An Zante

          

O schönes Eiland, das den holden Namen
Der Blumen allerlieblichster entlehnt,
Du weckst in meiner Seele wundersamen
Erinnrungszauber, den ich tot gewähnt.
Wie viele Stätten namenloser Wonnen,
Wie viele Schatten von verwehten Träumen,
Verlornen Hoffnungen, wie viel Visionen
Von ihr, von ihr, die unter diesen Bäumen
Nie mehr verweilt, nie mehr! weh, dieses Wort
Magischen, dunkeln Lauts verwandelt dich,
Hin ist dein Zauber – ein verfluchter Ort
Ist dein Gestade fürderhin für mich,
O Hyacintheninsel, goldne Zante,
Isola d’oro, fior’ di Levante!

Collection: 
German
Translator Simple: 
Hedwig Lachmann (1865-1918)
1891
Edgar Allan Poe

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