Some of My Favourite Poets and Poems.

[lliam]

Here are a few of my favourite poems and poets I hope you llike them.

<small>[ 06-09-2003, 12:06 PM: Message edited by: lliam ]</small>

[lliam]

THE WILD DUCK
===============

by: John Masefield
-------------------

WILIGHT. Red in the West.
Dimness. A glow on the wood.
The teams plod home to rest.
The wild duck come to glean.
O souls not understood,
What a wild cry in the pool;
What things have the farm ducks seen
That they cry so--huddle and cry?
Only the soul that goes.
Eager. Eager. Flying.
Over the globe of the moon,
Over the wood that glows.
Wings linked. Necks a-strain,
A rush and a wild crying.

A cry of the long pain
In the reeds of a steel lagoon,
In a land that no man knows.

[lliam]

CLIFTON CHAPEL
=================

by: Henry Newbolt (1862-1938)
-----------------------------

HIS is the Chapel: here, my son,
Your father thought the thoughts of youth,
And heard the words that one by one
The touch of Life has turn'd to truth.
Here in a day that is not far,
You too may speak with noble ghosts
Of manhood and the vows of war
You made before the Lord of Hosts.

To set the cause above renown,
To love the game beyond the prize,
To honour, while you strike him down,
The foe that comes with fearless eyes;
To count the life of battle good,
And dear the land that gave you birth,
And dearer yet the brotherhood
That binds the brave of all the earth.--

My son, the oath is yours: the end
Is His, Who built the world of strife,
Who gave His children Pain for friend,
And Death for surest hope of life.
To-day and here the fight's begun,
Of the great fellowship you're free;
Henceforth the School and you are one,
And what You are, the race shall be.

God send you fortune: yet be sure,
Among the lights that gleam and pass,
You'll live to follow none more pure
Than that which glows on yonder brass:
'Qui procul hinc,' the legend's writ,--
The frontier-grave is far away--
'Qui ante diem periit:
Sed miles, sed pro patria.'

[lliam]

HE FELL AMONG THIEVES
========================

by: Henry Newbolt
---------------------

'E have robb'd,' said he, 'ye have slaughter'd and made end,
Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead:
What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?'
'Blood for our blood,' they said.

He laugh'd: 'If one may settle the score for five,
I am ready; but let the reckoning stand till day:
I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive.'
'You shall die at dawn,' said they.

He flung his empty revolver down the slope,
He climb'd alone to the Eastward edge of the trees;
All night long in a dream untroubled of hope
He brooded, clasping his knees.

He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills
The ravine where the Yassîn river sullenly flows;
He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills,
Or the far Afghan snows.

He saw the April noon on his books aglow,
The wistaria trailing in at the window wide;
He heard his father's voice from the terrace below
Calling him down to ride.

He saw the gray little church across the park,
The mounds that hid the loved and honour'd dead;
The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark,
The brasses black and red.

He saw the School Close, sunny and green,
The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall,
The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between,
His own name over all.

He saw the dark wainscot and timber'd roof,
The long tables, and the faces merry and keen;
The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof,
The Dons on the daïs serene.

He watch'd the liner's stem ploughing the foam,
He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw;
He heard the passengers' voices talking of home,
He saw the flag she flew.

And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet,
And strode to his ruin'd camp below the wood;
He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet:
His murderers round him stood.

Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast,
The blood-red snow-peaks chill'd to a dazzling white;
He turn'd, and saw the golden circle at last,
Cut by the Eastern height.

'O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun,
I have lived, I praise and adore Thee.'
A sword swept.
Over the pass the voices one by one
Faded, and the hill slept.

[lliam]

A SONNET by: William Shakespeare
=================================
LOOK in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another,
Whose fresh repair if now thou renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
But if thou live rememb'red not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

[lliam]

An analysis of: THE TEMPEST
============================


by William Shakespeare
-------------------------

Here's neither bush nor shrub to bear off any weather at all, and another storm brewing: I hear it sing i' th' wind. Yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul bombard that would shed his liquor. If it should thunder as it did before, I know not where to hide my head. Yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls. What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fishlike smell; a kind of not of the newest poor-John. A strange fish! Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver. There would this monster make a man: any strange beast there makes a man. When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legged like a man! and his fins like arms! Warm, o' my troth! I do now let loose my opinion, hold it no longer: this is no fish, but an islander, that hath lately suffered by a thunderbold. [Thunder.] Alas, the storm is come again! My best way is to creep under his gaverdine: there is no other shelter hereabout. Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past.

