Gedichtinterpretation: Georg Trakl - An die Verstummten (1913) (German Edition)

Meaning of "Gedichtinterpretation" in the German dictionary

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Even more important, however, than thematizing the change is the fact that the change goes in an opposite direction in each of the poems. In both versions, the speaker in the sonnet watches birds in the evening sky, following them in his imagination for the duration of the first two quatrains, until the scene changes with a typical volta: In both parts of the sonnet, the speaker sees the natural world through anthropomorphic images.

Oxford German Studies ogs In this poem we are presented with human society in the aggressive form of the cries of hunters and the baying of their hounds: But nature is also represented by the hard cry of the predatory hawk.

Yet the prey escapes: And although the speaker, writing in the first person plural, talks of a separation from loved ones, a transformation occurs nevertheless: But this teleology is in fact hard to impose on the poetry. To give two brief examples from poems to which I will be returning later in the argument: The final version added a line which destroyed the very redemption the final paragraph of the first published version had seemed to achieve: At the same time, the shift can go in either direction.

All it says is that the speaker moves from one type of meaningful world to another. It does not commit us to necessarily moving in one direction. At the same time, his world is populated by a recurring set of figures of redemption: But Trakl would not have called himself an Expressionist. Expressionismus als verlegerische Aufgabe Frankfurt a. In one of the very few poetological statements he made he described poetry as an — albeit inadequate — form of expiation: For the last two and half years of his life, a period in which much of the poetry for which he is remembered was written, Trakl was actively involved with a group of writers and artists clustered around the Innsbruck bi-weekly journal Der Brenner that had been published by Ludwig von Ficker since Brenner Verlag, , pp.

It is reprinted in HKA, I: The most compelling reason for treating Trakl as a Christian writer is that that is how he appeared to his contemporaries, even to those such as Carl Dallago, to whom being a Christian was not a recommendation, as Dallago explained in a letter to Ludwig von Ficker of 19 February Ludwig von Ficker, Briefwechsel , ed. The issue in question is the first number of the third year: Trakl- Verehrung oder Kriegsgegnerschaft?

A facsimile edition of the entire run of the journal is available on-line at ,http: The whole focus of the journal changed from to , moving away from a vitalist critique of early twentieth-century urban culture propounded in the essays that Carl Dallago contributed to the journal, to the more religiously-oriented view of a fragile, suffering humanity articulated by the poetry of Trakl and by the translations of works by Kierkegaard that began to appear from May So far so good. For Trakl shared the concerns and took part in the conversations of the circle, and the poems published in the journal often read as variations on themes that other contributors were also dealing with.

In order to maintain independence, Der Brenner did not include commercial advertisements.

INHALT DES ZWEITEN TEILES

Ficker would go on to publish brief essays by Loos in Der Brenner. Kontext und Rezeption Innsbruck: Dieses neue Menschenbild fand Ficker in den Schriften Kierkegaards beispielhaft vorgezeichnet […]. Kraus focuses in particular on the use of language, the status of art in its relation to commercial interests and the press, and attitudes to technology and war. Ich sehe zum Beispiel irgendwo ein Bild: The caption to the photograph not only reduces a life to a pithy one-liner, but creates a world in which we experience only phrases and advertising slogans.

A more responsible writing, for Kraus, requires an allergic attention to the abuse of language as set phrase or slogan, requires a thinking of ideas through, and an acknowledgement of the distinction between aesthetic and journalistic language, which nevertheless does not retreat into an aesthetic sphere to avoid engaging with the issue of the day.

The contributors to Der Brenner valued the critique of language. The result was a mythologization of the figure of Kraus himself in which Trakl also participated. For an account of the critique of contemporary journalism that Kraus develops through his reading of Heine, see Anthony Phelan, Reading Heirich Heine Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, , pp. Alle Grausamkeiten unsrer Zeit traten auf sein Inneres. Karl Kraus wirkt als das Gewissen der Welt, die unter ihm lebt.

