Thus spake I, and lo, visibly blushedYonder the wan cloud figures,And they gazed upon me like the dying,Transfigured by sorrow, and suddenly disappeared.The moon was concealedBehind dark advancing clouds.Loud roared the sea.And triumphantly came forth in the heavensThe eternal stars.
Thus spake I, and lo, visibly blushedYonder the wan cloud figures,And they gazed upon me like the dying,Transfigured by sorrow, and suddenly disappeared.The moon was concealedBehind dark advancing clouds.Loud roared the sea.And triumphantly came forth in the heavensThe eternal stars.
A bird comes flying out of the West;He flies to the Eastward,Towards the Eastern garden-home,Where spices shed fragrance, and flourish,And palms rustle and fountains scatter coolness.And in his flight the magic bird sings:"She loves him! she loves him!She carries his portrait in her little heart,And she carries it sweetly and secretly hidden,And knoweth it not herself!But in dreams he stands before her.She implores and weeps and kisses his hands,And calls his name,And calling she awakes, and she lies in affright,And amazed she rubs her beautiful eyes,—She loves him! she loves him!"Leaning on the mast on the upper deck,I stood and heard the bird's song.Like blackish-green steeds with silver manes,Leapt the white crisp-curling waves.Like flocks of swans glided past,With gleaming sails, the Helgolands,The bold nomads of the North Sea.Above me in the eternal blueFluttered white clouds,And sparkled the eternal sun,The Rose of heaven, the fire-blossoming,Which joyously was mirrored in the sea.And the heavens and seas and mine own heartResounded in echo—She loves him! she loves him!
A bird comes flying out of the West;He flies to the Eastward,Towards the Eastern garden-home,Where spices shed fragrance, and flourish,And palms rustle and fountains scatter coolness.And in his flight the magic bird sings:
"She loves him! she loves him!She carries his portrait in her little heart,And she carries it sweetly and secretly hidden,And knoweth it not herself!But in dreams he stands before her.She implores and weeps and kisses his hands,And calls his name,And calling she awakes, and she lies in affright,And amazed she rubs her beautiful eyes,—She loves him! she loves him!"
Leaning on the mast on the upper deck,I stood and heard the bird's song.Like blackish-green steeds with silver manes,Leapt the white crisp-curling waves.Like flocks of swans glided past,With gleaming sails, the Helgolands,The bold nomads of the North Sea.Above me in the eternal blueFluttered white clouds,And sparkled the eternal sun,The Rose of heaven, the fire-blossoming,Which joyously was mirrored in the sea.And the heavens and seas and mine own heartResounded in echo—She loves him! she loves him!
By the sea, by the desolate nocturnal sea,Stands a youthful man,His breast full of sadness, his head full of doubt.And with bitter lips he questions the waves:"Oh solve me the riddle of life!The cruel, world-old riddle,Concerning which, already many a head hath been racked.Heads in hieroglyphic-hats,Heads in turbans and in black caps,Periwigged heads, and a thousand otherPoor, sweating human heads.Tell me, what signifies man?Whence does he come? whither does he go?Who dwells yonder above the golden stars?"The waves murmur their eternal murmur,The winds blow, the clouds flow past.Cold and indifferent twinkle the stars,And a fool awaits an answer.
By the sea, by the desolate nocturnal sea,Stands a youthful man,His breast full of sadness, his head full of doubt.And with bitter lips he questions the waves:"Oh solve me the riddle of life!The cruel, world-old riddle,Concerning which, already many a head hath been racked.Heads in hieroglyphic-hats,Heads in turbans and in black caps,Periwigged heads, and a thousand otherPoor, sweating human heads.Tell me, what signifies man?Whence does he come? whither does he go?Who dwells yonder above the golden stars?"
The waves murmur their eternal murmur,The winds blow, the clouds flow past.Cold and indifferent twinkle the stars,And a fool awaits an answer.
