Lieber Daniel: Briefe an meinen Sohn (German Edition)

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Streaming available at the link above profile description: An emotional dialogue with the world we really hope you take part in, and enjoy. Encenalls De Mort Irreals 7: Espectres Al Cau Irreals 7: Les Irreals Visions Irreals 7: Not free from boding thoughts, a while The Shepherd stood; then makes his way O'er rocks and stones, following the Dog As quickly as he may; Nor far had gone before he found A human skeleton on the ground; The appalled Discoverer with a sigh Looks round, to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks The Man had fallen, that place of fear! At length upon the Shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear: He instantly recalled the name, And who he was, and whence he came; Remembered, too, the very day On which the Traveller passed this way. But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell! A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well. The Dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry, This Dog, had been through three months' space A dweller in that savage place. Yes, proof was plain that, since the day When this ill-fated Traveller died, The Dog had watched about the spot, Or by his master's side: How nourished here through such long time He knows, who gave that love sublime; And gave that strength of feeling, great Above all human estimate!

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She being Brand -new; and you know consequently a little stiff i was careful of her and having thoroughly oiled the universal joint tested my gas felt of her radiator made sure her springs were O. Christian Morgenstern — Comment Da kann ich nur sagen zwei Dumme ein Gedanke Kennst du das hier schon? Vorm Fliegelflagel sieh dich vor, dem mampfen Schnatterrind! In sich gekeimt, so stand er hier: Die biffe Klinge ritscheropf! Trennt er vom Hals den toten Kopf, Und wiehernd sprengt er heim. Komm an mein Herz, aromer Sohn! Das Original hab ich nicht parat Comment The Morning-Watch O joys!

All the long hours Of night, and rest, Through the still shrouds Of sleep, and clouds, This dew fell on my breast; Oh, how it bloods And spirits all my earth! In what rings And hymning circulations the quick world Awakes and sings; The rising winds And falling springs, Birds, beasts, all things Adore him in their kinds. O let me climb When I lie down! The pious soul by night Is like a clouded star whose beams, though said To shed their light Under some cloud, Yet are above, And shine and move Beyond that misty shroud. Comment A Summer Morning Never was sun so bright before, No matin of the lark so sweet, No grass so green beneath my feet, Nor with such dewdrops jewelled o'er.

I stand with thee outside the door, The air not yet is close with heat, And far across the yellowing wheat The waves are breaking on the shore. Yet many such, Each like to each, this month have passed, And none did so supremely shine. One thing they lacked: Middle English, from Anglo-French, 14th century Morgen. In concluding my notices of this class of poems it may be as well to observe that among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets" are a few alluding to morning impressions which might be read with mutual benefit in connection with these "Evening Voluntaries.

Time was when field and watery cove With modulated echoes rang, While choirs of fervent Angels sang Their vespers in the grove; Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height, Warbled, for heaven above and earth below, Strains suitable to both. II No sound is uttered,--but a deep And solemn harmony pervades The hollow vale from steep to steep, And penetrates the glades. Far-distant images draw nigh, Called forth by wondrous potency Of beamy radiance, that imbues, Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues!

In vision exquisitely clear, Herds range along the mountain side; And glistening antlers are descried; And gilded flocks appear.


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Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve! But long as god-like wish, or hope divine, Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe That this magnificence is wholly thine! III And, if there be whom broken ties Afflict, or injuries assail, Yon hazy ridges to their eyes Present a glorious scale, Climbing suffused with sunny air, To stop--no record hath told where! And tempting Fancy to ascend, And with immortal Spirits blend! Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad, And see to what fair countries ye are bound!

And if some traveller, weary of his road, Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground, Ye Genii! IV Such hues from their celestial Urn Were wont to stream before mine eye, Where'er it wandered in the morn Of blissful infancy. This glimpse of glory, why renewed? Nay, rather speak with gratitude; For, if a vestige of those gleams Survived, 'twas only in my dreams.

