Es steht ein goldnes Garbenfeld,
das geht bis an den Rand der Welt.
Mahle, Mühle, mahle!
Es stockt der Wind im weiten Land,
viel Mühlen stehn am Himmelsrand.
Mahle, Mühle, mahle!
Es kommt ein dunkles Abendrot,
viel arme Leute schrein nach Brot.
Mahle, Mühle, mahle!
Es hält die Nacht den Sturm im Schooß,
und morgen geht die Arbeit los.
Mahle, Mühle, mahle!
Es fegt der Sturm die Felder rein,
es wird kein Mensch mehr Hunger schrein.
Mahle, Mühle, mahle!
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):
- by Hans Peter Herrmann (1941 - 2015), "Erntelied", 1969, published 2009 [ medium voice and piano ], from Vier Lieder für mittlere Gesangsstimme und Klavier, no. 2, Berlin: Musikverlag Intermezzo [sung text not yet checked]
- by Wilhelm Kempff (1895 - 1991), "Erntelied", op. 16 no. 4, published 1923 [sung text not yet checked]
- by Béla Reinitz (1878 - 1943), "Erntelied" [ voice and piano ], from Acht Lieder, no. 6 [sung text not yet checked]
- by Richard Rössler (1880 - 1962), "Erntelied", op. 18 (Vier Lieder) no. 4, published [1908] [ voice and piano ], Berlin, Verlag von Kies und Erler [sung text checked 1 time]
- by Heinrich Kaspar Schmid (1874 - 1953), "Erntelied", op. 31 no. 1, published 1920 [ voice and lute or piano or guitar ], from Liederspiel zur Laute nach Gedichten von Dehmel und Rückert, no. 1, Mainz : Schott [sung text not yet checked]
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- ENG English (Sharon Krebs) , "Harvest song", copyright © 2015, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- FRE French (Français) (Pierre Mathé) , "Chant des moissons", copyright © 2011, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this page: Harry Joelson
This text was added to the website: 2007-07-04
Line count: 15
Word count: 79
There stands a golden field full of sheaves
That reaches to the edge of the world.
Grind, mill, grind!
The wind falters in the wide landscape,
Many mills stand against the horizon.
Grind, mill, grind!
A dark sunset approaches,
Many poor people cry for bread.
Grind, mill, grind!
Night holds the storm in its lap,
And tomorrow work starts.
Grind, mill, grind!
The storm sweeps the fields clean,
No one shall scream of hunger any longer.
Grind, mill, grind!