Wedekind regretted that Kraus did not put his talents to use on the stage; Mann praised him whilst also judiciously differentiating between his own concerns as an artist and those of Kraus the polemical anti-journalist. At the same time, the figure does nothing in particular in the poem. Rather, the text performatively summons the figure up: For Dallago and Heinrich, Kraus becomes a mythological or rhetorical figure Siegfried, Napoleon, or the embodiment of a personified Conscience.

For Trakl, too, he is mythologized, but the invocation is not merely hyperbolic but excessive even to the point of meaninglessness. The images of Siegfried and Napoleon reinforce each other as aspects of an underlying warrior archetype. But the epithets used by Trakl are not so easily subsumable: Despite the changes, moving the poem further from immediately comprehensible oppositions, the poem is nevertheless evocative.

It presents a moral authority that is incontrovertible and embodied in a real person so part of this world , but at the same time, the language challenges the tropes available for domesticating that authority: Kraus is not simply a hero. Indeed, for Stieg, the poem pre-empts the critical line that the Brenner circle will come to take on Kraus in the s. They knew how to deal with Kraus, insofar as they could measure his authority by their preferred standard.

Here the issue seems to be precisely that it was hard not simply to imitate Kraus: But that need not be seen as a problem. In a note written almost twenty years later, but thinking about the influence of Kraus on his intellectual development, Wittgenstein similarly abandons the claim to independence. If his authority could not be conceptually contained, it demanded simply to be emulated.

In contrast, Trakl could be said not to have invented new images but to stage the failure of existing literary idioms. The figures of the priest, magician, and warrior gesture towards an authority that cannot directly be invoked, but is rather experienced through the failure of the images to represent it.

Meaning of "Trakl" in the German dictionary

Or, to put it another way: A Selection from the Posthumous Remains, ed. Blackwell, , p. Doppler argues that the critique of Kraus Stieg finds was simply not yet on the agenda for the Brenner circle in , Trakl included, see Doppler, Die Lyrik Georg Trakls, p. Symbolist and Romantic poetry and the language of the Bible. To his contemporaries, his poems also contained something positive. Sie taten mir wohl.

The effect of the poems lay somewhere between these two readings. They were, in other words, an inspiring or invigorating form of nonsense. Reclam, , pp.

Hanna Klessinger, Krisis der Moderne: Ficker, Briefwechsel —, ed. Ignaz Zangerle and others Salzburg: Haymon, , p. Das Ohr folgt lange den Pfaden der Sterne im Eis. Beim Erwachen klangen die Glocken im Dorf. Wenn der Herbst kam, ging er, ein Hellseher, in brauner Au. Niemand liebte ihn.

Da es Nacht ward, zerbrach kristallen sein Herz und die Finsternis schlug seine Stirne. Lange lag er auf steinigem Acker und sah staunend das goldene Zelt der Sterne. Atemlos trat er ins verfallene Haus. Im Hof trank er, ein wildes Tier, von den blauen Wassern des Brunnens, bis ihn fror. O, die verfallene Scheibe der Sonne. O des verfluchten Geschlechts. Wenn in befleckten Zimmern jegliches Schicksal vollendet ist, tritt mit modernden Schritten der Tod in das Haus.

O die strahlenden Engel, die der purpurne Nachtwind zerstreute. Ein Schatten ging er den Saumpfad hinab unter herbstlichen Sternen. Eines Blinden klang die harte Stimme des Vaters und beschwor das Grauen. Weh der gebeugten Erscheinung der Frauen. O die Wollust des Todes.

Synonyms and antonyms of Gedichtinterpretation in the German dictionary of synonyms

O ihr Kinder eines dunklen Geschlechts. O, wie stille war das Haus, als der Vater ins Dunkel hinging. Die Nacht lang rauschte ein Regen und erquickte die Flur. Einbrach ein roter Schatten mit flammendem Schwert in das Haus, floh mit schneeiger Stirne. Und es sprach eine dunkle Stimme aus mir: The Ravens Over the black corner The Young Maid Often at the well Romance in the Night The lonely one under In Red Foliage Full of Guitars Music in Mirabell [version 3] A fountain sings Melancholy of the Evening The forest widens deceased Winter Twilight Black skies of metal Rondel Flown away is the gold of the days Blessing of Women Walking among your women The Beautiful City Old plazas remain in sunny silence In a Deserted Room Window, colorful flowerbeds To the Boy Elis Elis , when the blackbird calls The Thunderstorm Evening O, the red evening hours Evening Muse Again at the blooming window Dream of Evil [version 1] Fading away of a gong's brown-golden sounds Spiritual Song A fluttering flowerbed In Autumn Sunflowers shine near the fence Toward Evening my Heart In the evening one hears the cry of bats The Peasants Before the window sounding green and red All Soul's Day Little men, little women Melancholy [version 3] Bluish shadows.

