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Wonnig ist's, in Frühlingstagen

Language: German (Deutsch)

Wonnig ist's, in Frühlingstagen
Nach dem Wanderstab zu greifen
Und, den Blumenstrauß am Hute,
Gottes Garten zu durchschweifen.

Oben ziehn die weißen Wolken,
Unten gehn die blauen Bäche,
Schön in neuen Kleidern prangen
Waldeshöh' und Wiesenfläche.

Auf die Bleiche bringt das Mädchen,
Was der Winterfleiß gesponnen,
Und dem Hain erzählt die Amsel,
Was im Schnee sie still ersonnen.

Sind es auch die alten Töne,
Die bekannten, längst vertrauten,
Doch die Bleicherinnen lauschen
Gern den süßen, lieben Lauten.

Gern den süßen, lieben Lauten,
Die in Berg und Tal erklingen;
Hirtenbub' und Köhlerknabe
Horchen auf, um mitzusingen;

Mitzusingen frisch und freudig
Nach des Winters langen Schmerzen;
All die halbvergeßnen Lieder
Werden wach im Menschenherzen.

Halbvergeßne alte Lieder
Werden wach in meiner Seele:
Hätt' ich nur, sie auszusingen,
Wilde Amsel, deine Kehle! -

Was die Linde mir erzählte,
Was der Eichenwipfel rauschte,
Wenn ich abends ihrer Blätter
Heimlichen Gesprächen lauschte;

Was die muntern Bäche schwatzten
Hastig im Bergunterrennen,
Wilde Knaben, die nicht schweigen
Und nicht ruhig sitzen können;

Was die Zwerge mir vertrauten,
Die in fernen Waldrevieren
Still in Spalten und in Klüften
Ihren kleinen Haushalt führen;

Was auf mondbeglänztem Anger
Ich die Elben lispeln hörte;
Was mich des ergrauten Steines
Moosumgrünte Inschrift lehrte:

Dies und was ich las in staub'gen
Lederbänden und in alten
Halberloschnen Pergamenten,
Will zum Liede sich gestalten.

Nebelbilder steigen dämmernd
Aus der Vorzeit dunkeln Tagen;
Wispern hör' ich ihre Stimmen,
Freudenlaute, Zürnen, Klagen;

Männer, die vor tausend Sommern
Durch den Nethegau geschritten,
Heidenleute, Christenleute,
Was sie lebten, was sie litten;

Eines Sachsenjünglings Kämpfe
Mit dem Landesfeind, dem Franken,
Und in eigner Brust die schwersten
Mit den eigenen Gedanken;

Einer Jungfrau stilles Weinen,
Einer Greisin finstres Grollen,
Runensang und Racherufe,
Die aus Weibermund erschollen;

Frommer Mönche leises Walten
Im Konvent zu Dreizehnlinden,
Sanft bemüht, durch Lieb' und Lehre
Trotz und Wahn zu überwinden;

Ihre Hymnen, gottesfrohe,
Die bei Tag und Nacht erklangen,
Die den Sieg des Christenkreuzes
Jubelnd in die Berge sangen;

Und darein des Waldes Rauschen
Und dazu der Brandung Stöhnen:
Alles will zu einem Liede
Dumpf und hell zusammentönen.

Sei's, und sei es euch gesungen,
Die ihr wohnt an Ems und Lippe,
Ruhr und Diemel, Neth' und Emmer:
Alle seid ihr edler Sippe;

Alle sprecht ihr eine Sprache,
Frommer Mutter biedre Söhne,
Ob sie rauh im Waldgebirge,
Weich in Sand und Heid' ertöne.

Kinder ihr der Sachsengaue,
Nehmt das Beste, was ich habe:
Gern gereicht, ist unverächtlich
Auch des kleinern Mannes Gabe.

Denkt, ich böt' euch Heideblumen,
Eine Handvoll, die ich pflückte,
Als mit herbstlich gelbem Laube
Sich bereits der Osning schmückte.

Rügt es nicht, wenn ich den Helden
In der Heimat Farben male;
Dünkt er manchmal euch ein Träumer,
Nun, er war ja ein Westfale:

Zäh, doch bildsam, herb, doch ehrlich,
Ganz wie ihr und euresgleichen,
Ganz vom Eisen eurer Berge,
Ganz vom Holze eurer Eichen.

Heut noch ist bei euch wie nirgend
Väterbrauch und Art zu finden;
Darum sei es euch gesungen,
Dieses Lied von Dreizehnlinden.

Doch ein Uhu murrt dawider:
»Rauh sind deines Sanges Töne,
Und der Netheborn, der dunkle,
Deucht mir keine Hippokrene.

Laß das Leiern, laß das Klimpern!
O es schafft dir wenig Holdes;
Beßres Klingen, bestes Klingen
Scheint das Klingen mir des Goldes.