[lliam]

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER
========================

by: Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892)
---------------------------------

T is the miller's daughter,
And she is grown so dear, so dear,
That I would be the jewel
That trembles in her ear:
For hid in ringlets day and night,
I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle
About her dainty dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against me,
In sorrow and in rest:
And I should know if it beat right,
I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,
And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,
With her laughter or her sighs:
And I would lie so light, so light,
I scarce should be unclasp'd at night.

[lliam]

IN MEMORIAM
==============

by: Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892)
-------------------------------
O-NIGHT the winds begin to rise
And roar from yonder dropping day;
The last red leaf is whirl'd away,
The rooks are blown about the skies;

The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd,
The cattle huddled on the lea;
And wildly dash'd on tower and tree
The sunbeam strikes along the world:

And but for fancies, which aver
That all thy motions gently pass
Athwart a plane of molten glass,
I scarce could brook the strain and stir

That makes the barren branches loud;
And but for fear it is not so,
The wild unrest that lives in woe
Would dote and pore on yonder cloud

That rises upward always higher,
And onward drags a laboring breast,
And topples round the dreary west,
A looming bastion fringed with fire.



With trembling fingers did we weave
The holly round the Christmas hearth;
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth,
and sadly fell on Christmas-eve.

At our old pastimes in the hall
We gamboll's, making vain pretence
Of gladness, with an awful sense
Of one mute Shadow watching all.

We paused: the winds were in the beech:
We heard them sweep the winter land;
And in a circle hand-in-hand
Sat silent, looking each at each.

Then echo-like our voices rang;
We sung, tho' every eye was dim,
A merry song we sang to him
Last year; impetuously we sang.

We ceased; a gentler feeling crept
Upon us: surely rest is meet.
'They rest,' we said, 'their sleep is sweet,'
And silence follow'd, and we wept.

Our voices took a higher range;
Once more we sang: 'They do not die
Nor lose their mortal sympathy,
Nor change to us, altho' they change;

'Rapt from the fickle and the frail
With gather'd power, yet the same,
Pierces the keen seraphic flame
From orb to orb, from veil to veil.'

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn,
Draw forth the cheerful day from night:
O Father, touch the east, and light
The light that shone when Hope was born.


O living will that shall endure
When all that seems shall suffer shock,
Rise in the spiritual rock,
Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure,

That we may lift from out of dust
A voice as unto him that hears,
A cry above the conquer'd years
To one that with us works, and trust,

With faith that comes of self-control,
The truths that never can be proved
Until we close with all we loved,
And all we flow from, soul to soul.

[lliam]

Although this is a speech as apposed to a poem it's amongst my favourites of William Shakespeare, this one being from: 'The Merchant of Venice'

----------------------------------------

The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea;
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

[lliam]

Can anyone explain the glow of Christmas?
Holidays are candles in the night.
Rebirth comes from family and friends
In one bright blur of food and talk that ends
Still burning as a peaceful inner light.
There is no way to substitute for Christmas.
Miss it and no circumstance feels right.
All my heart's with you, yet I must miss this
Season thick with love and rich delight.

===============================================
Christmas is a holiday for friends,
However they may be, or not, related.
Remember that the three wise kings were strangers
In search of one remote, uncanny dream.
So may we all be far more than we seem,
Together bound for dark and haunting changes,
More lovely for the loves we have created
Along the lonely paths from means to ends,
Stumbling towards that star of Bethlehem.
Angels have no ID bracelets on them.
No features glow with heavenly delight.
Given that their wings are made of feeling,
Each flying angel's given to concealing
Love's plumage like a rainbow in the night.
Shyness cloaks the halos that surround them.

==================================================

Can the wind across the snow
Howl enough of frozen pain?
Return to where the children go.
In love and hope begin again.
So did Christ return to Earth
That lovers might renew their love.
May all your longing bring to birth
A passion that no wind can move,
So strong no wind can stronger prove.

===============================================

[lliam]

Christmas is a time for love and fun,
A time to reshape souls and roots and skies,
A time to give your heart to everyone
Freely, like a rich and lavish sun,
Like a burning star to those whose lonely sighs
Show need of such a time for love and fun.