Alstone, now in America. It is pleasant to make this public acknowledgment to a man of genius, whom I have the honour to rank among my friends. Allusions to the Ode, entitled "Intimations of Immortality," pervade the last stanza of the foregoing Poem. Ich bin wirklich gespannt auf mehr von William Wordsworth zum Morgen- und Abendthema. August in Montagnola, Schweiz. EARTH has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: So Fancy, to the musing Poet's eye, Endears that Lingerer. And how blest her sway Like influence never may my soul reject If the calm Heaven, now to its zenith decked With glorious forms in numberless array, To the lone shepherd on the hills disclose Gleams from a world in which the saints repose.

Thanks; thou hast snapped a fireside Prisoner's chain, Exulting Warbler! Yes, I will forth, bold Bird! Comment Proletarian Poet A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing the sidewalk Her shoe in her hand. Looking intently into it She pulls out the paper insole to find the nail That has been hurting her William Carlos Williams http: It seems that death has found the portals it will enter by: Looking up "pneumonia," I learn it can, like an erratic dog, turn mean and snap life short for someone under two or "very old over November Ein Weckruf?

Scheinbar fand der Tod das Tor, durch das er Eintritt suchen wird bei mir: Auf welches Instrument sind wir gespannt? Und welcher Geiger hat uns in der Hand? Neue Gedichte Rainer Maria Rlke. How shall I lift it gently up over you on to other things? I would so very much like to tuck it away among long lost objects in the dark. Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie. If church and court reply, Then give them both the lie. If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie. Tell men of high condition, That manage the estate, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate.

And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending. And if they make reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell zeal it wants devotion; Tell love it is but lust; Tell time it is but motion; Tell flesh it is but dust. And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie. Tell age it daily wasteth; Tell honor how it alters; Tell beauty how she blasteth; Tell favor how it falters.

And as they shall reply, Give every one the lie. Tell wit how much it wrangles In tickle points of niceness; Tell wisdom she entangles Herself in overwiseness. And when they do reply, Straight give them both the lie. Tell physic of her boldness; Tell skill it is pretension; Tell charity of coldness; Tell law it is contention. And as they do reply, So give them still the lie.

Tell fortune of her blindness; Tell nature of decay; Tell friendship of unkindness; Tell justice of delay. And if they will reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming; Tell schools they want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming. If arts and schools reply, Give arts and schools the lie.

And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie. So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing— Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing— Stab at thee he that will, No stab the soul can kill. Comment The Act There were the roses, in the rain. Agh, we were all beautiful once, she said, and cut them and gave them to me William Carlos Williams http: Die Tathandlung Da standen die Rosen im Regen. Ich bitt dich, schneid sie nicht ab. Comment The Dream Of Wearing Shorts Forever To go home and wear shorts forever in the enormous paddocks, in that warm climate, adding a sweater when winter soaks the grass, to camp out along the river bends for good, wearing shorts, with a pocketknife, a fishing line and matches, or there where the hills are all down, below the plain, to sit around in shorts at evening on the plank verandah - If the cardinal points of costume are Robes, Tat, Rig and Scunge, where are shorts in this compass?

Nur die seligen Engel wachen, Leise durch den Himmel schwebend, Alle, die hier unten schieden, An die reinen Herzen hebend. Theodor Storm — Two years at least passed between the writing of the four first stanzas and the remaining part. To the attentive and competent reader the whole sufficiently explains itself; but there may be no harm in adverting here to particular feelings or 'experiences' of my own mind on which the structure of the poem partly rests.

Nothing was more difficult for me in childhood than to admit the notion of death as a state applicable to my own being. I have said elsewhere-- "A simple child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death! I used to brood over the stories of Enoch and Elijah, and almost to persuade myself that, whatever might become of others, I should be translated, in something of the same way, to heaven.

