Das ruhlose Thal

Einst lächelte ein friedliches Thal,
Aus welchem die Leute allzumal
Gezogen waren in stürmische Fernen,
Nachdem sie zu den gütigen Sternen
Gefleht, von ihren azurnen Thürmen
Die Blumen im Thal zu pflegen, zu schirmen,
In deren Mitte den ganzen Tag
Das rothe Sonnenlicht träge lag.
Jetzt raschelt es durch den seltsamen Ort
Ruhlos, rastlos in einem fort.
Alles zittert und schauert, blos
Die Lüfte sind ganz bewegungslos.
Ach, von keinem Winde geschaukelt,
Nicht vom leisesten Zephyr umgaukelt,
Zucken die Bäume gleich den Fjorden
Im umnebelten felsigen Norden.
Ach, von keinem Winde getrieben,
Jagen die Wolken und zerstieben
Ueber den Veilchen, die dort liegen,
Ueber den Lilien, die sich dort wiegen,
Die sich wiegen und neigen und schauern,
Ueber mystischen Gräbern trauern.
Sie schauern: ihre duftenden Seelen
Zittern in immer währendem Leide.
Sie weinen: auf ihrem weißen Kleide
Schimmern die Thränen wie Juwelen.

Collection: 
Translator Simple: 
Hedwig Lachmann (1865-1918)
1891

More from Poet

  • HEAR the sledges with the bells— Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight,—...

  • In the greenest of our valleys By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace— Radiant palace—reared its head. In the monarch Thought’s dominion, It stood there; Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair. Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and...

  • Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “’T is some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my...

  • The Skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crispèd and sere, The leaves they were withering and sere; It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year; It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, In the misty mid region of Weir: It was down by the dank...

  • Thank Heaven! the crisis,— The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last,— And the fever called “Living” Is conquered at last. Sadly, I know, I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full length,— But no matter!—I feel I am better at length. And I...