Und die eigne Haut zu pflegen,
Ist vor allem mir das erste;
Bau im Garten deine Rüben,
Bau im Felde deine Gerste!

Laß die schimmligen Scharteken
Unterm Kessel rasch verrauchen:
Kohlen sind's, die wir bedürfen,
Dämpfe sind's, die wir gebrauchen!

All den Wust papierner Träume,
Grubenschätze, die vermodern,
Daß sie endlich nützlich werden,
Unterm Kessel, laß sie lodern!

Nur das Einmaleins soll gelten,
Hebel, Walze, Rad und Hammer;
Alles andre, öder Plunder,
Flackre in der Feuerkammer.

Mag es flackern, mag es flammen,
Daß die Wasser sprühn und zischen
Und der Welt zerrißne Stämme
Hastig durcheinandermischen;

Denn das große Ziel der großen
Zukunft ist die Einerleiheit,
Schrankenloseste Bewegung
Ist die wahre Völkerfreiheit.

Laß das Klimpern, laß das Leiern,
Wer erfreut sich solchen Schalles?
Beßres Klingen, bestes Klingen
Ist das Klingen des Metalles.« -

Gelber Neidhart, alter Uhu,
Wohl versteh' ich deine Meinung:
Bist du doch der seelenfrohen
Gotterlösten Welt Verneinung!

O du möchtest sie im Mörser
Erst zerstäuben und zerreiben,
Um in Tiegel und Retorte
Dann den Geist ihr auszutreiben!

O du würfst sie in die Arme
Gern dem Moloch unsrer Tage,
Daß sie ganz in Rauch zergehe
Nach Sibyllenwort und Sage!

Alter Uhu, gelber Neidhart,
Mag's dich ärgern und verdrießen:
Dennoch grünt ein reicher Garten,
Wo der Menschheit Rosen sprießen;

Dennoch blüht die weiße Lilie,
Und im Grottenheiligtume,
In des Waldes fernstem Tale
Träumt die stille blaue Blume.

Dennoch klingt es aus den Lüften,
Aus des Haines Dämmerungen,
Und die Amsel hat ihr letztes
Lied noch lange nicht gesungen;

Und die Nachtigall im Busen,
Sie wird jubeln, sie wird klagen
Jeden Lenz, solang auf Erden
Rosen glühn und Herzen schlagen.


Translation(s): ENG ENG

List of language codes

L. Bonvin sets stanzas 1-6

About the headline (FAQ)

Submitted by Emily Ezust [Administrator]

Authorship


Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)

Available translations, adaptations, and transliterations (if applicable):

  • ENG English [singable] (Anonymous/Unidentified Artist) , title 1: "Spring"
  • ENG English (Sharon Krebs) , title unknown, copyright © 2013, (re)printed on this website with kind permission


Text added to the website: 2011-08-05.
Last modified: 2014-06-16 10:04:30
Line count: 168
Word count: 802

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It is blissful in the days of spring

Language: English after the German (Deutsch)

It is blissful in the days of spring
To take up the walking staff
And, a nosegay upon one's hat,
To roam through God's garden.

Above the white clouds travel,
Below the blue streams flow,
Beautifully resplendent in their new clothes
Are the forested heights and the flat meadows.

To the bleaching meadow the maiden brings
That which her diligence during the winter has spun,
And the merle tells the grove,
What it silently pondered when [the world was covered] in snow.

Even if they are the old tones,
The well-known, long familiar ones,
Still the bleaching maidens hearken
Gladly to the sweet, beloved sounds.

Gladly to the sweet, beloved sounds,
That ring out in mountain and valley;
Shepherd lad and charcoal-burner boy
Listen up, in order to sing along;

To sing along fresh and merry
After the long pains of winter;
All the half-forgotten songs
Awaken in the hearts of mankind.

Half-forgotten, old songs
Awaken within my soul:
If only I had your voice, wild merle,
In order to sing them fully!-

[To sing] what the linden tree told me,
What the tips of the oaks soughed,
When in the evening I listened
To the secret conversations of their leaves;

What the merry brooks told
Hastily in their running down the mountain,
Wild lads, who cannot stop talking
And cannot sit quietly;

[To sing] the secrets the dwarves told me,
Who in distant forested ground,
Quietly in crevices and chasms
Run their little households.

[To sing] what upon the green, suffused with moonlight,
I heard the elves whisper;
What the inscription, greenly wreathed with moss,
Upon the greyed rocks taught me:

This and what I read in dusty
Leatherbound volumes and in old
Half-faded parchments,
I wish to fashion into a song.

Fog formations rise dimly
From the dark days of former times;
I hear their voices whispering,
Sounds of happiness, rage, lamentations;

Men who a thousand summer ago
Strode through the district around the Nethe River,
Heathens, Christians,
How they lived, how they suffered;

The battles of a youth of Saxony
With the enemies of his land, the Franks,
And within my own breast, the most difficult
[Battles] with my own thoughts.