With a feeling congenial to this, I was often unable to think of external things as having external existence, and I communed with all that I saw as something not apart from, but inherent in, my own immaterial nature. Many times while going to school have I grasped at a wall or tree to recall myself from this abyss of idealism to the reality. At that time I was afraid of such processes. In later periods of life I have deplored, as we have all reason to do, a subjugation of an opposite character, and have rejoiced over the remembrances, as is expressed in the lines-- "Obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings;" etc.

To that dream-like vividness and splendour which invest objects of sight in childhood, every one, I believe, if he would look back, could bear testimony, and I need not dwell upon it here: It is far too shadowy a notion to be recommended to faith, as more than an element in our instincts of immortality. But let us bear in mind that, though the idea is not advanced in revelation, there is nothing there to contradict it, and the fall of Man presents an analogy in its favour.

Accordingly, a pre-existent state has entered into the popular creeds of many nations; and, among all persons acquainted with classic literature, is known as an ingredient in Platonic philosophy. Archimedes said that he could move the world if he had a point whereon to rest his machine. Who has not felt the same aspirations as regards the world of his own mind? Having to wield some of its elements when I was impelled to write this poem on the "Immortality of the Soul," I took hold of the notion of pre- existence as having sufficient foundation in humanity for authorising me to make for my purpose the best use of it I could as a poet.

It is not now as it hath been of yore;-- Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. II The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose, The Moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare, Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath past away a glory from the earth. III Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong: The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every Beast keep holiday;-- Thou Child of Joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!

IV Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all. The Pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

V Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy, But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

VI Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a Mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely Nurse doth all she can To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little Actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation.

VIII Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy Soul's immensity; Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,-- Mighty Prophet! On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?

Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence: Hence in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither, Can in a moment travel thither, And see the Children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

X Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young Lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born Day Is lovely yet; The Clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. Comment Hier ist die englische Variante, December. But midst the crowd, the hurry, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel and to possess, And roam alone, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!

None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less Of all the flattered, followed, sought and sued; This is to be alone; this, this is solitude! Comment Und da wir gerade beim Thema 'Solitude, sind It was founded on a circumstance told me by my Sister, of a little girl who, not far from Halifax in Yorkshire, was bewildered in a snow-storm.

Her footsteps were traced by her parents to the middle of the lock of a canal, and no other vestige of her, backward or forward, could be traced. The body however was found in the canal. The way in which the incident was treated and the spiritualising of the character might furnish hints for contrasting the imaginative influences which I have endeavoured to throw over common life with Crabbe's matter of fact style of treating subjects of the same kind. This is not spoken to his disparagement, far from it, but to direct the attention of thoughtful readers, into whose hands these notes may fall, to a comparison that may both enlarge the circle of their sensibilities, and tend to produce in them a catholic judgment.

And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, --The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb: But never reached the town. The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept--and, turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet;" --When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone-wall; And then an open field they crossed: The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none! O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. Solitude To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean; This is not solitude, 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.

Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings? Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;-- I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more. Comment When we two are parted When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning Sank chill on my brow It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well: Long, long shall I rue thee Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met In silence I grieve That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? With silence and tears. Comment Als wir uns trennten Lord Byron: Der Tau fiel schaurig Im Morgenrot: In Schweigen und Leid. JULY 13, No poem of mine was composed under circumstances more pleasant for me to remember than this. I began it upon leaving Tintern, after crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol in the evening, after a ramble of four or five days, with my Sister.

Not a line of it was altered, and not any part of it written down till I reached Bristol. It was published almost immediately after in the little volume of which so much has been said in these Notes. FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses.

Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild: With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration: Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.

If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: For nature then The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by To me was all in all.

The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompence. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels 0 All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.

Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear,--both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognise In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes.

Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee: Nor, perchance-- If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence--wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!

