German Poetry
WILLIAM SAPHIER
Learnedessays on this or that poetry make little red devils dance in my brain and my right hand reach for a Japanese sword. They are invariably inferior to the spirit, and occupy only a small section of the horizon of their subject. I have translated these three poems because I felt that they were as good or better than the best things published in this country, and because so little is known of this kind of German poetry here. The first is by Julius Berstl and the second two are by Fritz Schnack. I know of many more, but I am unable to get their work just now. As you perhaps know, they are engaged at present in a different direction.
(From the German of Julius Berstl)
Early light reflexes climb with rose fingers up the cliffs.The chilly valley slumbers and cowers in its white fog bed,But nude and cool, unearthly fine and clear,Glitter the glacier chains.The morning wind faint-heartedly plays a lyre,No bird strikes screaming through the distance;It is as if the sound of a timid harpSpreads with bird-like wingsAlong the stone cliffs and over the valley.And now, as if breathed by the fragrance and dew,Out of fog blossoms a wreath of meadows;Behind them blooms a crystal glacier blue,And a dream-laden delicate purple greyPlays all around the giant mountains.
Early light reflexes climb with rose fingers up the cliffs.The chilly valley slumbers and cowers in its white fog bed,But nude and cool, unearthly fine and clear,Glitter the glacier chains.The morning wind faint-heartedly plays a lyre,No bird strikes screaming through the distance;It is as if the sound of a timid harpSpreads with bird-like wingsAlong the stone cliffs and over the valley.And now, as if breathed by the fragrance and dew,Out of fog blossoms a wreath of meadows;Behind them blooms a crystal glacier blue,And a dream-laden delicate purple greyPlays all around the giant mountains.
Early light reflexes climb with rose fingers up the cliffs.The chilly valley slumbers and cowers in its white fog bed,But nude and cool, unearthly fine and clear,Glitter the glacier chains.
Early light reflexes climb with rose fingers up the cliffs.
The chilly valley slumbers and cowers in its white fog bed,
But nude and cool, unearthly fine and clear,
Glitter the glacier chains.
The morning wind faint-heartedly plays a lyre,No bird strikes screaming through the distance;It is as if the sound of a timid harpSpreads with bird-like wingsAlong the stone cliffs and over the valley.
The morning wind faint-heartedly plays a lyre,
No bird strikes screaming through the distance;
It is as if the sound of a timid harp
Spreads with bird-like wings
Along the stone cliffs and over the valley.
And now, as if breathed by the fragrance and dew,Out of fog blossoms a wreath of meadows;Behind them blooms a crystal glacier blue,And a dream-laden delicate purple greyPlays all around the giant mountains.
And now, as if breathed by the fragrance and dew,
Out of fog blossoms a wreath of meadows;
Behind them blooms a crystal glacier blue,
And a dream-laden delicate purple grey
Plays all around the giant mountains.
(From the German of Fritz Schnack)
Soft, delicate morning air ripplingsSway between the willow bushesRustling, as if a woman in silk ruchingsPasses over the meadows ...Without end and blessedly farPurls the cajoling sweetness.O! how anxiously do I bear this air.Like chords from the cloudlandFall the deep shining daysResounding in my trembling hand.
Soft, delicate morning air ripplingsSway between the willow bushesRustling, as if a woman in silk ruchingsPasses over the meadows ...Without end and blessedly farPurls the cajoling sweetness.O! how anxiously do I bear this air.Like chords from the cloudlandFall the deep shining daysResounding in my trembling hand.
Soft, delicate morning air ripplingsSway between the willow bushesRustling, as if a woman in silk ruchingsPasses over the meadows ...Without end and blessedly farPurls the cajoling sweetness.O! how anxiously do I bear this air.Like chords from the cloudlandFall the deep shining daysResounding in my trembling hand.
Soft, delicate morning air ripplings
Sway between the willow bushes
Rustling, as if a woman in silk ruchings
Passes over the meadows ...
Without end and blessedly far
Purls the cajoling sweetness.
O! how anxiously do I bear this air.
Like chords from the cloudland
Fall the deep shining days
Resounding in my trembling hand.
(From the German of Fritz Schnack)
The light,Flows spring-like out of the night,And the big splashing waveSpreads over the earth’s surface ...White villas glisten in the lightGlowing all around with red roses;Laughing young beauty bloomsOn every threshold ...At a distance I stand and watchAnd think: whoever thus can build ...And longingly go my way.
The light,Flows spring-like out of the night,And the big splashing waveSpreads over the earth’s surface ...White villas glisten in the lightGlowing all around with red roses;Laughing young beauty bloomsOn every threshold ...At a distance I stand and watchAnd think: whoever thus can build ...And longingly go my way.
The light,Flows spring-like out of the night,And the big splashing waveSpreads over the earth’s surface ...White villas glisten in the lightGlowing all around with red roses;Laughing young beauty bloomsOn every threshold ...
The light,
Flows spring-like out of the night,
And the big splashing wave
Spreads over the earth’s surface ...
White villas glisten in the light
Glowing all around with red roses;
Laughing young beauty blooms
On every threshold ...
At a distance I stand and watchAnd think: whoever thus can build ...And longingly go my way.
At a distance I stand and watch
And think: whoever thus can build ...
And longingly go my way.