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Mittag

Language: German (Deutsch)

Weisse Glut brennet die Felder,
sauget das letzte Nass aus der trockenen Erde.
Was da lebet, fliehet in Schatten,
oder liegt kraftlos dahingestreckt.
Hüte die sengende Macht, dass sie wohl tut,
nicht schlägt wie der Mittag die keuchende Brust.


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)


Text added to the website: 2008-08-29.
Last modified: 2014-06-16 10:02:52
Line count: 6
Word count: 39

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