Last modified: Line count: 54 Word count: Gentle Reminder This website began in as a personal project, and I have been working on it full-time without a salary since The LiederNet Archive. Last modified: Line count: 54 Word count: Gentle Reminder. This website began in as a personal project, and I have been working on it full-time without a salary since It summons me.
The dory beckons, tossing, impatient for a route far away. It stretches to utmost bare distance. You can't come too, my child -- you see how easily my stars fail to guide, how easily storm whips up wind; how could I face death in its thousand shapes if I knew you were in danger? O free me from your clasping arms and from your heart, too, set me free. Do I even know if I'll succeed and turn towards home victorious? The wave whose song now lures me forth may be the same that devours me.
It still is held in your own hands, you are not irreparably committed. Cut your young life loose at once from the risks that dwell in mine. O choose, choose before you have to; renouncing is easier than to be lost. O let me steer in certain knowledge that on earth I am alone, for then my senses will not cringe at any unimagined terrors. I'll play a gambling game with fear and may, abruptly, reach my goal. For hearteningly, atop my mast, your image will be always seen, and, by lightning flashes lit, its brightness will lift my courage up. The winds, though they howl fearfully, will not drown out your voice's sound.
If I can only see and hear you, then I have need of nothing more. I will not dispense with life and will still contend with death. How could a world be burdensome that holds angels as fair as you? You too must not destroy my image, but hallow it in friendship's tears; that it, in times of pain and joy, may be your comfort and close companion.
Remain, even when I lose all else, my friend in paradise at home. And if an evil wave should wash my corpse back on the floral shore, I know, in that loved place, there still will be one, one devoted hand that neither disdain nor pain can keep from giving my remains a grave. Text added to the website: To roam, O to roam Freely through the world so wide, With green bows On hat and coat.
When I swing the little bell, It sounds so soft, so gentle. My locks of hair flutter Around me in the wind. I look at the deer So lovely in the forest, I become so sad, It too will soon be forgotten. A fragrant little rose Blooms in the heather, I kiss the little rose And weep a little. Merrily, as wind sweeps And tugs a dream through the heart, A linden blossom falls Down from the tree.
Once more, ere I move on And send my glance forward, Lonely, I raise my hands To you, to whom I flee, To whom I, in the deepest depths of my heart, Have solemnly consecrated altars, So that, at all times, His voice would summon me again.
Deeply inscribed upon them glows The words: To the Unknown God. Ich will dich kennen, selbst dir dienen. I want to know you, unknown one, You who have reached deep within my soul, Wandering through my life like a storm, You incomprehensible one, akin to me! I want to know you, even serve you. Und schrei ich laut: Homer! So macht das Jedermann Beschwer. Zur Kirche geht man und nach Haus Und lacht den lauten Schreier aus. Thus annoying everyone. They go to church and then go home And laugh at the loud crier.
As a reward for this exuberance Of kindness here is my printed thanks. Nach Pforta To Pforta Ohne Heimath Without a Home To roam, O to roam! An die Melancholie To Melancholy Verarge mir es nicht, Melancholie, Dass ich die Feder, dich zu preisen, spitze, Und dass ich nicht, den Kopf gebeugt zum Knie, Einsiedlerisch auf einem Baumstumpf sitze.
Don't blame me, Melancholy, That I sharpen my pen to praise you, Not that I, head bowed to my knee, Sit hermitlike on a tree stump, hewn. You often saw me thus, just yesterday, In the heat of the radiant morning sun: A vulture cried greedily in the valley, Dreaming of its staked and rotting carrion. Du sahst das Auge nicht, das wonnenreich Noch hin und her rollt, stolz und hochgemuthe.
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You failed, wild bird, although I rested mummylike on my seat! You missed my eye, roving to and fro, Blissfully proud in the morning heat. Thus I often sat, unsightly, A crude crooked sacrifice, Recalling with you, Melancholy, Penance for the youthful years of life! Now I sit content, the vulture circling, Avalanche of rolling thunder apace, You speak to me, lacking man's deceiving, Truthfully, yet with an austere face.
Stern goddess, savage and intense, You, dearest friend, try to advance; And point to where the vulture descends, Daring me to deny you amid the rumbling avalanche. Snarling with a hiss of terrible desire, Driven by agonizing greed, she sighs! On her stony bed, seductively, this flower Yearns for the caress of butterflies.
Don't blame me, angry deity, That you, with delicate rhymes, I adorn. Trembling at your approach and terrible visage, As you dawn, an evil face is born. After a Nocturnal Thunderstorm Today you hang as misty cover Around my window, goddess of dark cloud, Ashen flakes eerily hover To a roaring brook's angry sound. O amid your sudden lightning flashes, When your untamed thunder boomed, In valleys poisoned and noxious, Your death-drink, sorceress, was brewed! At midnight, shuddering, your howling cries Awoke me with a jolt, You reached, with blazing eyes, For a piercing thunderbolt.
Rushed to my empty bed at last, Fully armored, weapons drawn, Struck your chain mail against the glass, And spoke: "Now hear what I am! Oder modre Wurm! Irrlicht, verglimm! Or melt in my mad glow! Dies ist der Herbst This is the autumn Dies ist der Herbst. Die Sonne schleicht zum Berg Und steigt hinauf und ruht bei jedem Schritte. Ich seh's und sterbe dann, Und sterbe gern. This is the autumn. The sun crawls along the mountain And climbs up And rests with every step.