O you dark eyes Soul of Life Decay softly darkens the foliage Transfigured Autumn So the year ends enormously Corner by the Forest Brown chestnuts. Quietly the old people In Winter The acre shines white and cold In an Old Family Album Always you return, melancholy Transformation [version 2] Along gardens, autumnal, red-seared Small Concert A red, which dream-like overcomes Mankind Mankind placed before the fiery gorges The Walk Music hums in the wood De profundis It is a stubble field Trumpets Under pruned willows Dusk In the courtyard, bewitched by milky twilight Cheerful Spring [version 2] Beside the brook that flows Suburb in Foehn In the evening the site lies The Rats In the courtyard the autumn moon Doldrums [version 1] World misfortune wanders ghostly Whispered in the Afternoon The sun, autumnal thin Psalm [version 2] It is a light, which the wind Nearness of Death [version 2] O the evening Amen Putrid gliding through the rotten room Decay [version 2] In the evening when the bells In the Homeland Fragrance of mignonettes strays An Autumn Evening The brown village Human Misery [version 2] The clock that strikes five before the sun In the Village A village, a field emerges Evening Song In the evening when we go on dark paths Three Gazes into an Opal Gaze into an opal Night Song The breath of the unmoved.

Helian In the lonely hours of the spirit Sebastian in Dream divided in five sections; in Kurt Wolff publishing house, Leipzig. Childhood The elder full of fruit Hourly Song With dark gazes the lovers look En-Route In the evening they carried the stranger Landscape [version 2] September evening; sadly the shepherds' dark calls Elis [version 3] Perfect is the stillness of this golden day Hohenburg [version 2] There is nobody in the house Sebastian in Dream Mother bore the infant in the white moon At the Moor [version 3] Wanderer in black wind In Spring Gently snow sank from dark steps Evening in Lans [version 2] Wanderings through the dawning summer Kaspar Hauser Song He truly loved the sun At Night The blueness of my eyes is extinguished Metamorphosis of Evil - Prose [version 2] Autumn: In the Park Again wandering in the old park A Winter Evening [version 2] When the snow falls The Cursed It dusks.

The old women go Sonja Evening returns in the old garden Along Corn and grape are cut Autumn Soul [version 2] Hunter's call and bloody baying Afra [version 2] A child with brown hair Autumn of the Lonely The dark autumn returns filled Rest and Silence Shepherds buried the sun in the bleak forest Decline [version 5] Over the white pond Spiritual Dusk [version 2] A dark deer encounters silently Occidental Song O the nocturnal wing beat of the soul Transfiguration When evening appears Foehn Blind lament in the wind The Wanderer [version 2] Always, the white night leans Karl Kraus White pontiff of truth To the Muted O, the insanity of the large city Passion [version 3] When Orpheus silverly stirs the lyre Seven-song of Death Bluely spring dusks Winter Night Snow has fallen In Venice Silence in the nocturnal room Limbo By autumnal walls The Sun Daily the yellow sun comes Song of a Captive Blackbird Dark breathe in the green branches Summer In the evening the cuckoo's lament End of Summer The green summer has become Year Dark silence of childhood Occident [version 4] Moon, as if a dead thing Springtime of the Soul Outcry in sleep In Darkness [version 2] The soul silences the blue springtime Song of the Departed The flight of birds is full of harmonies Dream and Derangement - Prose In the evening, the father became an old man In Hellbrunn Following the blue lament The Heart The wild heart became white Sleep [version 2] Accursed you dark poisons The Thunderstorm You wild mountains The Evening Moon, with dead heroic figures The Night I sing you, wild fissure The Gloom You are enormous, dark mouth.

