Schon riecht es scharf nach angewelkten Blättern,
Kornfelder stehen leer und ohne Blick;
Wir wissen: eines von den nächsten Wettern
Bricht unserm müden Sommer das Genick.
Die Ginsterschoten knistern. Plötzlich wird
Uns all das fern und sagenhaft erscheinen,
Was heut wir in der Hand zu halten meinen,
Und jede Blume wunderbar verirrt.
Bang wächst ein Wunsch in der erschreckten Seele:
Daß sie nicht allzu sehr am Dasein klebe,
Daß sie das Welken wie ein Baum erlebe,
Daß Fest und Farbe ihrem Herbst nicht fehle.
Please note: this text, provided here for educational and research use, is in the public domain in Canada, but it may still be copyright in other legal jurisdictions. The LiederNet Archive makes no guarantee that the above text is public domain in your country. Please consult your country's copyright statutes or a qualified IP attorney to verify whether a certain text is in the public domain in your country or if downloading or distributing a copy constitutes fair use. The LiederNet Archive assumes no legal responsibility or liability for the copyright compliance of third parties.
Confirmed with Hermann Hesse, Sämtliche Werke, herausgegeben von Volker Michels, Band 10 Die Gedichte, bearbeitet von Peter Huber, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 2002, pages 300-301.
Text 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 or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- ENG English (Sharon Krebs) , "Premature autumn", copyright © 2019, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Research team for this page: Emily Ezust
[Administrator] , Sharon Krebs
[Guest Editor] This text was added to the website: 2009-05-25
Line count: 12
Word count: 84
Already there is a sharp scent of withering leaves,
Wheat fields stand empty and without a gaze;
We know: one of the next storms
Shall break the neck of our weary summer.
The gorse-pods crackle. Suddenly all of this
Shall seem far and fabulous to us,
That which today we imagine we hold in our hand,
And every flower [shall seem to have] wondrously gone astray.
Anxiously a wish grows in our startled soul:
That [our soul] may not cling too much to Existence,
That [our soul] may experience its wilting as does a tree,
That festival and colour may not be lacking in its autumn.
