Hermann Hagedorn
Clear air and grassy lea,Stream-song and cattle-bell—Dear man, what fools are weIn prison-walls to dwell!To live our days apartFrom green things and wide skies,And let the wistful heartBe cut and crushed with lies!Bright peaks!—And suddenlyLight floods the placid dell,The grass-tops brush my knee:A good crop it will be,So all is well!O man, what fools are weIn prison-walls to dwell!
Clear air and grassy lea,Stream-song and cattle-bell—Dear man, what fools are weIn prison-walls to dwell!To live our days apartFrom green things and wide skies,And let the wistful heartBe cut and crushed with lies!Bright peaks!—And suddenlyLight floods the placid dell,The grass-tops brush my knee:A good crop it will be,So all is well!O man, what fools are weIn prison-walls to dwell!
Clear air and grassy lea,Stream-song and cattle-bell—Dear man, what fools are weIn prison-walls to dwell!To live our days apartFrom green things and wide skies,And let the wistful heartBe cut and crushed with lies!
Clear air and grassy lea,
Stream-song and cattle-bell—
Dear man, what fools are we
In prison-walls to dwell!
To live our days apart
From green things and wide skies,
And let the wistful heart
Be cut and crushed with lies!
Bright peaks!—And suddenlyLight floods the placid dell,The grass-tops brush my knee:A good crop it will be,So all is well!O man, what fools are weIn prison-walls to dwell!
Bright peaks!—And suddenly
Light floods the placid dell,
The grass-tops brush my knee:
A good crop it will be,
So all is well!
O man, what fools are we
In prison-walls to dwell!
Like a young child who to his mother’s doorRuns eager for the welcoming embrace,And finds the door shut, and with troubled faceCalls and through sobbing calls, and o’er and o’erCalling, storms at the panel—so beforeA door that will not open, sick and numb,I listen for a word that will not come,And know, at last, I may not enter more.Silence! And through the silence and the darkBy that closed door, the distant sob of tearsBeats on my spirit, as on fairy shoresThe spectral sea; and through the sobbing—hark!—Down the fair-chambered corridor of years,The quiet shutting, one by one, of doors.
Like a young child who to his mother’s doorRuns eager for the welcoming embrace,And finds the door shut, and with troubled faceCalls and through sobbing calls, and o’er and o’erCalling, storms at the panel—so beforeA door that will not open, sick and numb,I listen for a word that will not come,And know, at last, I may not enter more.Silence! And through the silence and the darkBy that closed door, the distant sob of tearsBeats on my spirit, as on fairy shoresThe spectral sea; and through the sobbing—hark!—Down the fair-chambered corridor of years,The quiet shutting, one by one, of doors.
Like a young child who to his mother’s doorRuns eager for the welcoming embrace,And finds the door shut, and with troubled faceCalls and through sobbing calls, and o’er and o’erCalling, storms at the panel—so beforeA door that will not open, sick and numb,I listen for a word that will not come,And know, at last, I may not enter more.
Like a young child who to his mother’s door
Runs eager for the welcoming embrace,
And finds the door shut, and with troubled face
Calls and through sobbing calls, and o’er and o’er
Calling, storms at the panel—so before
A door that will not open, sick and numb,
I listen for a word that will not come,
And know, at last, I may not enter more.
Silence! And through the silence and the darkBy that closed door, the distant sob of tearsBeats on my spirit, as on fairy shoresThe spectral sea; and through the sobbing—hark!—Down the fair-chambered corridor of years,The quiet shutting, one by one, of doors.
Silence! And through the silence and the dark
By that closed door, the distant sob of tears
Beats on my spirit, as on fairy shores
The spectral sea; and through the sobbing—hark!—
Down the fair-chambered corridor of years,
The quiet shutting, one by one, of doors.
My true love from her pillow roseAnd wandered down the summer lane.She left her house to the wind’s carouse,And her chamber wide to the rain.She did not stop to don her coat,She did not stop to smooth her bed—But out she went in glad contentThere where the bright path led.She did not feel the beating storm,But fled like a sunbeam, white and frail,To the sea, to the air, somewhere, somewhere—I have not found her trail.
My true love from her pillow roseAnd wandered down the summer lane.She left her house to the wind’s carouse,And her chamber wide to the rain.She did not stop to don her coat,She did not stop to smooth her bed—But out she went in glad contentThere where the bright path led.She did not feel the beating storm,But fled like a sunbeam, white and frail,To the sea, to the air, somewhere, somewhere—I have not found her trail.
My true love from her pillow roseAnd wandered down the summer lane.She left her house to the wind’s carouse,And her chamber wide to the rain.
My true love from her pillow rose
And wandered down the summer lane.
She left her house to the wind’s carouse,
And her chamber wide to the rain.
She did not stop to don her coat,She did not stop to smooth her bed—But out she went in glad contentThere where the bright path led.
She did not stop to don her coat,
She did not stop to smooth her bed—
But out she went in glad content
There where the bright path led.
She did not feel the beating storm,But fled like a sunbeam, white and frail,To the sea, to the air, somewhere, somewhere—I have not found her trail.
She did not feel the beating storm,
But fled like a sunbeam, white and frail,
To the sea, to the air, somewhere, somewhere—
I have not found her trail.
How like the stars are these white, nameless faces—These far innumerable burning coals!This pale procession out of stellar spaces,This Milky Way of souls!Each in its own bright nebulæ enfurled,Each face, dear God, a world!I fling my gaze out through the silent night:In those far stars, what gardens, what high halls,Has mortal yearning built for its delight,What chasms and what walls?What quiet mansions where a soul may dwell?What heaven and what hell?
How like the stars are these white, nameless faces—These far innumerable burning coals!This pale procession out of stellar spaces,This Milky Way of souls!Each in its own bright nebulæ enfurled,Each face, dear God, a world!I fling my gaze out through the silent night:In those far stars, what gardens, what high halls,Has mortal yearning built for its delight,What chasms and what walls?What quiet mansions where a soul may dwell?What heaven and what hell?
How like the stars are these white, nameless faces—These far innumerable burning coals!This pale procession out of stellar spaces,This Milky Way of souls!Each in its own bright nebulæ enfurled,Each face, dear God, a world!
How like the stars are these white, nameless faces—
These far innumerable burning coals!
This pale procession out of stellar spaces,
This Milky Way of souls!
Each in its own bright nebulæ enfurled,
Each face, dear God, a world!
I fling my gaze out through the silent night:In those far stars, what gardens, what high halls,Has mortal yearning built for its delight,What chasms and what walls?What quiet mansions where a soul may dwell?What heaven and what hell?
I fling my gaze out through the silent night:
In those far stars, what gardens, what high halls,
Has mortal yearning built for its delight,
What chasms and what walls?
What quiet mansions where a soul may dwell?
What heaven and what hell?