The gray afternoon cloudsDrop lower over the sea,Which darkly riseth to meet them,And between them both fares the ship.Sea-sick I still sit by the mastAnd all by myself indulge in meditation,Those world-old ashen-gray meditations,Which erst our father Lot entertained,When he had enjoyed too much of a good thing,And afterward suffered such inconvenience.Meanwhile I think also of old stories;How pilgrims with the cross on their breast in days of yore,On their stormy voyages, devoutly kissedThe consoling image of the blessed Virgin.How sick knights in such ocean-trials,Pressed to their lips with equal comfortThe dear glove of their lady.But I sit and chew in vexationAn old herring, my salty comforter,Midst caterwauling and dogged tribulation.Meanwhile the ship wrestlesWith the wild billowy tide.Like a rearing war-horse she stands erect,Upon her stern, till the helm cracks.Now crashes she headforemost downward once moreInto the howling abyss of waters,Then again, as if recklessly love-languid,She tries to reclineOn the black bosom of the gigantic waves,Which powerfully seethe upward,And immediately a chaotic ocean-cataractPlunges down in crisp-curling whiteness,And covers me with foam.This shaking and swinging and tossingIs unendurable!Vainly mine eye peers forth and seeksThe German coast. But alas! only water,And everywhere water—turbulent water!Even as the traveller in winter, thirstsFor a warm cordial cup of tea,So does my heart now thirst for theeMy German fatherland.May thy sweet soil ever be coveredWith lunacy, hussars and bad verses,And thin, lukewarm treatises.May thy zebras ever be fattenedOn roses instead of thistles.Ever may thy noble apesHaughtily strut in negligent attire,And esteem themselves better than all otherPriggish heavy-footed, horned cattle.May thine assemblies of snailsEver deem themselves immortalBecause they crawl forward so slowly;And may they daily convoke in full force,To discuss whether the cheesemould belongs to the cheese;And still longer may they conveneTo decide how best to honor the Egyptian sheep,So that its wool may improveAnd it may be shorn like others,With no difference.Forever may folly and wrongCover thee all over, oh Germany,Nevertheless I yearn towards thee—For at least thou art dry land.
The gray afternoon cloudsDrop lower over the sea,Which darkly riseth to meet them,And between them both fares the ship.
Sea-sick I still sit by the mastAnd all by myself indulge in meditation,Those world-old ashen-gray meditations,Which erst our father Lot entertained,When he had enjoyed too much of a good thing,And afterward suffered such inconvenience.Meanwhile I think also of old stories;How pilgrims with the cross on their breast in days of yore,On their stormy voyages, devoutly kissedThe consoling image of the blessed Virgin.How sick knights in such ocean-trials,Pressed to their lips with equal comfortThe dear glove of their lady.But I sit and chew in vexationAn old herring, my salty comforter,Midst caterwauling and dogged tribulation.
Meanwhile the ship wrestlesWith the wild billowy tide.Like a rearing war-horse she stands erect,Upon her stern, till the helm cracks.
Now crashes she headforemost downward once moreInto the howling abyss of waters,Then again, as if recklessly love-languid,She tries to reclineOn the black bosom of the gigantic waves,Which powerfully seethe upward,And immediately a chaotic ocean-cataractPlunges down in crisp-curling whiteness,And covers me with foam.
This shaking and swinging and tossingIs unendurable!Vainly mine eye peers forth and seeksThe German coast. But alas! only water,And everywhere water—turbulent water!
Even as the traveller in winter, thirstsFor a warm cordial cup of tea,So does my heart now thirst for theeMy German fatherland.May thy sweet soil ever be coveredWith lunacy, hussars and bad verses,And thin, lukewarm treatises.May thy zebras ever be fattenedOn roses instead of thistles.Ever may thy noble apesHaughtily strut in negligent attire,And esteem themselves better than all otherPriggish heavy-footed, horned cattle.May thine assemblies of snailsEver deem themselves immortalBecause they crawl forward so slowly;And may they daily convoke in full force,To discuss whether the cheesemould belongs to the cheese;And still longer may they conveneTo decide how best to honor the Egyptian sheep,So that its wool may improveAnd it may be shorn like others,With no difference.Forever may folly and wrongCover thee all over, oh Germany,Nevertheless I yearn towards thee—For at least thou art dry land.
Happy the man who has reached port,And left behind the sea and the tempest,And who now sits, quietly and warm,In the goodly town-cellar of Bremen.How pleasantly and cordiallyThe world is mirrored in the wine-glass.And how the waving microcosmPours sunnily down into the thirsty heart!I see everything in the glass,—Ancient and modern tribes,Turks and Greeks, Hegel and Gans,Citron groves and guard-parades,Berlin and Schilda, and Tunis and Hamburg.Above all the image of my belovèd,The little angel-head against the golden background of Rhine-wine.Oh how beautiful! how beautiful thou art, belovèd!Thou art like a rose.Not like the Rose of Shiraz,The Hafiz-besung bride of the nightingale.Not like the Rose of Sharon,The sacred purple extolled by the prophet.Thou art like the rose in the wine-cellar of Bremen.That is the rose of roses,The older it grows the fairer it blooms,And its celestial perfume has inspired me.And did not mine host of the town-cellar of BremenHold me fast, fast by my hair,I should tumble head over heels.The worthy man! we sat together,And drank like brothers.We spake of lofty, mysterious things,We sighed and sank in each other's arms.And he led me back to the religion of love:I drank to the health of my bitterest enemy,And I forgave all bad poets,As I shall some day hope to be forgiven myself.I wept with fervor of piety, and at lastThe portals of salvation were opened to me,Where the twelve Apostles, the holy wine-butts,Preach in silence and yet so intelligiblyUnto all people.Those are men!Without, unseemly in their wooden garb,Within, they are more beautiful and brilliantThan all the haughty Levites of the Temple,And the guards and courtiers of Herod,Decked with gold and arrayed in purple.But I have always averredThat not amidst quite common folk—No, in the very best society,Perpetually abides the King of Heaven.Hallelujah! How lovely around meWave the palms of Beth-El!How fragrant are the myrrh-trees of Hebron!How the Jordan rustles and reels with joy!And my immortal soul also reels,And I reel with her, and, reeling,The worthy host of the town-cellar of BremenLeads me up-stairs into the light of day.Thou worthy host of the town-cellar of Bremen,Seest thou on the roofs of the houses,Sit the angels, and they are drunk and they sing.The glowing sun up yonderIs naught but a red drunken nose.The nose of the spirit of the universe,And around the red nose of the spirit of the universeReels the whole tipsy world.