Twinkling with delight in the house twinkling with the moonlight, Bless my baby bless my baby bright,. Gertrude Stein - http: Comment The Yellow Gas The yellow gas is fired from street to street past rows of heartless homes and hearths unlit, dead churches, and the unending pavement beat by crowds - say rather, haggard shades that flit Round nightly haunts of their delusive dream, where'er our paradisal instinct starves: Ay, we had saved our days and kept them whole, to whom no part in our old joy remains, had felt those bright winds sweeping thro' our soul and all the keen sea tumbling in our veins, Had thrill'd to harps of sunrise, when the height whitens, and dawn dissolves in virgin tears, or caught, across the hush'd ambrosial night, the choral music of the swinging spheres, Or drunk the silence if nought else - But no!

I only pray, red flame or deluge, may that end be soon! Christopher Brennan — Seele des Menschen, wie gleichst du dem Wasser! Schicksal des Menschen, wie gleichst du dem Wind! Goethe Meine Seele;- http: Comment Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose Gertrude Stein.

In garb, then, resembling Some gay gondolier, I'll whisper thee, trembling, "Our bark, love, is near: Ein Schifferkleid trag' ich Zur selbigen Zeit, Und zitternd dir sag' ich: Ferdinand von Freiligrath — Comment Weil es gerade so gut passt: Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren, und auf den Fluren lass die Winde los. Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr. Comment Das Reden nimmt kein End' 1. Zu Frankfurt an dem Main — Uns soll geholfen sein. Zu Frankfurt an dem Main — Bald zieht der Kaiser ein. Zu Frankfurt an dem Main — So schlag' der Teufel d'rein!

Die Welt sie steht in Flammen, Sie sitzen noch beisammen. Wie lange soll es dauern Das Parla — Parla — Parlament?

O Volk mach' ihm ein End'! Your summer's reign was grand. Beshadow now the dials of your sun and let your winds run rough across the land. The latest fruits command to fill and shine: For them, let two more warmer days arrive to push them to perfection and to drive the final sweetness in the heavy wine. The man without a house will build no more, the man without a mate will sole remain, will wake, will read, write letters long with pain and walk the boulevards, restless to the core, where falling leaves are drifting with the rain.

Translation by Walter A. The summer was immense. Let thine shadows upon the sundials fall, and unleash the winds upon the open fields. Command the last fruits into fullness; give them just two more ripe, southern days, urge them into completion and press the last bit of sweetness into the heavy wine.

He who has no house now, will no longer build. He who is alone now, will remain alone, will awake in the night, read, write long letters, and will wander restlessly along the avenues, back and forth, as the leaves begin to blow. Frankfurter Anthologie FAZ — Juni — Nr. Seele des Menschen, Wie gleichst du dem Wasser! Schicksal des Menschen, Wie gleichst du dem Wind! Karl Friedrich von Gerok deutscher Theologe und Lyriker.

Und kam in Pantinen ein Junge daher, So rief er: So ging es viel Jahre, bis lobesam Der von Ribbeck auf Ribbeck zu sterben kam. Legt mir eine Birne mit ins Grab. Und die Kinder klagten, das Herze schwer: Wer giwt uns nu 'ne Beer? Theodor Fontane — Entstanden Comment Michelsode Ihr habet Anno 13 den Michel gewecket und ihn aus dem bleiernen Schlaf geschrecket: Ihr habt die Zensur gelobt und gepriesen und ihre Notwendigkeit Micheln bewiesen: Hoffmann von Fallersleben, Ode to Psyche O Goddess! Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?

I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet, scarce espied: Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass; Their arms embraced, and their pinions too; Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: The winged boy I knew; But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?

O latest born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy! Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor altar heap'd with flowers; Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan Upon the midnight hours; No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet From chain-swung censer teeming; No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming; Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same: And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!

Zephir; eine Windgottheit aus der griech. Dryaden; Baumgeister der griech. Comment Survivor Everyday, I think about dying. About disease, starvation, violence, terrorism, war, the end of the world. It helps keep my mind off things. A largesse of life and self, brushed all calm and out, its abstracted attempts on her mouth weren't seen, not its showering, its tenting. Just the detail that swam in its flow-lines, glossing about— as she paced on, comet-like, face to the sun.

