English translations of Sechs Lieder nach Gedichten von Clemens Brentano, opus 68

Holy night! Holy night!
Star-enclosed sky-peace!
Everything that light divided
is connected;
all wounds
bleed sweetly in evening's red glow.

Bjelbog's spear, Bjelbog's spear
sinks into the heart of the drunken Earth,
which, with a blissful gesture,
dips a rose
in the womb
of dark [desires]1.

[Demure]2 bride, demure bride!
Hide your sweet shame
when the wedding goblet's fullness
is poured out;
thus flows,
into the lustful night, day!

I would have made a bouquet
but dark night arrived
and there was no little flower to be found,
or I would have brought it.

Then down my cheeks flowed
tears onto the clover -
I saw that one small flower had come up
now in the garden.

I wanted to pick it for you
deep in the dark clover,
but it began to speak:
"Ah, do not harm me!

"Be kind-hearted,
consider your own grief,
and do not let me
die in agony before my time!"

And if it had not spoken so,
in the garden all alone,
I would have plucked it for you,
but now that cannot be.

My sweetheart has not come,
I am so entirely alone.
In love dwells tribulation,
and it can be no different.

Rustle, dear myrtle!
How quiet it is in the world,
the moon, the shepherd of the stars
in the bright field of heaven,
is driving the cloud-sheep already
to the spring of light;
sleep, my friend, o sleep,
until I am with you again!

Rustle, dear myrtle!
and dream in the starlight;
the turtledove has cooed
her brood to sleep.
Quietly the cloud-sheep float
toward the spring of light;
sleep, my friend, o sleep,
until I am with you again!

Do you hear how the fountains roar?
Do you hear how the cricket twitters?
Hush, hush, let us listen.
Blessed is he who dies in his dreams;
Blessed is he whom clouds cradle,
when the moon sings a lullaby;
Oh! how blissfully can he fly,
he who brandishes wings in his dreams,
so that on the blue roof of Heaven
he may pick stars like flowers;
sleep, dream, fly - I will awaken
you soon and you will be happy!

Your song rang out: I heard it
as it soared through the roses to the moon. 
The butterfly that flew colorfully in the spring
you have converted into a pious bee.
My urge is toward the rose,
Since your song rang out to me.

Your song rang out: the nightingales are singing,
alas, the sweet swan song of my repose
To the moon, who watches and listens from the sky,
to the stars and the roses I must tell my complaint:
whither she has now soared,
the one to whom this song rang out!

Your song rang out; no tone was in vain.
All of springtime, which breathes love,
while you sang dipped itself
into the desire-filled stream of my life,
into the sunset,
as your song rang out to me!

By the fire sat the child
Cupid, Cupid 
and was blind;
with his little wings he fans
into the flames and smiles;
Fan, smile, wily child!

Ah, the child's wing is burning!
Cupid, Cupid 
runs quickly.
O how the burning hurts him deeply!
Beating his wings, he weeps loudly;
To the shepherdess's lap runs,
crying for help, the wily child.

And the shepherdess helps the child,
Cupid, Cupid, 
naughty and blind.
Shepherdess, look, your heart is burning;
You did not recognize the rascal.
See, the flame is growing quickly.
Save yourself, from the wily child!

When it storms upon the waves
The shipman’s wife knits at home,
But her heart is yearning
Out to the wild sea.
With every wave that breaks
Foamingly upon the shore,
She thinks:  he’s shipwrecked, he’s shipwrecked, he’s shipwrecked,
He shall never return to land.

When thunder is raging wildly
The shepherd’s wife spins at home,
But her heart stretches upwards
Into the wild whirl of the weather.
With every flash that crashes
Jaggedly through the angry thunder,
She thinks: my shepherd, my shepherd, my shepherd,
Shall never come back to me.

When it quakes in the depths of the earth,
The miner’s wife sits at home,
But her faithful heart descends
Into the dark horror of the mineshaft.
With every blow that rattles
Trembling in the tottering shaft,
She thinks: buried alive, buried alive, buried alive
Is my miner in the bowels of the earth.

When the battle roars and rages,
The warrior’s wife sits at home,
But her anxious heart strays forth
Through the wild storm of the battle.
At every [blow]1, every echo
[Of the sound of the weapons]2 upon the mountain wall
She thinks: my hero has fallen, fallen, fallen now
For his country.

But far across the mountains already
The storm has receded, the thunder faded away,
Listen how the intoxicated, rejoicing lark
Lets sound a victorious tirili, tirili.
Ravens, fly off! -- the heavens become blue,
Come forth, come forth -- sun!
Over the mountains, -- rejoicing lark,
Sing, sing to me – [sing] joy into my ear!

With cypress and laurel victory
Crowns the joyful, solemn brow.
Lord!  If he should shine [down]3 upon me
Encircled with the green of mourning!
Then, starless night, be welcomed,
The Lord has given the star,
The Lord has taken, taken, taken,
The [will]4 of the Lord be praised!