I HAVE been so innerly proud, and so long alone,Do not leave me, or I shall break.Do not leave me.What should I do if you were gone againSo soon?What should I look for?Where should I go?What should I be, I myself,"I"?What would it mean, thisI?Do not leave me.What should I think of death?If I died, it would not be you:It would be simply the sameLack of you.The same want, life or death,Unfulfilment,The same insanity of spaceYou not there for me.Think, I daren't dieFor fear of the lack in death.And I daren't live.Unless there were a morphine or a drug.I would bear the pain.But always, strong, unremittingIt would make me not me.The thing with my body that would go onlivingWould not be me.Neither life nor death could help.Think, I couldn't look towards deathNor towards the future:Only not look.Only myselfStand still and bind and blind myself.God, that I have no choice!That my own fulfilment is up against meTimelessly!The burden of self-accomplishment!The charge of fulfilment!And God, that she isnecessary!Necessary,and I have no choice!Do not leave me.
A YOUNG WIFETHE pain of loving youIs almost more than I can bear.I walk in fear of you.The darkness starts up whereYou stand, and the night comes throughYour eyes when you look at me.Ah never before did I seeThe shadows that live in the sun!Now every tall glad treeTurns round its back to the sunAnd looks down on the ground, to seeThe shadow it used to shun.At the foot of each glowing thingA night lies looking up.Oh, and I want to singAnd dance, but I can't lift upMy eyes from the shadows: darkThey lie spilt round the cup.What is it?—HarkThe faint fine seethe in the air!Like the seething sound in a shell!It is death still seething whereThe wild-flower shakes its bellAnd the sky lark twinkles blue—The pain of loving youIs almost more than I can bear.
THE dawn was apple-green,The sky was green wine held up in the sun,The moon was a golden petal between.She opened her eyes, and greenThey shone, clear like flowers undoneFor the first time, now for the first time seen.ICKING
BY the Isar, in the twilightWe were wandering and singing,By the Isar, in the eveningWe climbed the huntsman's ladder and satswingingIn the fir-tree overlooking the marshes,While river met with river, and the ringingOf their pale-green glacier water filled the evening.By the Isar, in the twilightWe found the dark wild rosesHanging red at the river; and simmeringFrogs were singing, and over the river closesWas savour of ice and of roses; and glimmeringFear was abroad. We whispered: "No oneknows us.Let it be as the snake disposesHere in this simmering marsh."KLOSTER SCHAEFTLARN
WHEN she rises in the morningI linger to watch her;She spreads the bath-cloth underneath the windowAnd the sunbeams catch herGlistening white on the shoulders,While down her sides the mellowGolden shadow glows asShe stoops to the sponge, and her swung breastsSway like full-blown yellowGloire de Dijon roses.She drips herself with water, and her shouldersGlisten as silver, they crumple upLike wet and falling roses, and I listenFor the sluicing of their rain-dishevelled petals.In the window full of sunlightConcentrates her golden shadowFold on fold, until it glows asMellow as the glory roses.ICKING
ROSES ON THE BREAKFASTTABLEJUST a few of the roses we gathered from the IsarAre fallen, and their mauve-red petals on theclothFloat like boats on a river, while otherRoses are ready to fall, reluctant and loth.She laughs at me across the table, sayingI am beautiful. I look at the rumpled young rosesAnd suddenly realise, in them as in me,How lovely the present is that this day discloses.
I AM LIKE A ROSEI AM myself at last; now I achieveMy very self. I, with the wonder mellow,Full of fine warmth, I issue forth in clearAnd single me, perfected from my fellow.Here I am all myself. No rose-bush heavingIts limpid sap to culmination, has broughtItself more sheer and naked out of the greenIn stark-clear roses, than I to myself am brought.