A silent suffering, and intense; The rock, the vulture, and the chain, All that the proud can feel of pain, The agony they do not show, The suffocating sense of woe, Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until its voice is echoless. The wretched gift Eternity Was thine--and thou hast borne it well. All that the Thunderer wrung from thee Was but the menace which flung back On him the torments of thy rack; The fate thou didst so well foresee, But would not to appease him tell; And in thy Silence was his Sentence, And in his Soul a vain repentance, And evil dread so ill dissembled, That in his hand the lightnings trembled.

Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, To render with thy precepts less The sum of human wretchedness, And strengthen Man with his own mind; But baffled as thou wert from high, Still in thy patient energy, In the endurance, and repulse Of thine impenetrable Spirit, Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit: Thou art a symbol and a sign To Mortals of their fate and force; Like thee, Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source; And Man in portions can foresee His own funereal destiny; His wretchedness, and his resistance, And his sad unallied existence: To which his Spirit may oppose Itself--and equal to all woes, And a firm will, and a deep sense, Which even in torture can descry Its own concenter'd recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making Death a Victory.

George Gordon Lord Byron Wer rettete vom Tode mich, Von Sklaverei? Hast du die Schmerzen gelindert Je des Beladenen? Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Entstanden zwischen und Der Wind hat sich in einem Baum gefangen. An einem Fenster klebt ein fetter Mann. Ein grauer Clown zieht sich die Stiefel an. Ein Kinderwagen schreit und Hunde fluchen.

Alfred Lichtenstein — Comment Le Jardin The lily's withered chalice falls Around its rod of dusty gold, And from the beech-trees on the wold The last wood-pigeon coos and calls. The gaudy leonine sunflower Hangs black and barren on its stalk, And down the windy garden walk The dead leaves scatter, - hour by hour. Pale privet-petals white as milk Are blown into a snowy mass: The roses lie upon the grass Like little shreds of crimson silk.

Comment Thank you, meera. Au Jardin O you away high there, you that lean From amber lattices upon the cobalt night, I am below amid the pine trees, Amid the little pine trees, hear me! Well, there's no use your loving me That way, Lady; For I've nothing but songs to give you. Heinrich Heine — Na, un denn --? Denn jehn die Beeden brav ins Bett.

Wat tun se, wenn se sich nich kissn? Denn kricht det junge Paar 'n Kind. Denn kocht sie Milch. Denn macht er Krach. Denn is det Kind nich uffn Damm. Denn bleihm die Beeden doch zesamm. Er will noch wat mit blonde Haare: Denn sind se alt. Der Sohn haut ab. Der Olle macht nu ooch bald schlapp. Wie der noch scharf uff Muttern war, det is schon beinah nich mehr wahr! Comment Ode To A Chestnut On The Ground From bristly foliage you fell complete, polished wood, gleaming mahogany, as perfect as a violin newly born of the treetops, that falling offers its sealed-in gifts, the hidden sweetness that grew in secret amid birds and leaves, a model of form, kin to wood and flour, an oval instrument that holds within it intact delight, an edible rose.

In the heights you abandoned the sea-urchin burr that parted its spines in the light of the chestnut tree; through that slit you glimpsed the world, birds bursting with syllables, starry dew below, the heads of boys and girls, grasses stirring restlessly, smoke rising, rising. You made your decision, chestnut, and leaped to earth, burnished and ready, firm and smooth as the small breasts of the islands of America. You fell, you struck the ground, but nothing happened, the grass still stirred, the old chestnut sighed with the mouths of a forest of trees, a red leaf of autumn fell, resolutely, the hours marched on across the earth.

Because you are only a seed, chestnut tree, autumn, earth, water, heights, silence prepared the germ, the floury density, the maternal eyelids that buried will again open toward the heights the simple majesty of foliage, the dark damp plan of new roots, the ancient but new dimensions of another chestnut tree in the earth. They numb Fast-locked, and fill with fear. Aue ist sehr gut gelungen. September Morning The world's adream in fog's embrace, Still slumber woods and meadows: But soon, through the dissolving lace, You'll see the blue of endless space, The milder grace of autumn's face Transcending golden shadows.

