Stefan George

Vier Klassische Gedichte

 

 

 

Come to the park they say is dead, and view
The shimmer of the smiling shores beyond,
The stainless clouds with unexpected blue
Diffuse a light on motley path and pond.

The tender grey, the burning yellow seize
Of birch and boxwood, mellow is the breeze.
Not wholly do the tardy roses wane,
So kiss and gather them and wreathe the chain.

The purple on the twists of wilding vine,
The last of asters you shall not forget,
And what of living verdure lingers yet,
Around the autumn vision lightly twine.

 

 

 

Hyperion

 

I journeyed home: such flood of blossoms never
Had welcomed me ... a throbbing in the field
And in the grove there was of sleeping powers.
I saw the river, slope and shire enthralled,
And you, my brothers, sun-heirs of the future:
Your eyes, still chase, are harboring a dream,
Once yearning thoughts in you, to blood shall alter ...
My sorrow-stricken life to slumber leans,
But graciously does heaven's promise guerdon
The fervent ... who may never pace the Realm.
I shall be earth, shall be the grave of heroes,
That sacred sons approach to be fulfilled.
With them the second age comes, love engendered
The world, again shall love engender it.
I spoke the spell, the circle has been woven ...
Before the darkness fall, I shall be snatched
Aloft and know: through cherished fields shall wander
On weightless soles, aglow and real, the God.

 

 

 

Besuch

Visit

 

Sun with a mellower fall
Plot of your garden edges,
Slants through the house in hedges
Down through gaps in the wall.

Birds are astir on the grass,
Twigs of bushes are blowing,
After the daystar's glowing
Fares now again pass.

Fill then the bucket straightway!
Shower the gravel and osiers,
Flowers unfolding in closures,
Wall-bloom and rose asway!

And near the bricks by the seat,
Break the ivy too lavish!
Buds for a carpet ravish!
Cool be the air and sweet

 

 

 

Danksagung

Giving Thanks

 

The summer field is parched with evil fire,
And from a shoreland trail of trodden clover
I saw my head in waters thick with mire
That wrath of far-off thunder dimmed with red.
The mornings after frantic nights are dread:
The cherished gardens turned to stifling stall,
Untimely snow of bane the trees filmed over,
And upward rose the lark with hopeless call.

Then through the land on weightless soles you stray,
And bright it grows with colors you have laid,
You bid us pluck the fruits from joyous spray,
And rout the shadows lurking in the night ...
Did I not weave-you and your tranquil light-
This crown in thanks, who ever could have known
That more than sun, long days for me you rayed,
And evenings more than any starry zone.

 

 

 

These translations were first published in 1947 by Pantheon Books.