I AM here myself; as though this heave of effortAt starting other life, fulfilled my own:Rose-leaves that whirl in colour round a coreOf seed-specks kindled lately and softly blownBy all the blood of the rose-bush into being—Strange, that the urgent will in me, to setMy mouth on hers in kisses, and so softlyTo bring together two strange sparks, begetAnother life from our lives, so should sendThe innermost fire of my own dim soul out-spinningAnd whirling in blossom of flame and being uponme!That my completion of manhood should be thebeginningAnother life from mine! For so it looks.The seed is purpose, blossom accident.The seed is all in all, the blossom lentTo crown the triumph of this new descent.Is that it, woman? Does it strike you so?The Great Breath blowing a tiny seed of fireFans out your petals for excess of flame,Till all your being smokes with fine desire?Or are we kindled, you and I, to beOne rose of wonderment upon the treeOf perfect life, and is our possible seedBut the residuum of the ecstasy?How will you have it?—the rose is all in all,Or the ripe rose-fruits of the luscious fall?The sharp begetting, or the child begot?Our consummation matters, or does it not?To me it seems the seed is just left overFrom the red rose-flowers' fiery transience;Just orts and slarts; berries that smoulder in thebushWhich burnt just now with marvellous immanence.Blossom, my darling, blossom, be a roseOf roses unchidden and purposeless; a roseFor rosiness only, without an ulterior motive;For me it is more than enough if the flower un-close.
A YOUTH MOWINGTHERE are four men mowing down by the Isar;I can hear the swish of the scythe-strokes, fourSharp breaths taken: yea, and IAm sorry for what's in store.The first man out of the four that's mowingIs mine, I claim him once and for all;Though it's sorry I am, on his young feet, knowingNone of the trouble he's led to stall.As he sees me bringing the dinner, he liftsHis head as proud as a deer that looksShoulder-deep out of the corn; and wipesHis scythe-blade bright, unhooksThe scythe-stone and over the stubble to me.Lad, thou hast gotten a child in me,Laddie, a man thou'lt ha'e to be,Yea, though I'm sorry for thee.
WHAT pain, to wake and miss you!To wake with a tightened heart,And mouth reaching forward to kiss you!This then at last is the dawn, and the bellClanging at the farm! Such bewildermentComes with the sight of the room, I cannot tell.It is raining. Down the half-obscure roadFour labourers pass with their scythesDejectedly;—a huntsman goes by with his load:A gun, and a bunched-up deer, its four little feetClustered dead.—And this is the dawnFor which I wanted the night to retreat!
THE house is silent, it is late at night, I am alone.From the balconyI can hear the Isar moan,Can see the whiteRift of the river eerily, between the pines, undera sky of stone.Some fireflies drift through the middle airTinily.I wonder whereEnds this darkness that annihilates me.
She speaks.Look at the little darlings in the corn!The rye is taller than you, who think yourselfSo high and mighty: look how the heads areborneDark and proud on the sky, like a number ofknightsPassing with spears and pennants and manly scorn.Knights indeed!—much knight I know will rideWith his head held high-serene against the sky!Limping and following rather at my sideMoaning for me to love him!—Oh darling ryeHow I adore you for your simple pride!And the dear, dear fireflies wafting in betweenAnd over the swaying corn-stalks, just aboveAll the dark-feathered helmets, like little greenStars come low and wandering here for loveOf these dark knights, shedding their delicatesheen!I thank you I do, you happy creatures, you dearsRiding the air, and carrying all the timeYour little lanterns behind you! Ah, it cheersMy soul to see you settling and trying toclimbThe corn-stalks, tipping with fire the spears.All over the dim corn's motion, against the blueDark sky of night, a wandering glitter, aswarmOf questing brilliant souls going out with theirtrueProud knights to battle! Sweet, how I warmMy poor, my perished soul with the sight ofyou!