The Homecoming [version 2] The coolness of dark years Lament Youth, out of a crystal mouth Surrender at Night [version 5] Monkess! In the East The people's dark rage Lament Sleep and death, the sinister eagles Grodek [version 2] In the evening the autumn woods resound Revelation and Decline - Prose Strange are the nightly paths of men The Morning Song Now stride down, titanic fellow Dream Wanderer Where are you, who walked The Three Ponds of Hellbrunn [version 2] Around the flowers the blowflies reel The Three Ponds in Hellbrunn [version 3] Wandering along the black walls Peter's Cemetery All around is rocky isolation A Spring Evening A shrub filled with larvae In an Old Garden Mignonette scent drifts away Evening Round Dance [version 2] Aster fields brown and blue Night Soul [version 2] Taciturnly a blue deer descended Night Soul [version 3] Taciturnly a blue deer descended An Episode From the Golden Chalice.

Barrabas - A fantasy From the Golden Chalice. Mary Magdalene - A dialog Abandonment. A novel by Franz Karl Ginzkey. Arranged by Trakl as a survey of his poems written up to Later he did not consider these texts to be of any importance. Three Dreams I think, I dreamed of falling leaves From the Still Days So ghostly are these late days Dusk You are rumpled, distorted Autumn ['Decay', version 1] In the evening when the bells The Horror I saw myself go through abandoned rooms Devotion Not lost from my young years Sabbat A breath of feverish poisonous plants Song in the Night Born from the shadow of a breath The Deep Song From deep night I was released Ballad A fool wrote three signs in the sand Ballad A heart laments Ballad A sultry garden stood the night Melusine At my windows the night weeps Decay A wind is blowing Poem A pious song came to me Night Song Over nocturnal dark floods By a Window Above the roofs the sky's blue Colorful Autumn ['Music in Mirabell', version 1] The fountain sings The Three Ponds in Hellbrunn [version 1] Around the flowers the blowflies Gipsy The longing flames Nature Theater Now I step through the slender gate Exhausting Putrefaction of dream-created paradises Closing Chord The last, pale light went from the day Accord Very bright tones in the thin winds Crucifixus He is the God before whom the poor kneel Confiteor The colored pictures which life paints Silence Over the forests the moon Before Sunrise In the dark many bird voices call Blood Guilt Night threatens at the bed of our kisses Encounter The stranger on the way Perfection My brother, let us go more silent Metamorphosis An eternal light glows dark-red Evening Walk I go into the evening The Saint When in the hell of self-created sufferings To a Woman Passer-by I have once seen passing-by The Dead Church On dark benches they sit packed Melusine What just woke me The Night of the Poor Dusk falls Night Song Strike me pain De profundis The chamber of the dead is full of night At the Cemetery Rotten stone towers sultrily warmed Sunny Afternoon A branch rocks me in the deep blue Age An animal face in the brown green The Shadow Since I sat in the garden Quaint Spring Probably around the deep midday The Dream of an Afternoon Be silent!