The quiet weeping of a virgin,
The dark grumblings of an old woman,
The singing of runes and shouts of revenge,
That rang out from the mouths of women;

The quiet working of pious monks
In the convent of the Thirteen Lindens,
Through love and teaching gently endeavouring
To overcome defiance and delusion;

Their hymns, full of God's joy,
Which rang out by day and by night,
Which sang jubilantly out into the mountains
Of the victory of the Cross of Christianity;

And chiming in, the soughing of the forest,
And as well the moaning of the surf:
Everything wishes to sound together
In a song, muted and bright.

So be it, and so be it sung to you,
Who live on the rivers Ems and Lippe,
Ruhr and Diemel, Nethe and Ambriuna:
You are all of a noble tribe;

You all speak one language,
The worthy sons of a pious mother,
Whether [this language] sounds roughly in the forested hills,
[Or] gently in the sand and on the heath.

You children of the counties of Saxony,
Take the best I have:
Given gladly, even the gift of a less exalted man
Is above scorn.

Imagine that I offer you flowers from the heath,
A handful that I picked
When Osning already garlanded himself
With the yellow leaves of autumn.

Do not animadvert when I paint
The hero in the colour of his homeland;
Even if you sometimes reckon him a dreamer,
Well, he was after all a Westfalian:

Dogged, yet plastic; bitter, but honest,
Wholly like you and your kind,
Wholly of the iron of your mountains,
Wholly of the wood of your oaks.

Like nowhere else, among you one still
Finds the customs and manners of your ancestors;
Therefore may it be sung in your honour,
This song of the thirteen linden trees.

But the owl mutters objections:
"The sounds of your song are rough,
And the spring of the Nethe, the dark one,
Does not seem to me to be a Hippocrene.

Leave off your droning, leave off your strumming!
Oh, it creates little for you that is lovely;
Better jingling, the best jingling
Seems to me to be the jingling of gold.

And to look out for one's own skin,
That is the first priority above all others;
Cultivate your turnips in the garden,
Cultivate your barley in the fields.

Let the mouldy old books
Quickly go up in smoke under the kettle:
It is coals that we need,
It is steam that we use!

All the jumble of paper dreams,
Treasures from pits that crumble away --
So that they finally be of some use,
Let them blaze away under the kettle.

Only the multiplication table shall remain valid,
Lever, cylinder, wheel and hammer;
Everything else, dull rubbish,
Shall flare in the fire-chamber.

May it flare, may it flame,
That the waters spray and hiss
And the world's torn-apart clans
Be hastily mixed together;

For the great goal of the great
Future is sameness,
The most boundless movement
Is the true freedom of the people.

Leave off your strumming, leave off your droning!
Who takes pleasure in such clanging?
Better ringing, the best ringing
Is the ringing of metal." --

Jaundiced envious one, old owl,
I understand your meaning well:
You are the negation of the world with joy in its soul,
[The world] that was saved by God.

Oh first you wish in a morter
To grind [the world] into dust,
And then in crucible and retort
Drive its spirit out.

Oh you would gladly cast [the world] into the arms
Of the Moloch of our time,
That it go up completely in smoke,
According to the prophecy of the sibyl and myth!

Old owl, jaundiced envious one,
Even if it angers and annoys you:
In spite of it all a rich garden greens,
[A garden] in which the roses of humanity burgeon;

In spite of it all the white lily blooms,
And in the sanctuary of the grotto,
In the most distant valley of the forest
The quiet blue flower dreams.

In spite of it all there is a ringing from out the air,
From out the twilights of the grove,
And it shall be a long time before
The merle sings its last song.

And the nightingale within the breast [of humanity]
Shall rejoice, shall lament
Every spring, as long as roses glow
And hearts beat on earth.


IMPORTANT NOTE: The material directly above is protected by copyright and appears here by special permission. If you wish to copy it and distribute it, you must obtain permission or you will be breaking the law. Once you have permission, you must give credit to the author and display the copyright symbol ©. Copyright infringement is a criminal offense under international law.

About the headline (FAQ)

English poem title: From the district around the Nethe River
English song title: It is blissful in the days of spring

Authorship

  • Translation from German (Deutsch) to English copyright © 2013 by Sharon Krebs, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.

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Based on
  • a text in German (Deutsch) by Friedrich Wilhelm Weber (1813 - 1894), "Aus dem Nethegau", appears in Dreizehnlinden, no. 1, first published 1878
      • This text was set to music by the following composer(s): Maria von Arnesberg Arndts, Ludwig Bonvin. Go to the text.

 

Text added to the website: 2013-11-12.
Last modified: 2014-06-16 10:05:23
Line count: 168
Word count: 1098