A DOE AT EVENINGAs I went through the marshesa doe sprang out of the cornand flashed up the hill-sideleaving her fawn.On the sky-lineshe moved round to watch,she pricked a fine black blotchon the sky.I looked at herand felt her watching;I became a strange being.Still, I had my right to be there with her,Her nimble shadow trottingalong the sky-line, sheput back her fine, level-balanced head.And I knew her.Ah yes, being male, is not my head hard-balanced,antlered?Are not my haunches light?Has she not fled on the same wind with me?Does not my fear cover her fear?IRSCHENHAUSEN
SONG OF A MAN WHO ISNOT LOVEDTHE space of the world is immense, before me andaround me;If I turn quickly, I am terrified, feeling spacesurround me;Like a man in a boat on very clear, deep water,space frightens and confounds me.I see myself isolated in the universe, and wonderWhat effect I can have. My hands wave underThe heavens like specks of dust that are floatingasunder.I hold myself up, and feel a big wind blowingMe like a gadfly into the dusk, without my know-ingWhither or why or even how I am going.So much there is outside me, so infinitelySmall am I, what matter if minutelyI beat my way, to be lost immediately?How shall I flatter myself that I can doAnything in such immensity? I am tooLittle to count in the wind that drifts me through.GLASHÜTTE
THE big mountains sit still in the afternoon lightShadows in their lap;The bees roll round in the wild-thyme with de-light.We sitting here among the cranberriesSo still in the gapOf rock, distilling our memoriesAre sinners! Strange! The bee that blundersAgainst me goes off with a laugh.A squirrel cocks his head on the fence, andwondersWhat about sin?—For, it seemsThe mountains haveNo shadow of us on their snowy forehead ofdreamsAs they ought to have. They rise above usDreamingFor ever. One even might think that they love us.Little red cranberries cheek to cheek,Two great dragon-flies wrestling;You, with your forehead nestlingAgainst me, and bright peak shining to peak—There's a love-song for you!—Ah, if onlyThere were no teemingSwarms of mankind in the world, and we wereless lonely!MAYRHOFEN
OUT of this oubliette between the mountainsfive valleys go, five passes like gates;three of them black in shadow, two of them brightwith distant sunshine;and sunshine fills one high valley bed,green grass shining, and little white houseslike quartz crystals,little, but distinct a way off.Why don't I go?Why do I crawl about this pot, this oubliette,stupidly?Why don't I go?But where?If I come to a pine-wood, I can't sayNow I am arrived!What are so many straight trees to me!STERZING
SUNDAY AFTERNOON INITALYTHE man and the maid go side by sideWith an interval of space between;And his hands are awkward and want to hide,She braves it out since she must be seen.When some one passes he drops his headShading his face in his black felt hat,While the hard girl hardens; nothing is said,There is nothing to wonder or cavil at.Alone on the open road againWith the mountain snows across the lakeFlushing the afternoon, they are uncomfortable,The loneliness daunts them, their stiff throatsache.And he sighs with relief when she parts from him;Her proud head held in its black silk scarfGone under the archway, home, he can joinThe men that lounge in a group on the wharf.His evening is a flame of wineAmong the eager, cordial men.And she with her women hot and hardMoves at her ease again.She is marked, she is singled outFor the fire:The brand is upon him, look—you,Of desire.They are chosen, ah, they are fatedFor the fight!Champion her, all you women! Men, menfolkHold him your light!Nourish her, train her, harden herWomen all!Fold him, be good to him, cherish himMen, ere he fall.Women, another champion!This, men, is yours!Wreathe and enlap and anoint themBehind separate doors.GARGNANO
GREEN star SiriusDribbling over the lake;The stars have gone so far on their road,Yet we're awake!Without a soundThe new young year comes inAnd is half-way over the lake.We must beginAgain. This love so fullOf hate has hurt us so,We lie side by sideMoored—but no,Let me get upAnd wash quite cleanOf this hate.—So greenThe great star goes!I am washed quite clean,Quite clean of it all.But e'enSo cold, so cold and cleanNow the hate is gone!It is all no good,I am chilled to the boneNow the hate is gone;There is nothing left;I am pure like bone,Of all feeling bereft.