Upon worn, strained threads The wind plays its song: Hope flees, He soughs to her. O fruit of the tree, Shaken, you fall! What lone secret did the night Reveal to you, That icy horror veiling your cheeks, Your crimson cheeks? I see it and then die, And die gladly. Um Mittag, wenn At noon, when Und dunkler noch und treuer blickt die Tanne Als sonst sie blickt. Wir lieben dich! At noon, when The young summer rises into the mountains, There, too, he speaks, But we only see his speech: His billowing breath is like a wanderer's In frosty winter: Icy mountain and fir and spring Reply to him as well, But we only see the reply.
For, as a greeting, the torrent Drops down from the rocks And stands there listening like a white pillar. And the fir looks even more somber and faithful Than it usually looks. And between ice and deadly gray stone Suddenly light flashes: Who will explain it to you? In the eye of a dead man Will once again be light: His grieving child will embrace him, Kiss him.
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For the light in his eye says: "I love you" And snowy mountain and brook and fir They, too, express To the summer's boy only This single phrase: We love you! We love you! Mein Gruss ist Abschied Ich sterbe jung. My greeting is farewell I will die young. Desperat Desperate Lauf' ich schon, wo lauf' ich hin? Spring' ich in die Wellen? Horrible to my senses are Spitting companions! I already run, where do I run? Do I jump in the waves? I prefer to live wickedly and simply A free bird upon the rooftops, Preferably amongst a den of thieves, Oath and marriage breakers!
Fluch der Bildung, wenn sie speit! Fluch dem Tugendbunde! Curse the culture, when she spews! Curse the league of virtues! Even the purest holiness Doesn't wear gold in her mouth. Fremdestes ist nun mir teuer! Hand, halt das Steuer! The strange is now dear to me!
- Adiós, adiós (Traditional).
- Texas Legacy (Texas Soul Book 6).
- Elvis Presley.
- My friend the wind (German translation).
- Michael Hesemann;
- IRELAND'S PLACE IN NINETEENTH‐CENTURY GERMAN POETRY.
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Hold the helm, hand! We stand fast on our feet! We can never return! Out there, the beyond: from the distance to greet Us with death, glory, fortune! This is no book: what do books matter! What do coffins and shrouds matter! Sanctus Januarius This is no book: what do books matter!
To these coffins and shrouds! The past is the prey of books: Yet within lives an eternal present. Columbus Novus Dorthin will ich, und ich traue Mir fortan und meinem Griff! Stehst du doch selbst am Steuer, Lieblichste Victoria! There I'll go, and I'll keep Trust in myself and my grip! The sea is open: in the deep Floats my Genoese ship.
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At the helm are you, Loveliest victory! Das Wort The Word Doch bleibt das Wort ein zartes Wesen, Bald krank und aber bald genesen. But the word remains a delicate creature, At once sick and yet soon recovered. Fie to all those ugly trades, That put big and tiny words to death! Pinie und Blitz Pine and Lightning Close by, the clouds are sitting: I wait on the first lightning.
Whoever has much to proclaim one day Geht die Welt nicht schief und schiefer? Isn't the world getting more and more crooked? A poem written in a letter to Resa von Schirnhofer at the end of November The "True German. Der Wanderer The Wanderer Then a bird sings through the night. Was geht's dich an?
- Schiffers Scheidelied;
- Suelta a Nuestros Hijos: Pasos para liberar a sus hijos de las malas influencias y el acoso demoníaco (Spanish Edition).
- Sus Suenos Pueden Salvar su Vida (Spanish Edition)!
- Mein Freund, der Wind.
- prog40.ru: Michael Hesemann: Books, Biography, Blogs, Audiobooks, Kindle?
- Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Piano Solos);
Denn du sollst gehn Und nimmer, nimmer stille stehn! Was stehst du noch? The good bird falls silent and says: "No, wanderer, no! The night is not beautiful to me when alone. What's that to you? For you must walk And never, never stand still! Why are you still standing there? What has my flute song done to you, You wandering man? Was steht er noch? The good bird fell silent and thought: "What has my flute song done to him? Why is he still standing there?
Part 4. The Wandering Philosopher: Im deutschen November In the German November Fliege fort! Was ward die Welt so welk! Fly away! How the world became so withered! Upon worn, strained threads The wind plays its song. Oh fruit of the tree, Shaken, you fall?
What lone secret did the night Teach you, That icy horror upon your cheeks, Upon your crimson cheeks? Du schweigst, antwortest nicht? Wer redet noch? You are silent, do not answer? Who still speaks? Am Gletscher On the Glacier At noon, when The summer first rises into the mountains, The boy with the weary, burning eyes: There, too, he speaks, But we only see his speech. His breath billows like an invalid's breath billows In feverous night.
Icy mountain and fir and spring Reply to him as well, But we only see the reply. For, as a greeting, the torrent Drops down from the rocks And stands like a white trembling pillar, Longingly there. Likewise the eye of a dead man Will once again shine, When his grieving child Embraces, holds and kisses him: Once more, the dead eye's wavering Flame of light glowingly Speaks: "Child! Oh child, you know I love you!