Summer Sonata Rotten fruits smell stunning Luminous Hour Far on the hill flute-sounds Childhood Memory The sun shines alone An Evening In the evening the sky was overcast Season Ruby-veins crept into the foliage In Wine Country The sun paints courtyard and walls The Dark Valley In pines a migration of crows Summer Dawn In the green ether suddenly a star In the Moonlight An army of vermin Fairy Tale Rockets drizzle in the yellow sunshine A Spring Evening Come evening, friend who surrounds my forehead Elegy The girlfriend juggling with green flowers Springtime of the Soul Flowers scattered blue and white Western Dusk A faun-cry romps through sparks The Church Painted angels guard the altars To Angela [version 1] A lonely destiny in abandoned rooms To Angela [version 2] A lonely destiny in abandoned rooms In milk and desolation Winter Walk in A-Minor Red spheres often emerge Always Darker The wind, which moves purple treetops En-route [version 1] A scent of myrrh En-route [version 2] A scent of myrrh December ['December Sonnet', version 1] In the evening jugglers travel December Sonnet [version 2] In the evening jugglers travel Green-golden the day arises A carpet, into which the suffering landscape pales The song of the spring rain is dark On the Edge of an Old Well [version 2] Dark interpretation of the water Along Walls An old path goes along A paleness, resting in the shadow With rosy stages the stone sinks The blue night has softly risen O the dwelling in the stillness In the Evening A blue brook Justice Huts of childhood Sister's Garden [version 1] It's already cool Sister's Garden [version 2] In sister's garden silent and still W ind, white voice that whispers The dew of spring, which falls down O the defoliated beeches To Novalis [version 1] Resting in crystalline earth To Novalis [version 2b] In dark earth the holy stranger Hour of Grief Blackish the step follows the gleaming moon Nocturnal Lament [version 2] The night has risen over the rumpled forehead To Johanna Often I hear your steps Melancholy The blue soul has mutely closed Please ['To Lucifer', version 1] Send your flames to the spirit Please ['To Lucifer', version 2] Send your flames to the spirit To Lucifer [version 3] Lend your flame to the spirit Blue evening take someone's temple In the Evening [version 2] The grass is still yellow With the Young Wine [version 1] Sun sets purple With the Young Wine [version 2] Sun sets purple The night devoured red faces Homecoming When the evening breathes Daydreaming [version 1] Soft life grows in the stillness Daydreaming [version 2] Soft life grows in the stillness around Daydreaming [version 3] Lovers go by hedges Psalm Stillness; as if blind people sank down Autumnal Homecoming [version 2] Memory, buried hope Autumnal Homecoming [version 3] Memory, buried hope Remnant [version 2] O spiritual reunion Age More spiritually the wild roses The Sunflowers You golden sunflowers So seriously o summer dusk Double Versions of the poems published in lifetime.

Colorful Autumn ['Music in Mirabell', version 2] A fountain sings Dream of Evil [version 2] O these lime-whitewashed, bleak alleys Dream of Evil [version 3] Fading away of a death-bell's sounds Quietly ['Melancholy', version 1] In the stubble field a black wind thunders Melancholia ['Melancholy', version 2] Bluish shadows. Cheerful Spring [version 1] When newly greened the brook flows Psalm [version 1] It is a light, which the wind In the Hospital ['Human Mourning', version 1] The clock that strikes twelve Human Mourning [version 3] The clock that strikes five before the sun Elis [version 1] P erfect is the stillness Elis [version 2] Elis, when the blackbird calls December ['At the Moor', version 1] The coat in the black wind At the Moor [version 4] Wanderer in the black wind Summer ['Evening in Lans', version 1] Summer under lime-whitewashed arches Memory - Prose [Fr.

Evening Mirror ['Afra', version 1] A child with brown hair Decline [version 4] Under the dark arches of our gloom At the Hill ['Spiritual Dusk', version 1] A dark deer passed off silently Wanderer's Sleep ['The Wanderer', version 1] Always the white night leans Passion [version 1] When Orpheus silverly stirs the lyre Passion [version 2] When Orpheus silverly stirs the lyre Occident [version 1a] Decayed hamlets sank Wanderings ['Occident', version 1b] So quiet are the green forests Occident [version 2] Decayed hamlets sank Occident [version 3] Moon, as if a dead shape Along Walls ['In Darkness', version 1] Never the golden countenance of spring In Snow ['Surrender at Night', version 1] Contemplate the truth Sight ['Surrender at Night', version 2] Since the autumn so red To the Night ['Surrender at Night', version 3] Monkess enclose me in your darkness To the Night ['Surrender at Night', version 4] Nymph draw me into your darkness The monk listens long to the dying bird Where the possessed stand by black walls Through black forehead the dead city goes awry Those sing the decline of the sinister city Where by walls the shadows of the ancestors stand Sinisterly a brown deer bleeds in the shrub Fa r away the mother sat in the shadow of autumn O r when he a soft novice Childhood What quietly walks under autumn's trees A cross towers Elis Birth Walk with the father In Spring Evening has become in the old garden When the day sank K drove The homeless one turns In spring; a delicate corpse Nocturnal beeches; in the heart From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel: Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament, And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content, And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding: Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed of small worth held: Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days; To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes, Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.

