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Lyric night of the lingering Indian summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.
The grasshopper's horn, and far off, high in the maples
The wheel of a locust slowly grinding the silence,
Under a moon waning and worn and broken,
Tired with summer.
Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember you, soon the winter will be on us,
Snow-hushed and heartless.
Over my soul murmur your mute benediction
While I gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.
About the headline (FAQ)
Alternate title: "Indian summer"First published in Poetry, March 1914.
Text Authorship:
- by Sara Teasdale (1884 - 1933), "September midnight" [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by Charles Whitney Coombs (1859 - 1940), "A benediction", published 1916 [ low voice and piano ], G. Schirmer ; note: this may be the wrong poem for this title [sung text not yet checked]
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- GER German (Deutsch) (Bertram Kottmann) , "Ein Segen", copyright © 2013, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website: 2011-02-13
Line count: 16
Word count: 121
Lyrische Nacht des alsbald verklingenden Sommers, Schatten auf Feldern, die duftlos - doch voll des Gesangs, kein Vogel ist's - doch der Insekten stoisches Lied, ständig, beharrlich. Des Grashüpfers Horn, und weitab, in Ahornkronen, zermahlt einer Heuschrecke Rad gemessen die Stille unter dem Mond, der abnimmt, erschöpft und gebrochen, müde des Sommers. Ich denk' an euch, ihr Stimmen der kleinen Insekten, Wildkraut im Mondlicht, asternübersäte Felder, ich denk' an euch, denn bald wird der Winter auf uns sein, schneegedämpft, lastend. Sprich deinen stummen Segen über meine Seele, derweil ich schau, o Flur, die nach der Ernte ruht, wie Scheidende, die lang' sich in die Augen schaun, sich nicht zu vergessen.
Text Authorship:
- Translation from English to German (Deutsch) copyright © 2013 by Bertram Kottmann, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you must ask the copyright-holder(s) directly for permission. If you receive no response, you must consider it a refusal.
Bertram Kottmann. Contact: BKottmann (AT) t-online.de
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Based on:
- a text in English by Sara Teasdale (1884 - 1933), "September midnight"
This text was added to the website: 2013-11-04
Line count: 16
Word count: 108