Comment The Tuft of Flowers I went to turn the grass once after one Who mowed it in the dew before the sun. The dew was gone that made his blade so keen Before I came to view the levelled scene. I looked for him behind an isle of trees; I listened for his whetstone on the breeze. But he had gone his way, the grass all mown, And I must be, as he had been,—alone, As all must be,' I said within my heart, Whether they work together or apart. And once I marked his flight go round and round, As where some flower lay withering on the ground. Comment A Minor Bird I have wished a bird would fly away, And not sing by my house all day; Have clapped my hands at him from the door When it seemed as if I could bear no more.

The fault must partly have been in me. The bird was not to blame for his key. And of course there must be something wrong In wanting to silence any song. Comment Die freie Marktwirtschaft Ihr sollt die verfluchten Tarife abbauen. Ihr sollt auf euern Direktor vertrauen. Kein Betriebsrat quatsche uns mehr herein, wir wollen freie Wirtschaftler sein! Fort, die Gruppen - sei unser Panier! Ihr sollt nicht mehr zusammenstehn - wollt ihr wohl auseinandergehn!

a new land book one of twin moons saga Manual

Keine Kartelle in unserm Revier! Wir stehen neben den Hochofenflammen in Interessengemeinschaften fest zusammen. Gut organisiert sitzen wir hier Kurt Tucholsky — Comment Herbstaugen Presse dich eng an den Boden. Die Erde riecht noch nach Sommer,. So kommt es denn zuletzt heraus, Dass ich ein ganz famoses Haus.

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Der Dorfschulmeister stieg hinauf auf seines Blechschilds Messingknauf und sprach zum Wolf, der seine Pfoten geduldig kreuzte vor dem Toten: Doch da er kein Gelehrter eben, so schied er dankend und ergeben. Comment Herbstbild Dies ist ein Herbsttag, wie ich keinen sah! Christian Friedrich Hebbel — Comment The Teasers Not but they die, the teasers and the dreams, Not but they die, and tell the careful flood To give them what they clamour for and why. You could not fancy where they rip to blood You could not fancy nor that mud I have heard speak that will not cake or dry. Our claims to act appear so small to these Our claims to act colder lunacies That cheat the love, the moment, the small fact.

Comment Missing Dates Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills. It is not the effort nor the failure tires. The waste remains, the waste remains and kills. It is not your system or clear sight that mills Down small to the consequence a life requires; Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills. They bled an old dog dry yet the exchange rills Of young dog blood gave but a month's desires.

Was ist die Welt? Ihren Duft atme ich ein und sehne mich nach Bist du minder fest als jene, Bist du heller doch, als sie; Bist du minder hell als dieser, Bist du fester doch, als er, Und beide - willst du ruhig quellen - Spiegeln sich vereint in deinen Wellen. Franz Grillparzer Comment To Autumn O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, And all the daughters of the year shall dance!

Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers. William Blake — http: Es hielt sich lange auf der Flucht auf und sog sich ganz mit Lichte an; - da hob die Nacht die goldne Frucht auf: Schwarz ward die Wolke und zerrann. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Einsam in dem Kampf wie in der Ruh. Comment Eleanor Rigby Aaaaah look at all the lonely people. Aaaaah look at all the lonely people. Eleanor Rigby Picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been; Lives in a dream. Waits at the window, Wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door. Who is it for? All the lonely people, where do they all come from?

All the lonely people, where do they all belong? Father MacKenzie Writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear; No one comes near. Look at him working, Nodding his socks in the night when there's nobody there. What does he care? Eleanor Rigby Died in the church and was buried alone with her name. Father MacKenzie Wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from her grave. No one was saved. I was wandering round Bristol one day and saw a shop called Rigby. But I just liked the name. I was looking for a name that sounded natural. Eleanor Rigby sounded natural. Paul McCartney, Playboy, ; cf.