How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use, If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,' Proving his beauty by succession thine! This were to be new made when thou art old, And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. 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 not renewest, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.

For where is she so fair whose unear'd 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, remember'd not to be, Die single and thine image dies with thee. Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend Upon thy self thy beauty's legacy? Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend, And being frank she lends to those are free: Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse The bounteous largess given thee to give? Profitless usurer, why dost thou use So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live? For having traffic with thy self alone, Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive: Then how when nature calls thee to be gone, What acceptable audit canst thou leave?

Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee, Which, used, lives th' executor to be. Those hours, that with gentle work did frame The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, Will play the tyrants to the very same And that unfair which fairly doth excel; For never-resting time leads summer on To hideous winter, and confounds him there; Sap checked with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone, Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where: Then were not summer's distillation left, A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was: But flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet, Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface, In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd: Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place With beauty's treasure ere it be self-kill'd. That use is not forbidden usury, Which happies those that pay the willing loan; That's for thy self to breed another thee, Or ten times happier, be it ten for one; Ten times thy self were happier than thou art, If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee: Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart, Leaving thee living in posterity?

Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir. But when from highmost pitch, with weary car, Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are From his low tract, and look another way: So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon: Unlook'd, on diest unless thou get a son. Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy: Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly, Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy?

If the true concord of well-tuned sounds, By unions married, do offend thine ear, They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear. Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, Strikes each in each by mutual ordering; Resembling sire and child and happy mother, Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing: Whose speechless song being many, seeming one, Sings this to thee: Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye, That thou consum'st thy self in single life?

No love toward others in that bosom sits That on himself such murd'rous shame commits. Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many, But that thou none lov'st is most evident: For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate, That 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not to conspire, Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate Which to repair should be thy chief desire. Shall hate be fairer lodg'd than gentle love? Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind, Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove: Make thee another self for love of me, That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st, In one of thine, from that which thou departest; And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st, Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest, Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase; Without this folly, age, and cold decay: If all were minded so, the times should cease And threescore year would make the world away.

Let those whom nature hath not made for store, Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish: Look, whom she best endow'd, she gave thee more; Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish: She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby, Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die. When I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; When I behold the violet past prime, And sable curls, all silvered o'er with white; When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, And summer's green all girded up in sheaves, Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard, Then of thy beauty do I question make, That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake And die as fast as they see others grow; And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

Against this coming end you should prepare, And your sweet semblance to some other give: So should that beauty which you hold in lease Find no determination; then you were Yourself again, after yourself's decease, When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, Which husbandry in honour might uphold, Against the stormy gusts of winter's day And barren rage of death's eternal cold?

Dear my love, you know, You had a father: Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck; And yet methinks I have astronomy, But not to tell of good or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality; Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind, Or say with princes if it shall go well By oft predict that I in heaven find: But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, And constant stars in them I read such art As 'Truth and beauty shall together thrive, If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert'; Or else of thee this I prognosticate: When I consider every thing that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment, That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky, Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out of memory; Then the conceit of this inconstant stay Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Where wasteful Time debateth with decay To change your day of youth to sullied night, And all in war with Time for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

But wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? And fortify your self in your decay With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? Now stand you on the top of happy hours, And many maiden gardens, yet unset, With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit: So should the lines of life that life repair, Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen, Neither in inward worth nor outward fair, Can make you live your self in eyes of men. To give away yourself, keeps yourself still, And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

Who will believe my verse in time to come, If it were fill'd with your most high deserts? Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts. If I could write the beauty of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces. But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice,—in it, and in my rhyme. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd, And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd: But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st, So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, And burn the long-liv'd phoenix, in her blood; Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets, And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, To the wide world and all her fading sweets; But I forbid thee one most heinous crime: Yet, do thy worst old Time: A woman's face with nature's own hand painted, Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion; A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted With shifting change, as is false women's fashion: An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; A man in hue all 'hues' in his controlling, Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.

And for a woman wert thou first created; Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, And by addition me of thee defeated, By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.

