A wanderer makes his lucid song ring out;
Now he falls silent and vanishes amid the pine trees;
How I would like to hear him go on singing,
But I console myself by thinking: he can't sing forever.

The wanderer is silent, but those crags
Are carrying his echo to me in somber choruses,
As though wanting to retrieve his song by magic;
Now it is quiet -- I hear only the spring gushing.

The wanderer fell silent and departed; I calmly said:
Farewell! so why do I now feel mournful
That his echo wouldn't resound for longer?

It will move me more than the man's death
If, after a few days have passed,
Here and there somebody still utters his name -- until all are silent.

I.
Have you ever found yourself all alone,
Loveless and without God on a moor,
The wounds of base misfortune bandaged
With silent pride, numb or angry suffering?

Had all cheerful hopes disappeared from your view,
Like a huntsman on a mountain precipice?
Is the barking of the lost hounds dying away,
As a little bird flies off to escape the winter?

If you were ever so alone on a moor,
Then you will know how one is forced
To rush at a boulder, to embrace it;

And how, being frightened by the loneliness,
One leaps up in horror from the impassive rock
And fearfully stretches one's arms to the wind.

II.
The wind is a stranger, and you cannot embrace it;
The boulder is dead, you will seek in vain
A comforting word from this cold, rough object;
You will even feel abandoned by roses.

Soon you see them, unaware of you, turned pallid,
Occupied solely with their own dying.
Go further forward: decay greets you everywhere
In the long dark avenues of living creatures!

Here and there you see them peering out of their huts,
Then they slam their windows in your face,
The huts go tumbling, and you feel a shudder.

Loveless and without God! the path is awful,
The wind blows cold in the alleys; and as for you? -
The entire world is desperately sad.

A sleepless night, the rain is pattering,
My heart is wide awake and listening
Half back to ages past,
Half to the tread of future ages.

O heart, your listening is not good;
Be everlasting, heart, and cheerful!
For behind us, so many laments are calling,
And before us, many a question is quivering.

So be it! let your mortal part die!
A storm approaches! so be it! -- just as once the boat
With Christ aboard wasn't shattered by storms,
So the lord of the universe resides within you.

Humanity has come to realize,
In spite of all pious hocus-pocus,
That life before the grave
Is finally something to take seriously.

The fetter of an illusion has been broken,
That the earth is only an exercise yard,
Life only a vaulting-horse,
And that heaven will set us upon a charger.

On earth's green and open ground
Everybody will soon be wanting already, at once,
Before being covered with clods by the grave,
To let his steed graze and frolic.

On his back, his bundle of wood
The poor man bears home;
The cheerful farm lad cracks his whip
On the harvest-laden cart.

The herd with its burden of milk
Settles down in the homely cowsheds;
To his wench, with a joke and a kiss,
Flies the merry apprentice.

From field and forest the huntsman
Whistles on his swift journey home;
And hare and quail are peeping,
Like trophies, from his pocket.

One sees the poet blithely reeling
Out of the gloom of the oak-trees;
He staggers home with his load
Of immortal thoughts.

Wearily the streams are creeping,
Not a breath of air will you hear fluttering,
The discoloured leaves are falling
To the ground in silence, weak with age.

Crows, scarcely moving their wings,
Are slowly travelling; there on the hill
The windmill lets its sails come to rest;
Oh, how sleepy this region is!

Spring and summer have flown away;
The little hut over there, as though sulking,
Doesn't look out, its straw hood
Pulled down low over its eyes.

Slumbering or idly musing
The shepherd rests with his flock of sheep;
Nature, weaving autumn mist,
Seems to have fallen asleep at the distaff.

The dark forest is sunk in slumber,
The air is too sluggish to stir a leaf
Or carry the scent of blossom, and the birds
Are silent in the foliage, and the ducks on the pond.

Only fireflies, like the quiet sparks of a dream,
Flitting through one's sleep, shimmer in the branches,
And to an unbroken dance of sweet dreams
My soul gives itself up, drunk with silence.

Listen! there's a sudden rushing in the trees
That calls me away from my precious dreams,
Abruptly I can hear earnest voices speaking;

The startled soul pays heed to the wind
As to words from its father, calling to the child
To leave off playing and head for home.

"Oh, be my friend!" is the cry from the liar's mouth,
The hypocrite who, with secret contentment,
Reckons up the profit from just such a bond;
You trust him -- and already you have shaken hands,
Noble fool that you are! For when stormy times are approaching,
You'll see the rascal, pale and quaking,
Leap into the cosy hut of his own self;
You, locked out, can battle with the storm.

Clear and cheerful as youth,
And as though murmuring a sweet dream,
The Niagara travels onward
At the green edge of the primeval forest.

Travels onward, gently flowing,
Still happy and leisurely,
Reflecting the splendor of the forest
And the stars of a silent night.

So the waves glide gently on,
So that the wanderer is undisturbed
And surprised to hear the rushing
Cataracts from miles away.

Where the Niagara's courses
Draw nearer to the cataract
The stream is suddenly seized
By a wild notion of its downfall.

Disregarding heaven and earth,
It now hastens at a frantic rate,
Having wrecked the lovely image
That at first it bore so amiably.

The rapids hurtle, shoot,
And thunder forth, pressing wildly,
As though gripped by a yearning
For the great going under.

What the wanderer's ear caught from afar,
Niagara's deep waterfall,
He cannot hear on arriving there
Because the roar of the waves is too loud.

And so he who comes closer to the cascade
May listen out to no avail;
Yet a prophet was able to hear
The future rushing in the distance.

When it was expelled from Paradise,
Every soul heard a melody
Echoing in a bittersweet farewell,
Whereupon earth's covering enveloped it.
This song has still not been wholly drowned,
But is sounding constantly softer here on earth.
Pay heed, o heart, that amid life's setbacks
The song's final breath doesn't escape you!
An echo of this song has sprung up:
The sweet poetry of the Levant;
Of youthful dreams it's sometimes sung,
Yet obscurely, not knowing where from, or how.
But anyone who has ever heard clearly and fully
This wonderful native melody
Will be deeply pervaded by fretful nostalgia,
And will never be cured of his yearning.

Field of stubble, empty forests;
And the wind roams desolately,
Since it can find no more leaves
Rustling in response to its greeting.

The crane is departing from the meadow,
Which has cooled and grown weary of life,
Joyfully it calls that it has found
The route leading to the South.

In the midst of the autumn chill
The spring sends the migrating crane
Its solace from distant lands,
Being in secret agreement with it.

Oh, what feelings the bird must have
When, through the gloom of the mist,
Its heart is stabbed by radiant warmth
And the distant forest whisperings!

As it flies high over the sea
The fragrance of meadows lend it vigor;
Oh how sweet it is to have a sense of
Anticipation, longing, and faith!

Mist is thawing on the stubble;
Barren the forest; but I'll gladly bear it
Since perceiving the sound of the crane
Journeying into the distance.

While I was stepping
Gingerly through the stubble,
I thought at once of all the scythes
That have hacked into my life.

The bare bushes promptly made me
Feel regret for another withering
Than that of the leaves which the breeze
Had tossed about at my feet:

But it's without grudge or hatred
That I look back at buried joys,
For the heart in my bosom was singing out
Like the bird up in the skies;

Oh yes, the heart in my breast
Is at one with the crane's,
And it, too, knows of the land
Where my springtime awaits me.

[ ... ]

O you land of essence and of truth,
   Imperishable for ever and ever!
I long for you and your clarity;
   I long for you.