The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 01. Коллектив авторов

        A child refused to go betimes

        To church like other people;

        He roamed abroad, when rang the chimes

        On Sundays from the steeple.

        His mother said: "Loud rings the bell,

        Its voice ne'er think of scorning;

        Unless thou wilt behave thee well,

        'Twill fetch thee without warning."

        The child then thought: "High over head

        The bell is safe suspended—"

        So to the fields he straightway sped

        As if 'twas school-time ended.

        The bell now ceased as bell to ring,

        Roused by the mother's twaddle;

        But soon ensued a dreadful thing!—

        The bell begins to waddle.

        It waddles fast, though strange it seem;

        The child, with trembling wonder,

        Runs off, and flies, as in a dream;

        The bell would draw him under.

        He finds the proper time at last,

        And straightway nimbly rushes

        To church, to chapel, hastening fast

        Through pastures, plains, and bushes.

        Each Sunday and each feast as well,

        His late disaster heeds he;

        The moment that he hears the bell,

        No other summons needs he.

        Once through the forest

        Alone I went;

        To seek for nothing

        My thoughts were bent.

        I saw i' the shadow

        A flower stand there;

        As stars it glisten'd,

        As eyes 'twas fair.

        I sought to pluck it,—

        It gently said:

        "Shall I be gather'd

        Only to fade?"

        With all its roots

        I dug it with care,

        And took it home

        To my garden fair.

        In silent corner

        Soon it was set;

        There grows it ever,

        There blooms it yet.

        Locks of brown, still bind your captive

        In the circle of her face!

        I, beloved sinuous tresses,

        Naught possess that's worth your grace—

        But a heart whose love enduring

        Swells in youthful fervor yet:

        Snow and mists envelop Etna,

        Making men the fire forget.

        Yonder mountain's pride so stately

        Thou dost shame like dawn's red glow;

        And its spell once more bids Hatem

        Thrill of spring and summer know.

        Once more fill the glass, the flagon!

        Let me drink to my desire.

        If she find a heap of ashes,

        Say, "He perished in her fire!"

        Can it be, O star transcendent,

        That I fold thee to my breast?

        Now I know, what depths of anguish

        May in parting be expressed.

        Yes, 'tis thou, of all my blisses

        Lovely, loving partner—thou!

        Mindful of my bygone sorrows,

        E'en the present awes me now.

        When the world in first conception

        Lay in God's eternal mind,

        In creative power delighting

        He the primal hour designed.

        When he gave command for being,

        Then was heard a mighty sigh

        Full of pain, as all creation

        Broke into reality.

        Up then sprang the light; and darkness

        Doubtful stood apart to gaze;

        All the elements, dividing

        Swiftly, took their several ways.

        In confused, disordered dreaming

        Strove they all for freedom's range—

        Each for self, no fellow-feeling;

        Single each, and cold and strange.

        Lo, a marvel—God was lonely!

        All was still and cold and dumb.

        So he framed dawn's rosy blushes

        Whence should consolation come—

        To refresh the troubled spirit

        Harmonies of color sweet:

        What had erst been forced asunder

        Now at last could love and meet.

        Then, ah then, of life unbounded

        Sight and feeling passed the gates;

        Then, ah then, with eager striving

        Kindred atoms sought their mates.

        Gently, roughly they may seize them,

        So they catch and hold them fast:

        "We," they cry, "are now creators—

        Allah now may rest at last!"

        So with rosy wings of morning

        Towards thy lips my being moves;

        Sets the starry night a thousand

        Glowing seals upon our loves.

        We are as we should be—parted

        Ne'er on earth in joy or pain;

        And no second word creative

        E'er can sunder us again!

        In His blest name, who was His own creation,

      Who