But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure. So is it not with me as with that Muse, Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse, Who heaven itself for ornament doth use And every fair with his fair doth rehearse, Making a couplement of proud compare' With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare, That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.

Let them say more that like of hearsay well; I will not praise that purpose not to sell. My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date; But when in thee time's furrows I behold, Then look I death my days should expiate. For all that beauty that doth cover thee, Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me: How can I then be elder than thou art? Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain, Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again. As an unperfect actor on the stage, Who with his fear is put beside his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; So I, for fear of trust, forget to say The perfect ceremony of love's rite, And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, O'ercharg'd with burthen of mine own love's might.

To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd, Thy beauty's form in table of my heart; My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, And perspective it is best painter's art. For through the painter must you see his skill, To find where your true image pictur'd lies, Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.

Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done: Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art, They draw but what they see, know not the heart. Let those who are in favour with their stars Of public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread But as the marigold at the sun's eye, And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die.

The painful warrior famoused for fight, After a thousand victories once foil'd, Is from the book of honour razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd: Then happy I, that love and am belov'd, Where I may not remove nor be remov'd. Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, To thee I send this written embassage, To witness duty, not to show my wit: Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, But that I hope some good conceit of thine In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it: Till whatsoever star that guides my moving, Points on me graciously with fair aspect, And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving, To show me worthy of thy sweet respect: Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear respose for limbs with travel tir'd; But then begins a journey in my head To work my mind, when body's work's expired: For then my thoughts—from far where I abide— Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, Looking on darkness which the blind do see: Save that my soul's imaginary sight Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.

How can I then return in happy plight, That am debarre'd the benefit of rest? When day's oppression is not eas'd by night, But day by night and night by day oppress'd, And each, though enemies to either's reign, Do in consent shake hands to torture me, The one by toil, the other to complain How far I toil, still farther off from thee. I tell the day, to please him thou art bright, And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven: So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night, When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.

But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger. When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising, Haply I think on thee,— and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before.

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restor'd and sorrows end. Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, Which I by lacking have supposed dead; And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts, And all those friends which I thought buried. How many a holy and obsequious tear Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye, As interest of the dead, which now appear But things remov'd that hidden in thee lie!

Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, Who all their parts of me to thee did give, That due of many now is thine alone: Their images I lov'd, I view in thee, And thou—all they—hast all the all of me. If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Compare them with the bett'ring of the time, And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Exceeded by the height of happier men.

But since he died and poets better prove, Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love'. Full many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With ugly rack on his celestial face, And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: Even so my sun one early morn did shine, With all triumphant splendour on my brow; But out!

Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss: The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief To him that bears the strong offence's cross.

No more be griev'd at that which thou hast done: Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud: Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. All men make faults, and even I in this, Authorizing thy trespass with compare, Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss, Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are; For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,— Thy adverse party is thy advocate,— And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence: Such civil war is in my love and hate, That I an accessary needs must be, To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.

Let me confess that we two must be twain, Although our undivided loves are one: So shall those blots that do with me remain, Without thy help, by me be borne alone. In our two loves there is but one respect, Though in our lives a separable spite, Which though it alter not love's sole effect, Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.

I may not evermore acknowledge thee, Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame, Nor thou with public kindness honour me, Unless thou take that honour from thy name: But do not so, I love thee in such sort, As thou being mine, mine is thy good report. As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by Fortune's dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth; For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, Or any of these all, or all, or more, Entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit, I make my love engrafted, to this store: So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis'd, Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give That I in thy abundance am suffic'd, And by a part of all thy glory live.

Look what is best, that best I wish in thee: This wish I have; then ten times happy me! How can my muse want subject to invent, While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse Thine own sweet argument, too excellent For every vulgar paper to rehearse?

Translation of «Trakl» into 25 languages

Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth Than those old nine which rhymers invocate; And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth Eternal numbers to outlive long date. If my slight muse do please these curious days, The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise. What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?

And what is't but mine own when I praise thee? Even for this, let us divided live, And our dear love lose name of single one, That by this separation I may give That due to thee which thou deserv'st alone. Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all; What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call; All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more. Then, if for my love, thou my love receivest, I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest; But yet be blam'd, if thou thy self deceivest By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.