For children first, whose pain is never done,
Whose bright white fire of anguish never dies,
It's time to give your heart to every one,

That not one angel fall, to hatred won
For lack of ears to listen to her cries,
Or arms to carry him towards love and fun,

Or friends to care what happens on the run
To adult life, where joy or sadness lies.
It's time to give your heart to everyone,

For God loves all, and turns His back on none,
Good or twisted, ignorant or wise.
Christmas is a time for love and fun,
A time to give your heart to everyone.

[Moonlight]

Oft as I hear thee, wrapt in heavenly art,
The massive message of Beethoven I tell
with thy ten fingers to the people's heart
As if ten tounges told news of heaven and hell.

Gazing on thee, I mark that not alone,
Ah, not alone though sittest there, by thee,
Beethoven's self, dear living Lord of tone,
Doth stand and smile upon thy mastery.
Full fain and fatherly his great eyes glow,
He says, "From heaven, my child, I heard thee call.
(For where an artist plays, the sky is low);
Yea, since my lonesome life did lack love's all,
In death God gives me thee; this quit of pain.
"Daughter Nannette! in thee I live again".


To Nannette Falk-Auerbach.

(By Sidney Lanier)

[haggis]

"The bottle of perfume that Willie Sent
Was highly displeasing to Millicent.
Her thanks were so cold
They quarreled, I’m told,
Through that silly scent Willie sent Millicent"

[dai bread]

JABBERWOCKY
Lewis Carroll
(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"


He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.


And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!


One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.


"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.


`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


dshaw@jabberwocky.com

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Return to Glorious Nonsense
Return to Lewis Carroll
Return to Jabberwocky

<small>[ 12-21-2003, 11:27 PM: Message edited by: dai bread ]</small>

[dai bread]

The Highwayman
by English Poet Alfred Noyes 1880-1958

Part One

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And a highwayman came riding
Riding-riding-
A highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say -

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

Part Two

I

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching-
Marching-marching-
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

II

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.

III

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say-
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one figure touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain

VI

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!

VII

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.

VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

X

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding-
Riding-riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

XI

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

The End

[Return to top of the page]

<small>[ 12-21-2003, 11:35 PM: Message edited by: dai bread ]</small>

[dai bread]

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face,
tho' they come from the ends of the earth!

This is from "The Ballad of East & West" by Rudyard Kipling. The full poem is sentimental to a degree to a modern reader, but I put the first (and last) verse here because so many people simply quote the first line, and so miss the whole point of the poem and slander Mr. Kipling in doing so.

As you may gather, I like narrative poetry.

[Moonlight]

Originally posted by dai bread:
Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face,
tho' they come from the ends of the earth!

This is from "The Ballad of East & West" by Rudyard Kipling. The full poem is sentimental to a degree to a modern reader, but I put the first (and last) verse here because so many people simply quote the first line, and so miss the whole point of the poem and slander Mr. Kipling in doing so.

As you may gather, I like narrative poetry.

Here is an exerpt from my husbands favourite poem is W.H.Audens - September 1939, written on the outbreak of war in a New York drinking establishment:

Faces along the bar
cling to the average day
the lights must never go out
the music must always play
lest we should see where we are
lost in a haunted wood
children afraid of the dark
who have never been happy or good.


**********

It seems to have that raw power of a great poem that hits one straight between the eyes.
I love this site and I too love poetry.

[barfle]

Casey at the Bat by "Phinn" (Earnest L. Thayer)

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that--
We'd put up even money now with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Johnnie safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped--
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville-- mighty Casey has struck out.

<small>[ 12-22-2003, 09:25 AM: Message edited by: barfle ]</small>

[Moonlight]

First you take your turkey,
A weighty little chap,
Then you hold him down
Beneath a flowing tap.
Then you turn him over
And start to pluck his chest,
When thats done you turn him back
And start to pluck the rest.

Now fill him full of sausage meat,
Some sage and onion too,
You roll it into little balls,
And poke them up his flue.
Then you take a skewer,
A needle and some twine,
And sew around his posterior
In stitches neat and fine.

Now pop him in the oven,
And roast him overnight,
When served for Christmas dinner,
He'll be a lovely sight.