A BAD BEGINNINGTHE yellow sun steps over the mountain-topAnd falters a few short steps across the lake—Are you awake?See, glittering on the milk-blue, morning lakeThey are laying the golden racing-track of thesun;The day has begun.The sun is in my eyes, I must get up.I want to go, there's a gold road blazes beforeMy breast—which is so sore.What?—your throat is bruised, bruised with mykisses?Ah, but if I am cruel what then are you?I am bruised right through.What if I love you!—This miseryOf your dissatisfaction and misprisionStupefies me.Ah yes, your open arms! Ah yes, ah yes,You would take me to your breast!—But no,You should come to mine,It were better so.Here I am—get up and come to me!Not as a visitor either, nor a sweetAnd winsome child of innocence; norAs an insolent mistress telling my pulse's beat.Come to me like a woman coming homeTo the man who is her husband, all the restSubordinate to this, that he and sheAre joined together for ever, as is best.Behind me on the lake I hear the steamer drum-mingFrom Austria. There lies the world, and hereAm I. Which way are you coming?
HUSH thenwhy do you cry?It's you and methe same as before.If you hear a rustleit's only a rabbitgone back to his holein a bustle.If something stirs in the branchesoverhead, it will be a squirrel movinguneasily, disturbed by the stressof our loving.Why should you cry then?Are you afraid of Godin the dark?I'm not afraid of God.Let him come forth.If he is hiding in the coverlet him come forth.Now in the cool of the dayit is we who walk in the treesand call to God "Where art thou?"And it is he who hides.Why do you cry?My heart is bitter.Let God come forth to justifyhimself now.Why do you cry?Is it Wehmut, ist dir weh?Weep then, yeafor the abomination of our old righteousness,We have done wrongmany times;but this time we begin to do right.Weep then, weepfor the abomination of our past righteousness.God will keephidden, he won't come forth.
ALONG the avenue of cypressesAll in their scarlet cloaks, and surplicesOf linen go the chanting choristers,The priests in gold and black, the villagers. . . .And all along the path to the cemeteryThe round dark heads of men crowd silently,And black-scarved faces of women-folk, wistfullyWatch at the banner of death, and the mystery.And at the foot of a grave a father standsWith sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands;And at the foot of a grave a mother kneelsWith pale shut face, nor either hears nor feelsThe coming of the chanting choristersBetween the avenue of cypresses,The silence of the many villagers,The candle-flames beside the surplices.
THEY are chanting now the service of All the DeadAnd the village folk outside in the burying groundListen—except those who strive with their dead,Reaching out in anguish, yet unable quite totouch them:Those villagers isolated at the graveWhere the candles burn in the daylight, and thepainted wreathsAre propped on end, there, where the mysterystarts.The naked candles burn on every grave.On your grave, in England, the weeds grow.But I am your naked candle burning,And that is not your grave, in England,The world is your grave.And my naked body standing on your graveUpright towards heaven is burning off to youIts flame of life, now and always, till the end.It is my offering to you; every day is All Souls'Day.I forget you, have forgotten you.I am busy only at my burning,I am busy only at my life.But my feet are on your grave, planted.And when I lift my face, it is a flame that goes upTo the other world, where you are now.But I am not concerned with you.I have forgotten you.I am a naked candle burning on your grave.
AH yes, I know you well, a sojournerAt the hearth;I know right well the marriage ring you wear,And what it's worth.The angels came to Abraham, and they stayedIn his house awhile;So you to mine, I imagine; yes, happilyCondescend to be vile.I see you all the time, you bird-blithe, lovelyAngel in disguise.I see right well how I ought to be grateful,Smitten with reverent surprise.Listen, I have no useFor so rare a visit;Mine is a common devil'sRequisite.Rise up and go, I have no use for youAnd your blithe, glad mien.No angels here, for me no goddesses,Nor any Queen.Put ashes on your head, put sackcloth onAnd learn to serve.You have fed me with your sweetness, now I am sick,As I deserve.Queens, ladies, angels, women rare,I have had enough.Put sackcloth on, be crowned with powdery ash,Be common stuff.And serve now woman, serve, as a woman should,Implicitly.Since I must serve and struggle with the imminentMystery.Serve then, I tell you, add your strength to mineTake on this doom.What are you by yourself, do you think, and whatThe mere fruit of your womb?What is the fruit of your womb then, you mother,you queen,When it falls to the ground?Is it more than the apples of Sodom you scorn so,the menWho abound?Bring forth the sons of your womb then, and putthemInto the fireOf Sodom that covers the earth; bring them forthFrom the womb of your precious desire.You woman most holy, you mother, you beingbeyondQuestion or diminution,Add yourself up, and your seed, to the noughtOf your last solution.