Comment Evening Primrose When once the sun sinks in the west, And dewdrops pearl the evening's breast; Almost as pale as moonbeams are, Or its companionable star, The evening primrose opes anew Its delicate blossoms to the dew; And, hermit-like, shunning the light, Wastes its fair bloom upon the night, Who, blindfold to its fond caresses, Knows not the beauty it possesses; Thus it blooms on while night is by; When day looks out with open eye, Bashed at the gaze it cannot shun, It faints and withers and is gone.

John Clare John Clare 13 July — 20 May was an English poet, born the son of a farm labourer who came to be known for his celebratory representations of the English countryside and his lamentation of its disruption. Comment Dog's Death She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car. Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog!

The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver. As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin And her heart was learning to lie down forever. Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed. Seine Mutter, die selber literarische Ambitionen hatte, ermutigte ihn zu schreiben.

Georg Trakl Ein Rondel, frz. Rondeau, ist eine kunstvolle alte Lied- und Gedichtform, bei der zwischen die gleichlautenden Anfangs- und End-Refrainverse zwei oder mehr Verse mit gleichlautendem Endreim gesetzt werden Refraingedicht. Heut keltern sie den braunen Wein. Da zeigt der Mensch sich froh und lind. Da guckt ich dem Storch In das Sommernest dort: O Vater und Mutter, Wie seid ihr so klein. Und sieh dir andre an: Rainer Maria Rilke, aus: Das Buch der Bilder Comment Solar Fire See the morning dancer, crossing the sky, Turning gold to amber travelling by He must know the answer He must know why.

Looking for an answer look to the sky. Shadows getting shorter filling your sight Brightly burning starfire, life giving light Dawning into morning Day into night Looking for an answer, look to the light Sunlight streaming burn through the night First light stealing shine solar fire. Starting from tomorrow look to the sky There's a new day dawning passing you by Follow on life's dancer and than you'll know why Looking for an answer look to the sky. Comment Der Lesende Ich las schon lang.

Seit dieser Nachmittag, mit Regen rauschend, an den Fenstern lag. Den ganzen Himmel scheint sie zu umfassen: Rainer Maria Rilke, September , Westerwede. Comment Poem with Radiometer Four vanes pierced by a spindle, a cotillion in black and white. Moving in atmosphere lighter than air, one searches out the other moving away. As inside the glass, outside. You move slowly through me, and light bounces from one skin to the other, a kind of feint. To kick at the shadows becomes a function of how we breathe. But what muscles the endless spin?

Dark hides from light as light pursues it. If this was an experiment, it could be extrapolated to metaphor. Led by a single star, She came from very far To seek where shadows are Her pleasant lot. She left the rosy morn, She left the fields of corn, For twilight cold and lorn And water springs. Through sleep, as through a veil, She sees the sky look pale, And hears the nightingale That sadly sings. Rest, rest, a perfect rest Shed over brow and breast; Her face is toward the west, The purple land. She cannot see the grain Ripening on hill and plain; She cannot feel the rain Upon her hand.

Rest, rest, for evermore Upon a mossy shore; Rest, rest at the heart's core Till time shall cease: Sleep that no pain shall wake; Night that no morn shall break Till joy shall overtake Her perfect peace. Christina Rossetti Christina Georgina Rossetti 5 December — 29 December was an English poet who wrote a variety of romantic, devotional, and children's poems. Comment Color What is pink? Why, an orange, Just an orange!

Tritt her in den Reihen und tanz' mit mir. Wenn ich nun aber nicht mehr mag! Schon kratzt die Feder auf dem Bogen - das Geld hat manches schon verbogen. Drum lies doch mal Das Buch, das man dir anempfahl. Es ist beinah wie eine Reise Im alten wohlbekannten Gleise. Der Weg ist grad und flach das Land, Rechts, links und unten nichts wie Sand. Du bist behaglich eingenickt. Da gibt es weder Bier noch Wein.

