Never again. But this having been once, even if but once: to have been earthly appears indestructible. Not the beholding, so slowly Learned here, and nothing happened here. No, nothing. Therefore, the pain. Therefore, above all, harsh existence, therefore, the long experience of love,--therefore the simply unsayable. But later, under the stars, what is still to be: they are better unsayable. In Ehrfurcht nennt sie sie, sagt; - Bei den Menschen ist sie ein tragender Strom.
Und da umarmt sie ihn, weinend. Einsam steigt er dahin, in die Berge des Ur-Leids. Und nicht einmal sein Schritt klingt aus dem tonlosen Los. In awe she names it, saying: Among humans it is a carrying stream. Standing at the foot of the mountains. And there she wraps her arms around him, weeping. Alone, he ascends to it, into the mountains of primordial pain. And not once does his step sound from the toneless destined lot. But they awoke for us, the unendingly dead, a parable; see: perhaps it was the flowering catkins of the empty hazel they showed us, the ones that were hanging; or perhaps what was meant was the rain that falls on the dark earth when the year is young.
And we, who contemplate on ascending bliss, would receive the movement that nearly unsettles us, should something of bliss fall. Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr. The summer was so immense. Lay your shadows upon the sundial, and over the fields let loose the winds. Command the final fruits to be full; grant them yet two more southerly days, impel them to fulfillment, and cast the final sweetness into the heavy wine.
Whoever has no house now will build no other.
Whoever is alone now will long remain so, will wake, read, write long letters, and restless will wander about in the alleys when the leaves blow. O du wandelnder Geist, du wandelndster! Du nur ziehst wie der Mond. Doch selber sein Umsturz irrte dich nicht. Here, falling is the most fitting.
What comes out of accomplished feeling falls further into premonition. To you, you majestic one, to you enchanter, a full life was the impelling image, when you chanted it. The line embraced you as fate; a death was itself within what was most gentle, and you met him, but the forerunner god led you forth, above. O you wandering spirit, you who wander more than all others! Yet how they all live in their comfortable poem, at home, and linger long in the narrow parable, collaborators.
Only you draw us forth as the moon. And below, it illuminates and darkens, your nocturnal and sacredly shocked landscape that you feel in farewells. None gave you away with more grandeur, gave you back to the All more wholly, undemandingly.
O, what the Highest Ones crave, you laid it wishless, stone upon stone: it stood! Yet not even its fall disturbed you. What, when such a one lived, one eternal, do we still mistrust the earthly, always? Instead of inclining seriously to the forerunner, future in space? Sie steigt vom Meer den Abenden entgegen; von Ebenen, die fern sind und entlegen, geht sie zum Himmel, der sie immer hat.
She ascends from the sea towards the evening; from the plains, distant and displaced, she ascends to the sky, which is ever her own. Nicht uns, auch Eures bewahrt sie, [ Und bei den Heiligtiimern, den Waffen des Worts, I Die scheidend ihr den Ungeschickteren uns, Ihr Schicksals- sohne, zuriickgelassen, Ihr guten Geister, da seid ihr auch, Oftmals, wenn einen dann die heilige Wolk umschwebt, Da staunen wir und wissens nioht zu deuten.
Ihr aber wiirzt mit Nektar uns den Othem Und dann frohlocken wir oft oder es bef aUt uns Ein Sinnen, wenn ihr aber einen zu sehr liebt, Er ruht nicht, bis er euer einer geworden. Darum, ihr Giitigenl umgebet mich leicht, Damit ich bleiben moge, denn noch ist manches zu singen, Jetzt aber endiget, selig- weinend, Wie eine Sage der Liebe, Mir der Gesang, und so auch ist er Mir, mit Erroten, Erblassen, Von Anfang her ge- gangen. Doch Alles geht so. There it is that on feast days go The swarthy women Upon silken ground, At the time of March When night is equal with day. And over slow passes.
Heavy with golden dreams, Drift wild airs bringing sleep. But let one hand me, Full of the dark hght. The fragrant cup.
That I might rest; for sweet Sleep would be, under shadows. It is not good Soulless to be, with mortal Thoughts. Yet good Is converse, and to say The heart's meaning, to hear much Of days of love, And events, the doing of deeds. But where are the friends? Bellarmin With the companion? Many a one Bears shyness, timid to go to the source; The beginning of riches is truly In the sea.
They, the seafarers, Like painters, assemble The beautiful of the earth, and do not disdain Winged war, and suffer To live alone, yearlong, under The leafless mast, where the night is not lit up With the glow-lamps of the town's feast days. Nor the playing of strings nor innate dancing.
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The river goes out. The sea, though, Takes and gives recollection, And love, too, fixes the eyes intently. What endures, however, poets create. Nicht ist es gut Seellos von sterb- lichen Gedanken zu seyn. Wo aber sind die Freunde? Bellarmin Mit dem Gefahrten? Was bleibet aber, stiften die Dichter. But where danger is, there Arises salvation also. In darkness dwell The eagles, and fearless across the abyss Go the sons of the Alps On hghtly built bridges.
Therefore, since all round are upheaped The summits of time. And those that dwell nearest in love Must languish on uttermost mountains, Give us then innocent water, pinions give us, to pass Over with constant minds and again return. So I spoke, when swifter Than I had fancied, and far. Whither I never had thought to come, A Genius bore me away From my house. In the twilight The shadowy woods darkened as I went And the yearning brooks of my home; No more did I know these lands.
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Mysterious In the golden smoke. Swiftly sprung up With the tread of the sun, Asia bloomed out before me. But high in the light Blossoms the silver snow, And, witness to life everlasting. On attainless walls The immemorial ivy grows, and upborne Upon living columns of cedars and laurels Are the solemn, The divinely built palaces.
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But about Asia's portals. Running hither and thither In hazardous wastes of sea Ripple shadowless ways enough, Yet the seaman knoweth the isles. Yet bountiful In the needier house Is she nonetheless. And when out of shipwreck or in Lament for his home Or the departed friend.
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One of the strangers Draws near to her, she hears it with joy, And her children. The voices of the warm glade And the rock-dwelling breezes And the rocks too, they hear him, and lovingly The echo rings out to the lament of the man. And the watchful man viewed well The face of the god As, at the mystery of the vine. They sat together, at the hour of the banquet, And quietly prescient in his great soul The Lord spake death and the last love; For never enough Had he of words for telling of kindness At that time, and gladdening. When he saw it, the wrath of the world. For all things are good.
Therefore he died. Of that There were much to be said. And the friends saw How he gazed forth victorious, The most joyful of all, at the last. Yet they mourned, as now It was grown evening, astounded, For in their souls the men weighed A mighty decision, but they loved Life under the sun, and they would not leave The face of the Lord and their homeland. Inwrought was that As fire in the iron, and at their side Went the shadow of the Beloved.
Therefore he sent them The Spirit, and the house trembled. And the storm of God Rolled far-thundering over their fateful heads. Where brooding Were gathered the heroes of death Now as he, in departure, Once more appeared before them. No good Had it been later, cleaving abruptly And truthless, the work of man, and it was joy From now on To dwell in loving night and maintain Steadfast in simple eyes Abysses of wisdom.
And deep On the mountains too Living images flourish. Yet it is dreadful how far and wide God endlessly scatters the living.