Happy the man who has reached port,And left behind the sea and the tempest,And who now sits, quietly and warm,In the goodly town-cellar of Bremen.
How pleasantly and cordiallyThe world is mirrored in the wine-glass.And how the waving microcosmPours sunnily down into the thirsty heart!I see everything in the glass,—Ancient and modern tribes,Turks and Greeks, Hegel and Gans,Citron groves and guard-parades,Berlin and Schilda, and Tunis and Hamburg.Above all the image of my belovèd,The little angel-head against the golden background of Rhine-wine.
Oh how beautiful! how beautiful thou art, belovèd!Thou art like a rose.Not like the Rose of Shiraz,The Hafiz-besung bride of the nightingale.Not like the Rose of Sharon,The sacred purple extolled by the prophet.Thou art like the rose in the wine-cellar of Bremen.That is the rose of roses,The older it grows the fairer it blooms,And its celestial perfume has inspired me.And did not mine host of the town-cellar of BremenHold me fast, fast by my hair,I should tumble head over heels.
The worthy man! we sat together,And drank like brothers.We spake of lofty, mysterious things,We sighed and sank in each other's arms.And he led me back to the religion of love:I drank to the health of my bitterest enemy,And I forgave all bad poets,As I shall some day hope to be forgiven myself.I wept with fervor of piety, and at lastThe portals of salvation were opened to me,Where the twelve Apostles, the holy wine-butts,Preach in silence and yet so intelligiblyUnto all people.
Those are men!Without, unseemly in their wooden garb,Within, they are more beautiful and brilliantThan all the haughty Levites of the Temple,And the guards and courtiers of Herod,Decked with gold and arrayed in purple.But I have always averredThat not amidst quite common folk—No, in the very best society,Perpetually abides the King of Heaven.
Hallelujah! How lovely around meWave the palms of Beth-El!How fragrant are the myrrh-trees of Hebron!How the Jordan rustles and reels with joy!And my immortal soul also reels,And I reel with her, and, reeling,The worthy host of the town-cellar of BremenLeads me up-stairs into the light of day.
Thou worthy host of the town-cellar of Bremen,Seest thou on the roofs of the houses,Sit the angels, and they are drunk and they sing.The glowing sun up yonderIs naught but a red drunken nose.The nose of the spirit of the universe,And around the red nose of the spirit of the universeReels the whole tipsy world.
Like the stalks of wheat in the fields,So flourish and wave in the mind of manHis thoughts.But the delicate fancies of loveAre like gay little intermingled blossomsOf red and blue flowers.Red and blue flowers!The surly reaper rejects you as useless.The wooden flail scornfully thrashes you,Even the luckless traveler,Whom your aspect delights and refreshes,Shakes his head,And calls you beautiful weeds.But the rustic maiden,The wearer of garlands,Honors you, and plucks you,And adorns with you her fair locks.And thus decorated she hastens to the dancing-greenWhere the flutes and fiddles sweetly resound;Or to the quiet bushesWhere the voice of her beloved soundeth sweeter stillThan fiddles or flutes.
Like the stalks of wheat in the fields,So flourish and wave in the mind of manHis thoughts.But the delicate fancies of loveAre like gay little intermingled blossomsOf red and blue flowers.
Red and blue flowers!The surly reaper rejects you as useless.The wooden flail scornfully thrashes you,Even the luckless traveler,Whom your aspect delights and refreshes,Shakes his head,And calls you beautiful weeds.
But the rustic maiden,The wearer of garlands,Honors you, and plucks you,And adorns with you her fair locks.And thus decorated she hastens to the dancing-greenWhere the flutes and fiddles sweetly resound;Or to the quiet bushesWhere the voice of her beloved soundeth sweeter stillThan fiddles or flutes.