Schlaf wohl und segne den Verfasser! Comment A Polished Performance Citizens of the polished capital Sigh for the towns up country, And their innocent simplicity. People in the towns up country Applaud the unpolished innocence Of the distant villages. Dwellers in the distant villages Speak of a simple unspoilt girl, Living alone, deep in the bush.

Zeit gab's genug - und Zahlen auch. Wo blieb sein Reich? Wo blieb er selb?

Bald liegen die Edelkastanien Esskastanien verstreut auf dem Waldboden. Du entschiedest dich, Kastanie, und sprangst auf die Erde, glatt und bereit, fest und eben wie ein kleiner Busen der Inseln Amerikas. Meine Hand ist dir viel zu breit. Rainer Maria Rilke , Er war von einer Prinzessin beleckt. Da war die Liebe in ihm erweckt.

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So liebte er sie vergebens. Das ist die Tragik des Lebens! Comment The Road Not Taken Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear, Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,. Den 27ten April Franz Grillparzer.

Gottfried Benn — http: Wie theuer dein Tuch und die Elle Gewand? Trotz dieser trennenden Kleinigkeit Lernten sie doch dann sich leiden Und gingen klug und bescheiden Abwechselnd durch die Zeit Und gaben einander Kraft und Mut. Und so ist das gut. In plains that room for shadows make Of skirting hills to lie, Bound in by streams which give and take Their colours from the sky; Or on the mountain-crest sublime, Or down the oaken glade, O what have I to do with time? For this the day was made. Cities of mortals woe begone Fantastic care derides, But in the serious landscape lone Stern benefit abides.

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Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy, And merry is only a mask of sad, But, sober on a fund of joy, The woods at heart are glad. There the great Planter plants Of fruitful worlds the grain, And with a million spells enchants The souls that walk in pain. Still on the seeds of all he made The rose of beauty burns; Through times that wear, and forms that fade, Immortal youth returns. The black ducks mounting from the lake, The pigeon in the pines, The bittern's boom, a desert make Which no false art refines.

Down in yon watery nook, Where bearded mists divide, The gray old gods whom Chaos knew, The sires of Nature, hide. Aloft, in secret veins of air, Blows the sweet breath of song, O, few to scale those uplands dare, Though they to all belong! See thou bring not to field or stone The fancies found in books; Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own, To brave the landscape's looks.

And if, amid this dear delight, My thoughts did home rebound, I well might reckon it a slight To the high cheer I found. Oblivion here thy wisdom is, Thy thrift, the sleep of cares; For a proud idleness like this Crowns all thy mean affairs. You have just dined, and however scrupulously the slaughterhouse is concealed in the graceful distance of miles, there is complicity. Sie haben soeben zu Mittag gegessen: Comment Serenade So sweet the hour, so calm the time, I feel it more than half a crime, When Nature sleeps and stars are mute, To mar the silence ev'n with lute.

At rest on ocean's brilliant dyes An image of Elysium lies: Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven, Form in the deep another seven: Endymion nodding from above Sees in the sea a second love. Within the valleys dim and brown, And on the spectral mountain's crown, The wearied light is dying down, And earth, and stars, and sea, and sky Are redolent of sleep, as I Am redolent of thee and thine Enthralling love, my Adeline.

But list, O list,- so soft and low Thy lover's voice tonight shall flow, That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem My words the music of a dream. Thus, while no single sound too rude Upon thy slumber shall intrude, Our thoughts, our souls- O God above! In every deed shall mingle, love. Comment Late September Tang of fruitage in the air; Red boughs bursting everywhere; Shimmering of seeded grass; Hooded gentians all a'mass. Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind Tearing off the husky rind, Blowing feathered seeds to fall By the sun-baked, sheltering wall.

Beech trees in a golden haze; Hardy sumachs all ablaze, Glowing through the silver birches. How that pine tree shouts and lurches!