I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief, Although thou steal thee all my poverty: And yet, love knows it is a greater grief To bear love's wrong, than hate's known injury. Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes. Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits, When I am sometime absent from thy heart, Thy beauty, and thy years full well befits, For still temptation follows where thou art.

Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won, Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assail'd; And when a woman woos, what woman's son Will sourly leave her till he have prevail'd? That thou hast her it is not all my grief, And yet it may be said I loved her dearly; That she hath thee is of my wailing chief, A loss in love that touches me more nearly. Loving offenders thus I will excuse ye: Thou dost love her, because thou know'st I love her; And for my sake even so doth she abuse me, Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her.

If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain, And losing her, my friend hath found that loss; Both find each other, and I lose both twain, And both for my sake lay on me this cross: But here's the joy; my friend and I are one; Sweet flattery! When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see, For all the day they view things unrespected; But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee, And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed. Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright, How would thy shadow's form form happy show To the clear day with thy much clearer light, When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!

How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made By looking on thee in the living day, When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay! All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me. If the dull substance of my flesh were thought, Injurious distance should not stop my way; For then despite of space I would be brought, From limits far remote, where thou dost stay. No matter then although my foot did stand Upon the farthest earth remov'd from thee; For nimble thought can jump both sea and land, As soon as think the place where he would be.

The other two, slight air, and purging fire Are both with thee, wherever I abide; The first my thought, the other my desire, These present-absent with swift motion slide. For when these quicker elements are gone In tender embassy of love to thee, My life, being made of four, with two alone Sinks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy; Until life's composition be recur'd By those swift messengers return'd from thee, Who even but now come back again, assur'd, Of thy fair health, recounting it to me: This told, I joy; but then no longer glad, I send them back again, and straight grow sad.

Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war, How to divide the conquest of thy sight; Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar, My heart mine eye the freedom of that right. My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie,— A closet never pierc'd with crystal eyes— But the defendant doth that plea deny, And says in him thy fair appearance lies.

To side this title is impannelled A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart; And by their verdict is determined The clear eye's moiety, and the dear heart's part: As thus; mine eye's due is thy outward part, And my heart's right, thy inward love of heart.

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, And each doth good turns now unto the other: When that mine eye is famish'd for a look, Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother, With my love's picture then my eye doth feast, And to the painted banquet bids my heart; Another time mine eye is my heart's guest, And in his thoughts of love doth share a part: So, either by thy picture or my love, Thy self away, art present still with me; For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move, And I am still with them, and they with thee; Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight Awakes my heart, to heart's and eye's delight.

How careful was I when I took my way, Each trifle under truest bars to thrust, That to my use it might unused stay From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust! But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are, Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief, Thou best of dearest, and mine only care, Art left the prey of every vulgar thief. Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest, Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art, Within the gentle closure of my breast, From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part; And even thence thou wilt be stol'n I fear, For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.

Against that time, if ever that time come, When I shall see thee frown on my defects, When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum, Call'd to that audit by advis'd respects; Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass, And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye, When love, converted from the thing it was, Shall reasons find of settled gravity; Against that time do I ensconce me here, Within the knowledge of mine own desert, And this my hand, against my self uprear, To guard the lawful reasons on thy part: To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws, Since why to love I can allege no cause.

How heavy do I journey on the way, When what I seek, my weary travel's end, Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, 'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend! The bloody spur cannot provoke him on, That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide, Which heavily he answers with a groan, More sharp to me than spurring to his side; For that same groan doth put this in my mind, My grief lies onward, and my joy behind. Thus can my love excuse the slow offence Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed: From where thou art why should I haste me thence? Till I return, of posting is no need.

Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind, In winged speed no motion shall I know, Then can no horse with my desire keep pace; Therefore desire, of perfect'st love being made, Shall neigh—no dull flesh—in his fiery race; But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade,— 'Since from thee going, he went wilful-slow, Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go. So am I as the rich, whose blessed key, Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, The which he will not every hour survey, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Since, seldom coming in that long year set, Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, Or captain jewels in the carcanet.

So is the time that keeps you as my chest, Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, To make some special instant special-blest, By new unfolding his imprison'd pride.

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