TRANSLATED BY TORSTEN SCHWANKE
I
To practice once again the art’s employ,
Is sacred duty that we now impose;
You, too, can move, as we do, in your pose,
By step and beat, as rules for you employ.
For in restraint, there lies a secret joy,
When spirits surge as mighty rivers rose;
And howsoever they may then enclose,
The work remains, without a base alloy.
So I, in sonnets fashioned with such care,
In proud, linguistic labor, bold and fleet,
Would rhyme the very best that I might feel;
Yet here I find no comfort in my lair.
I love to carve from timber all complete,
But now, at times, I must resort to seal.
II
Nature and Art, they seem to flee each other,
And yet, before we know, they have combined;
The long resistance I have left behind,
And now to both I find myself a brother.
It calls for nothing but a true endeavor!
And when, in measured hours, we are confined,
With spirit and with industry aligned,
Then Nature glows within the heart forever.
So it must be with all of our creation:
In vain will spirits, wild and uncontrolled,
Aspire to reach the heights of pure perfection.
Who aims for greatness needs concentration;
In limitations, mastery is told,
And only law can grant us true direction.
III
A torrent flows from crags in clouds embedded,
To join the ocean, rushing on its way;
Whatever shadows in its depths may play,
It moves toward the valley, unrested.
But then, possessed, it plunges, uncontrolled—
The woods and mountains spin in wild gyration—
As Oreas seeks there a new station,
And stems the tide, within the basin bold.
The wave now sprays, recoils, and starts to flee,
And swells uphill, to drink its own retreat;
The longing for the Father is now checked.
It sways and rests, dammed back into a sea;
The stars, reflected, watch the rhythmic beat,
Upon the rock—a life that’s new-erected.
IV
Wrapped in my cloak, right up unto my chin,
I walked the rocky path, so sharp and gray,
And down toward the winter fields of clay,
My restless spirit wanting to begin.
But suddenly, the day did new begin:
A girl appeared, like heaven on display,
Like those fair women in a poet’s lay,
My longing ceased, and peace did enter in.
Yet I turned round and let her pass me by,
And wrapped myself more tightly in my fold,
As if to warm my heart through stubborn spite—
And followed her! She stopped. And with a sigh,
Within my cloak, no longer could I hold;
I cast it off—she held me in the light.
V
Should I grow so accustomed to her grace?
That would, in the end, be a pure ordeal.
And so I’ll test myself, with present zeal,
And keep my distance from her much-loved face.
But how shall I my heart, my soul, embrace,
If, in this urgent case, I dare not feel?
Come here! Let us our grievances reveal,
In tones of love, that grief and mirth displace.
See, it succeeds! The poet’s signal heard,
The played-out lyre rings with melodic sound,
A sacrifice of love we bring in part.
You hardly think, and lo, complete in word!
But what now? – I think, while fervor is still found,
We hurry there to sing it to her heart.
VI
You look so grave, my love! To this portrayal
Of marble here, I’d like to liken you:
Like it, you give no sign of life to view;
Compared to you, the stone seems soft, in trial.
The foe hides safely 'neath a shield’s denial,
But friends should show a brow both frank and true.
I seek you out, you seek to flee, askew;
Yet stand your ground, like this piece of ritual.
To which of you am I to turn my gaze?
Must I from both endure this frozen sting,
Since this is dead, and you are burning heat?
In short, to waste no more of words and ways,
I will go on this statue kiss and cling,
Until, in jealousy, you snatch me from its seat.
VII
When as a little, well-behaved child, you would spring
With me through meadows, many a spring-tide day:
"For such a daughter, with my cares, I pray,
I’d build a home where blessings I might bring!"
And as you started to survey the world’s ring,
Your joy was found in domestic display.
"A sister such as this! I’d find my way;
How she trusts me, and I to her would cling!"
Now nothing can restrain such lovely growth;
I feel a raging, heated love take hold,
Should I embrace her, to appease the smart?
But oh! I must conceive you as a princess, loath;
You stand so sheer before me, stern and cold;
I bow before your gaze, that fleeting start.
VIII
I am to wean myself from that bright gaze,
My life is not to be adorned by these.
What we call fate, we cannot hope to please—
I knew it well, and stepped back in a maze.
No further joy I sought in future days;
I started then, with such and such degrees,
To wean myself from all necessities;
Nothing seemed needed but her glowing rays.
The fire of wine, the feast, the taste of meat,
The comfort, sleep, and other gifts of grace,
Society—I cast them all away.
So I may travel now with quiet feet:
Whatever I might need is in its place,
And I bring what is vital—love—to stay.
IX
I was insatiable for thousand kisses—
And had to part at last with but the one.
After the bitter grief of coming undone,
The shore I left, where once were all my blisses,
With homes and mountains, hills and river-misses,
As long as it was visible, was sun;
At last, in blue, a feast for eyes was spun
Upon the distant, light-dissolving abysses.
And finally, when seas hemmed in my view,
My burning longing fell back to my breast;
I searched for what was lost, with heavy mind.
But then it seemed the heavens brightly grew;
To me, it felt as if I’d been surely blessed,
As if I had all that I’d left behind.
X
A look from your own eyes into my own,
A kiss from your sweet mouth upon my lips—
To one who knows the joy that in this drips,
Could anything more precious e'er be shown?
Removed from you, to all my own unknown,
My circling thoughts seek out where silence slips,
And always at that hour the spirit dips,
The only one; and tears fall, overthrown.
