You can help us modernize! The present website has been online for a very long time and we want to bring it up to date. As of May 6, we are $2,380 away from our goal of $15,000 to fund the project. The fully redesigned site will be better for mobile, easier to read and navigate, and ready for the next decade. Please give today to join dozens of other supporters in making this important overhaul possible!

The LiederNet Archive

Much of our material is not in the public domain.
It is illegal to copy and distribute our copyright-protected material without permission.
Printing texts or translations without the name of the author or translator is also illegal.
You must use the copyright symbol © when you reprint copyright-protected material.

For more information, contact us at the following address:
licenses (AT) lieder (DOT) net
Please read the instructions below the translations before writing!
In your e-mail, always include the names of the translators if you wish to reprint something.

Es wütet der Sturm

Language: German (Deutsch)

Es wütet der Sturm,
Und er peitscht die Wellen,
Und die Welln, wutschäumend und bäumend,
Türmen sich auf, und es wogen lebendig
Die weißen Wasserberge,
Und das Schifflein erklimmt sie,
[Hastig mühsam,
Und plötzlich stürzt es hinab
In schwarze, weitgähnende Flutabgründe --]1

O Meer!
Mutter der Schönheit, der Schaumentstiegenen!
[Großmutter der Liebe!]1 schone meiner!
[Schon flattert, leichenwitternd,
Die weiße, gespenstische Möwe,
Und wetzt an dem Mastbaum den Schnabel,
Und lechzt, voll Fraßbegier, nach dem Herzen,
Das vom Ruhm deiner Tochter ertönt,
Und das dein Enkel, der kleine Schalk,
Zum Spielzeug erwählt.]1

Vergebens mein Bitten und Flehn!
Mein Rufen verhallt im tosenden Sturm,
[Im Schlachtlärm der Winde.]1
Es braust und pfeift und prasselt und heult,
Wie ein Tollhaus von Tönen!
Und zwischendurch hör ich vernehmbar
Lockende Harfenlaute,
Sehnsuchtwilden Gesang,
Seelenschmelzend und seelenzerreißend,
Und ich erkenne die Stimme.

Fern an schottischer Felsenküste,
Wo das graue Schlößlein hinausragt
Über die brandende See,
Dort, am hochgewölbten Fenster,
Steht eine schöne, kranke Frau,
Zartdurchsichtig und marmorblaß,
Und sie spielt die Harfe und singt,
Und der Wind durchwühlt ihre langen Locken,
Und trägt ihr dunkles Lied
Über das weite, stürmende Meer.


Translation(s): ENG ENG FRE FRE

List of language codes

E. Berckman sets stanzas 1, 2 (lines 1-3), and 4 (lines 1-7)
D. Forsythe sets stanza 4

About the headline (FAQ)

View original text (without footnotes)
1 omitted by Lange.

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)

Settings in other languages, adaptations, or excerpts:

  • Also set in English, a translation by Louis Untermeyer (1885 - 1977) FRE ; composed by David Kidwell.
  • Also set in French (Français), a translation by Anonymous/Unidentified Artist ENG ENG ; composed by Evelyn Domenica Berckman.

Other available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):


Text added to the website: 2008-05-06 00:00:00.

Last modified: 2014-06-16 10:02:42

Line count: 39
Word count: 185

Gentle Reminder
This website began in 1995 as a personal project, and I have been working on it full-time without a salary since 2008. Our research has never had any government or institutional funding, so if you found the information here useful, please consider making a donation. Your gift is greatly appreciated.
     - Emily Ezust

Storm

Language: English after the German (Deutsch)

The storm rages now
And whips the waves,
And the waters, boiling and furious,
Tower into a moving waste
Of white and flowing mountains.
And the ship climbs them
Sharply, painfully;
And suddenly plunges down,
Into a black and yawning chasm of flood. 

O Sea!
Mother of Venus, born of your quickening foam,
Grandmother of Love! Help me!
Already, light of wing, and smelling for corpses,
The white and ghostly sea-mew hovers
And whets its bill on the mast-head,
And lusts to feed on my heart
Which rings with the praise of thy daughter;
The heart that thy grandson, the little scamp,
Has taken for a plaything.
 
Fruitless my prayers and entreaties.
My cry dies in the rushing storm,
In the alarum of the wind.
It roars and rattles and whistles and wails --
A madhouse of sounds!
And between times I can hear, far off but distinctly,
Magical harp-tones,
Passionate singing,
Soul-melting and soul-tearing--
And I know the voice ... 

Far on the rocky coast of Scotland
Where an old gray castle
Juts into the boiling sea;
There, at a high-arched window,
A woman stands, lovely and sick at heart,
Delicate-featured and marble-pale.
And she plays on the harp and sings;
And the storm tosses her long hair,
And she carries her dark song
Over the wide and darkening sea. 


Submitted by Emily Ezust [Administrator]

Authorship


Based on

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


Text added to the website: 2008-05-06 00:00:00.

Last modified: 2014-06-16 10:02:42

Line count: 39
Word count: 220