to a rich family. His earhest verse and fragments from the novel Hyperion ap- peared in in almanacs and journals, including Schil- ler's Neue Thalia and Horen. In he entered as tutor into the house of a Frankfurt banker and fell in love with the banker's beautiful young wife, Susette Gontard, who reciprocated his passion and became the "Diotima" of his poems.
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Dismissed by Gontard after a quarrel, he moved on to Hauptwyl, near St. Gallen, and Bordeaux, endeavor- ing to earn his bread from his tutoring. In he re- turned home, insane, to learn of Diotima's death. After re- covering for a brief spell, he relapsed again, and spent the last forty years of his life in Tiibingen, lodged with a car- penter.
His major writings— the work of a young man— were pubhshed by friends after he had lost his reason, and they stand among the supreme poems in the German language. Inspired by the Hellenic world, which he admired to the extent of translating Sophocles, he dreamed of a fusion of Apollo and Christ. Although his themes are, on the whole, the usual ones— love, friendship, the fatherland, nature, freedom— he towers over his contemporaries for the inten- sity of his feelings and the rhythmic flow of his lines.
The tragic sense of hfe seems ever present as death casts its long shadow over man's predicament. Bom after a warm night, in the dawn light long ago, Earth's most beautiful child Lay under clustering grapes. And the boy Looked up to Father Helios, who knew him, And tasting the sweet berries, he chose The sacred vine for his nurse.
As soon as he is grown, the beasts Fear him, for he is other than they— A man. He is not like you and not Like the father, for boldly the high Soul of the father in him is united With your joys and your madness for always, O Earth. Rather would he resemble Eternal Nature, mother of gods, the terrible. Therefore, O Earth, his presumption Drives him away from your breast, and your tender Gifts are in vain; ever and ever too high Does the proud heart beatl Leaving the sweet meadow of his shores Man must go out into flowerless waters.
And though his orchards shine hke the starry night With golden fruit, yet he digs Caves for himself in the mountains and grubs in the pit Far from the sacred ray of his father. Ahl the birds of the wood breathe freer, and though The breast of man more wildly and proudly heaves, His arrogance turns to fear, and the delicate Flowers of tranquillity bloom not for long. As, with shuddering longing, you Hurl yourself down to the flames of the Etna.
So by a queen's wanton whim Pearls were dissolved in wine— heed her noti What folly, poet, to cast your riches Into that bright and bubbhng cup! Yet still are you holy to me, as the might of the earth That bore you away, audaciously perishing! And I would follow the hero into the depths Did not love hold me. Doch heilig hist du mir, wie der Erde Macht, Die dich hin- wegnahm, kiihner Getodteter!
Suffused with a fairer life? Why did they adore me more Then when I was wilder, prouder, Emptier although more full of words?
Warum achtetet ihr mich mehr, Da ich stolzer und wilder, Wortereicher und leerer war? Drunk and drowsy, my soul is filled With all your rapture; for it was only now That I had listened as, with golden Tones, the enchanting youth, the sun-god, On heaven's lyre was playing his evensong; The woods and hills around were resounding all. But far away, where humble nations Worship him still, he is now residing.
The soul, deprived in hfe of her right divine. Can find no rest below in the Orcus' realm; But once I have achieved the sacred Thing that lies close to my heart, the poem.
The First German Philosopher | SpringerLink
Be welcome then, O world of silence and shadesi Content I shall be even without my lyre Accompanying me; for once I Lived like the gods, and no more is needed. So would I, too, come home, if I had Harvested riches to vie with sorrow. You faithful shores, forsaken, that nursed me once. Will you still the sorrows of love, will you promise me.
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You forests of my youth, if I Come, the peace of the heart once more? At the cool brook where I watched the play of waves. The river where I gazed at the gliding ships, There, soon. And loving embraces, brothers' and sisters' arms, I feel them soon, and you surround me That, as in bonds, my heart be healed. You true, you steadfast onesl But I know, I know. The wound of love, this cannot so quickly heal; This no cradlesong mortals pitying Sing to the comfortless, drives from my breast.
For they, the gods, who lend us the heavenly fire.
This holy sorrow also impart to us. So let it be. A son of Earth Am I: to love I was formed, to grieve. Denn sie, die uns das himmlische Feuer leihn, Die Gotter schenken heiliges Leid uns auch, Drum bleibe diss. Ein Sohn der Erde Schein' ich: zu lieben gemacht, zu leiden. And do the ships Turn singing toward your shore once more? Do the light, Longed-for breezes breathe upon your quiet waves? And do the dolphins, lured from the depths, now sun their backs In the new light? Does Ionia bloom? Is it time?
For always, In the spring, when the heart revives in the living, when strong young love Awakes in men with memories of a golden age, I come to you and greet you, silent and great Old ManI You, mighty one, still live, still rest in the shadows of Your mountain, as before; with a young man s arms you embrace Your loved land and your daughters, O father of the bestl None of your blossoming islands is yet lost to us. They all still live, those mothers of heroes, those islands, Blossoming year by year, and when, at times, a fire, A volcanic storm in the night, released from underground.
Seized one of your darlings, and, dying, she sank in your arms. You, godlike, could endure, for over your dark depths You know a world of purposes has risen and sunk. And they, the spirits of the sky, those still forces of the heights.
They who, in the fullness of their power, bring Clear day, sweet slumber, and wonders from far away For thinking, feeling men, they, too, your ancient play- mates. Live with you, as before, and often, in darkening evening. When the holy moonlight comes from the mountains of Asia And the stars meet images of themselves in your waves. You shine with celestial splendor, and so, as they move. Your waters change, the music of your brothers breaks In the sky, and their night-song echoes in your loving heart. Then, when the Sun retiuns, all-clarifying light, When she, the wonder-working child of the east appears.
All who hve and love begin their golden dream. Which she, like a poet, spins each magic morning for them. And to you, O grieving god, she sends a gayer magic.
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And her own friendly light is not so beautiful As the crown, her love gift, which she winds around your loved Gray locks in sign of her remembering, today as in the past. Does not the air embrace you, and, yes, do not the clouds, Your messengers, move toward you from shaken heights With hghtning, gift of gods?
Rushes toward you, exulting, and now the first-born, the old one.
Summary Bibliography: Roger Zelazny
He who withheld himself far too long, your majestic Nile, Striding from distant mountains, like a victor With clangor of armor, comes with open, yearning arms. But you seem lonely now; in the silence of the night The rocks can hear your wailing, and often your winged waves, Angered by mortal ways, rise madly to the sky. For the noble loved ones no longer live with you, They who honored you, who garlanded your shores With fair temples and cities; and always they search and fail, The godly elements, for always, for their glory.
They need the hearts of feeling men, as heroes need their crowns. Tell me, where is Athens? Has your city, dearest To you, the jewel of sacred shores, sunk wholly in ashes Over the luns of the masters, grieving god? Or is there still a sign of her so that the sailor, Perhaps, when he passes by, can call and think of her?
Was it not there that the columns rose high and the images Of the gods shone down from the roof of the citadel? Was it not there that the storm-dark voice of the people roared From the Agora, and from the happy city gates The streets ran down to a heaven-gifted harbor? It was there the far- thinking merchant untied his ship.
Has for years been smugly counting his store of weapons and slaves. Mocking the Greek land and its scattered little islands. For they seemed a joke to the lord and virtually a mirage— That sensitive people, armed with the intellect of gods!