The tear-drop dries, unlooked-for, in the light:
For he loves back, I think, into this still—
And should you not reach out across the space?
Hear now the whisper of this love’s soft flight;
My only joy on earth is your own will,
Your kindly one to me—grant me a grace!
XI
Why I turn to paper once again?
You must not ask me that, my dearest dear:
For I have nothing new to say, I fear;
Yet it shall reach your loving hands, and then—
Because I cannot come, what I send, when
It carries my whole heart, shall make it clear
With bliss and hope, with joys and sorrows here:
It has no start, it has no end, or pen.
I cannot trust the day to hold my word,
How in my musing, wishing, dreaming, will,
My faithful heart to you is ever turned.
I stood before you once, by silence stirred,
And said nothing. What could I hope to fill?
My whole existence in itself had burned.
XII
If I should send this blank sheet to your door:
Instead of filling it with letters first,
You might fill it, to quench a lonely thirst,
And send it back to me, who’d ask for more.
When I the azure envelope then saw,
Curious and quick, as woman’s way is versed,
I’d tear it open, that no secret cursed
Might hide, and read what moves me to the core:
"Dear child! My lovely heart! My only soul!
How you so kindly calmed my yearning breast
With sweet words, and so spoiled me with your grace."
I’d even read the lisping, soft and whole,
With which you filled my spirit, love-possessed,
And saved me from myself in that embrace.
XIII
When through the folk the grim plague rages wide,
One should be wary of the social sphere.
I’ve often held, with hesitance and fear,
Against such influences, my heart to hide.
And though young Amor often mollified
My guarded soul, I would not draw him near.
It went the same with those "lacrimasse" drear,
When four- and threefold rhymes in them were fried.
But now the punishment pursues the scorner,
As if the serpent-torch of the Eumenides
From mount to vale, from land to sea, did drive.
I hear the laughter of the spirits, mourner;
Yet stripped of every thought, by slow degrees,
The sonnet-fury and love’s madness thrive.
XIV
My sweetest love! In boxes you will find,
Various shapes of sugared, sweet delight.
The fruits these are of holy Christmas night,
Baked solely for the children, well-designed.
I’d like to speak with phrases well-refined
And make you "poetic gingerbread," so bright:
But what is left of such vain, shallow light?
Away with efforts, flattery unblind!
Yet there remains a sweet that from within
To soul speaks, and can reach across the far:
That only to you can waft and take its flight.
And if you feel a memory akin,
As if, to you, blinked some familiar star,
You will not scorn the smallest gift of light.
XV
Upon the Judgment Day, when trumpets sound
And all is over with this earthly life,
We must account for every word of strife,
Each useless word that fell upon the ground.
How will it be with words, all unbound,
In which I gave my longing for your wife-
ly favor, through my efforts, sharp as knife,
If only in your ear they drift around?
So think, my love, upon your conscience deep!
Consider well how long you have delayed,
Lest such a grief upon the world should fall.
If I must calculate and excuses keep
For all the useless chatter that I played,
The Day of Judgment will become a year for all.
XVI
You love and write sonnets! Woe to this whim!
The strength of the heart, to reveal its own light,
Must hunt out for rhymes, and pair them just right—
You children, believe me, the will is too dim.
When quite unconstrained, the heart’s brimming rim
Speaks hardly at all: it keeps out of sight;
Then storms through the strings with all of its might;
Then sinks once again into silence and glim.
Why torment yourselves, and us, on the steep way,
Just rolling the stone, step by step, with such pain,
That falls back again, with new labor to ply?
The Lovers
On the contrary, we are on the right way!
To melt what is frozen, in joy to remain,
Love’s fire must burn with a power most high.
XVII
Maiden:
I doubt the sincerity of verses so tied!
Though I listen with joy to your syllabic play,
It seems to me: what hearts honestly say,
My sweet friend, should not be polished and pried.
The poet is wont, so no boredom may bide,
To rummage his depths in a root-and-branch way;
Yet his wounds he knows how to cool and allay,
With magic words healing the deepest inside.
The Poet:
Look, sweetheart, there! How goes the pyrotechnic?
Trained well in the way that the measures must weather,
With devious cunning he mines his own vault;
But the might of the element is more systemic,
And ere he can see it, he’s blown all together,
With all of his arts, into ether and fault.
XVIII
With script of flame was inscribed most deeply
Petrarch’s own breast, beyond all other days,
On Good Friday. Likewise, I speak in praise,
Advent of Eighteen-Seven holds me steeply.
I did not start; I merely went on loving
Her whom I early in my heart had borne,
Then wisely cast from mind, all bruised and torn,
To whom I now am back, to heart-beat shoving.
Petrarch’s love, that infinitely high one,
Was sadly unrewarded, all too dreary,
A heart-ache, and an eternal Good Friday.
But ever may appear, in joy that’s nigh one,
Sweet, under palm-leaf cheers, in bliss so leery,
My Lady’s coming, a May-day that will stay.
XIX
Two words they are, both short and light to say,
Which we so often call with joyful zest,
Though in no way the things are quite confessed,
Whose stamp they truly carry on their way.
It does quite well in young or elder day,
To burn one by the other, bold and blest;
And if in union they can stand the test,
A state of blessed comfort they convey.
But now I seek to win them both for me,
And pray to be made happy with themselves;
I hope in silence, yet I hope to gain.
To lisp them as a name of her, to be,
To see them both in one clear form that delves,
In one sole being, both to clasp and reign.
(To Minna Herzlieb)