AND because you love methink you you do not hate me?Ha, since you love meto ecstasyit follows you hate me to ecstasy.Because when you hear mego down the road outside the houseyou must come to the window to watch me go,do you think it is pure worship?Because, when I sit in the room,here, in my own house,and you want to enlarge yourself with this friend ofmine,such a friend as he is,yet you cannot get beyond your awareness of meyou are held back by my being in the same worldwith you,do you think it is bliss alone?sheer harmony?No doubt if I were dead, you mustreach into death after me,but would not your hate reach even more madlythan your love?your impassioned, unfinished hate?Since you have a passion for me,as I for you,does not that passion stand in your way like aBalaam's ass?and am I not Balaam's assgolden-mouthed occasionally?But mostly, do you not detest my bray?Since you are confined in the orbit of medo you not loathe the confinement?Is not even the beauty and peace of an orbitan intolerable prison to you,as it is to everybody?But we will learn to submiteach of us to the balanced, eternal orbitwherein we circle on our fatein strange conjunction.What is chaos, my love?It is not freedom.A disarray of falling stars coming to nought.
PLEASE yourself how you have it.Take my words, and flingThem down on the counter roundly;See if they ring.Sift my looks and expressions,And see what proportion there isOf sand in my doubtful sugarOf verities.Have a real stock-takingOf my manly breast;Find out if I'm sound or bankrupt,Or a poor thing at best.For I am quite indifferentTo your dubious state,As to whether you've found a fortuneIn me, or a flea-bitten fate.Make a good investigationOf all that is there,And then, if it's worth it, be grateful—If not then despair.If despair is our portionThen let us despair.Let us make for the weeping willow.I don't care.
TAKE off your cloak and your hatAnd your shoes, and draw up at my hearthWhere never woman sat.I have made the fire up bright;Let us leave the rest in the darkAnd sit by firelight.The wine is warm in the hearth;The flickers come and go.I will warm your feet with kissesUntil they glow.
THERE are only two things now,The great black night scooped outAnd this fire-glow.This fire-glow, the core,And we the two ripe pipsThat are held in store.Listen, the darkness ringsAs it circulates round our fire.Take off your things.Your shoulders, your bruised throatYour breasts, your nakedness!This fiery coat!As the darkness flickers and dips,As the firelight falls and leapsFrom your feet to your lips!
Now you are mine, to-night at last I say it;You're a dove I have bought for sacrifice,And to-night I slay it.Here in my arms my naked sacrifice!Death, do you hear, in my arms I am bringingMy offering, bought at great price.She's a silvery dove worth more than all I've got.Now I offer her up to the ancient, inexorable God,Who knows me not.Look, she's a wonderful dove, without blemish orspot!I sacrifice all in her, my last of the world,Pride, strength, all the lot.All, all on the altar! And death swooping downLike a falcon. 'Tis God has taken the victim;I have won my renown.
You shadow and flame,You interchange,You death in the game!Now I gather you up,Now I put you backLike a poppy in its cup.And so, you are a maidAgain, my darling, but new,Unafraid.My love, my blossom, a childAlmost! The flower in the budAgain, undefiled.And yet, a woman, knowingAll, good, evil, bothIn one blossom blowing.