I think I've told you everything,
I'll give my list a check,
Oh dear! I should have mentioned
That first you wring his neck.

[Moonlight]

~ ~ ~ BEETHOVEN'S TOD ~ ~


Das raucht und knistert im Kamin,
Es huelt rings um die Fenster:
Uber dem alten heiligen Wein
Jagen sich Wolkengespenster.
Die Scheiben zittern im belben Staub;
Es wirbelt wie Schnee und Regen;
Am Ofen sitzt ein Weib halb taub
Und murmelt einen Segen...


Sonst todtenstill im oeden Gemach
Die Uhr geht langsam, graulich
Es drohnt der Boden bei jedem Schlag,
Die Thure morsch und faulig.
Vor einem Bette hingestreckt
Das haupt fast auf den Knien
Ein Jungling bis zum Tod erschreckt
Des augen duster gluhen.


Wagt er's nicht auf das Bett zu schaun
Und auf den Mann den stillen?
Und horcht er auf den sturm mit Graun
Und auf des Windes Schrillen?
Ihm ists, als war er Fern entruckt
Sah einen feurigen Wagen
Und hatte dar auf den Mann erblickt
Und aufwarts die Rosse jagen:


Den Mann, den stillen, leichenhaft
Die Augen eingesunken:
Die Hand mit schlaffer, letzter Kraft
Spielt am Kissen wie trunken,
Die Alte murmelt, der jungling schaut
Des stummen Mannes Zuge.
Da tont es her wie Sturmgelaut
Da Zittert Haus und Stiege.


Wagen und Rosse Zebaoth!
Der Blitz der feurige Reiter,
Das ist der Tod, das ist der Tod,
Der jagt hindurch und wieter,
Und hinter ihm der wilde Sturm,
Der tobende Geselle,
Von Haus zu Haus, von Thurm zu Thurm
Walzt sich die Hagelwelle.


Das fenster prasselnd neiderbricht,
Wolken von Schnee und Eise
Walzen sich durch im fahlen licht
Und folgen der Sturmesreise.
Der Elemente langer Zug,
Reist sich empor mit Brausen:
So mancher Wiener sahs und schlug
Ein Kreuz, angstlich voll Grausen.


O Wetter, das vom Himmel fiel
Wen hast du mitgenommen?
Wen hobst du auf im Sturmesspiel,
Von Blitzen hell umschwommen?
Wer wars, der seinen Mantel Kuhn
Sich schwang um seine Hufte
Zum Himmel wollt er aufwarts ziehn
Und nicht ins Graun der Grufte.


Es Ragt ein Hugel dicht unrankt
Von Epheu, niedrig, stille;
Die Blatter Flustern rings, as schwankt
Der lilien weise Fulle.
Daruber endlos, vogelschnell
Ziehen die Wolkenschichten
Indes der Sonne goldner Quell
Zittert in tausent lichten.


Es ist ein heimisch suser Ort:
Der Wanderer steht voll Grausen
Und hort in Luften fort und fort
Geheime Tone sausen,
Nicht seufzt die Welt, sie Tont ein Lied
Auf Sonnenstrahlen saiten,
Indes der Rose Auge gluht
Und druber die Wolken gleiten.


O du, des Sang der Erd entquoll,
Du ewger Himmelsfahrer.
O du, des Sang zum Himmel schwoll,
Nun tonst du reiner, Klarer,
Du selbst ein Ton, der sus erklang
Auf Erden bald verklungen.


Und wieder schau ich stumm dich an
Und mochte deine Augen fragen,
Warum, du wunderseltner Mann,
In mir die Pulse sturmisch schlagen
Wenn du in meiner Seele Wald
Herumgehst, feurig und doch kalt,
So deutlich und doch unerdeutet,
Wie Glocken in der nacht gelautet,
Mir nicht zu fassen, nicht zu sehen
Und doch - ich fuhl dick schreiten, gehen.


- von Friedrich Nietzsche -


*****************************************

I only have this poem in German and I have posted it hoping that someone may have the English translation. I have omitted the two final verses. I shall add them if anyone is interested. I was unable to put the 'umlauts' in where they should be. Sorry!

Many Thanks
Moonlight.

<small>[ 12-29-2003, 02:06 AM: Message edited by: Moonlight ]</small>