THIS fireglow is a red wombIn the night, where you're folded upOn your doom.And the ugly, brutal yearsAre dissolving out of you,And the stagnant tears.I the great vein that leadsFrom the night to the source of you,Which the sweet blood feeds.New phase in the germ of you;New sunny streams of bloodWashing you through.You are born again of me.I, Adam, from the veins of meThe Eve that is to be.What has been long agoGrows dimmer, we both forget,We no longer know.You are lovely, your face is softLike a flower in budOn a mountain croft.This is Noël for me.To-night is a woman bornOf the man in me.
WHY do you spurt and sprottlelike that, bunny?Why should I want to throttleyou, bunny?Yes, bunch yourself betweenmy knees and lie still.Lie on me with a hot, plumb, live weight,heavy as a stone, passive,yet hot, waiting.What are you waiting for?What are you waiting for?What is the hot, plumb weight of your desire onme?You have a hot, unthinkable desire of me, bunny.What is that sparkglittering at me on the unutterable darknessof your eye, bunny?The finest splinter of a sparkthat you throw off, straight on the tinder of mynerves!It sets up a strange fire,a soft, most unwarrantable burninga bale-fire mounting, mounting up in me.'Tis not of me, bunny.It was you engendered it,with that fine, demoniacal sparkyou jetted off your eye at me.Idid not want it,this furnace, this draught-maddened firewhich mounts up my armsmaking them swell with turgid, ungovernablestrength.'Twas notIthat wished it,that my fingers should turn into these flamesavid and terriblethat they are at this moment.It must have beenyourinbreathing, gaping desirethat drew this red gush in me;I must be reciprocatingyourvacuous, hideouspassion.It must be the want in youthat has drawn this terrible draught of white fireup my veins as up a chimney.It must be you who desirethis intermingling of the black and monstrousfingers of Molochin the blood-jets of your throat.Come, you shall have your desire,since already I am implicated with youin your strange lust.
THROUGH the strait gate of passion,Between the bickering fireWhere flames of fierce love trembleOn the body of fierce desire:To the intoxication,The mind, fused down like a bead,Flees in its agitationThe flames' stiff speed:At last to calm incandescence,Burned clean by remorseless hate,Now, at the day's renascenceWe approach the gate.Now, from the darkened spacesOf fear, and of frightened faces,Death, in our awful embracesApproached and passed by;We near the flame-burnt porchesWhere the brands of the angels, like torchesWhirl,—in these perilous marchesPausing to sigh;We look back on the withering roses,The stars, in their sun-dimmed closes,Where 'twas given us to repose usSure on our sanctity;Beautiful, candid lovers,Burnt out of our earthy covers,We might have nestled like ploversIn the fields of eternity.There, sure in sinless being,All-seen, and then all-seeing,In us life unto death agreeing,We might have lain.But we storm the angel-guardedGates of the long-discarded,Garden, which God has hoardedAgainst our pain.The Lord of Hosts, and the DevilAre left on Eternity's levelField, and as victors we travelTo Eden home.Back beyond good and evilReturn we. Eve dishevelYour hair for the bliss-drenched revelOn our primal loam.
AH, through the open doorIs there an almond treeAflame with blossom!—Let us fight no more.Among the pink and blueOf the sky and the almond flowersA sparrow flutters.—We have come through,It is really spring!—See,When he thinks himself aloneHow he bullies the flowers.—Ah, you and meHow happy we'll be!—See himHe clouts the tufts of flowersIn his impudence.—But, did you dreamIt would be so bitter? Never mindIt is finished, the spring is here.And we're going to be summer-happyAnd summer-kind.We have died, we have slain and been slain,We are not our old selves any more.I feel new and eagerTo start again.It is gorgeous to live and forget.And to feel quite new.See the bird in the flowers?—he's makingA rare to-do!He thinks the whole blue skyIs much less than the bit of blue eggHe's got in his nest—we'll be happyYou and I, I and you.With nothing to fight any more—In each other, at least.See, how gorgeous the world isOutside the door!SAN GAUDENZIO