by Stefan George (1868 - 1933)
Translation © by Sharon Krebs

Juli‑Schwermut
Language: German (Deutsch) 
Available translation(s): ENG
Blumen des sommers duftet ihr noch reich:
Ackerwinde im herben saatgeruch
Du ziehst mich nach am dorrenden geländer
Mir ward der stolzen gärten sesam fremd.

Aus dem vergessen lockst du träume: das kind 
Auf keuscher scholle rastend des ährengefilds
In ernte-gluten neben nackten schnittern
Bei blanker sichel und versiegtem krug. 

Schläfrig schaukelten wespen im mittagslied
Und ihm träufelten auf die gerötete stirn
Durch schwachen schutz der halme-schatten
Des mohnes blätter: breite tropfen blut. 

Nichts was mir je war raubt die vergänglichkeit.
Schmachtend wie damals lieg ich in schmachtender flur
Aus mattem munde murmelt es: wie bin ich 
Der blumen müd · der schönen blumen müd!

Confirmed with Stefan George, Werke. Ausgabe in Zwei Bänden, Erster Band, 4. Auflage, Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1984, page 211


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) , title 1: "July melancholia", copyright © 2017, (re)printed on this website with kind permission


Research team for this text: Matthias Gräff-Schestag , Sharon Krebs [Guest Editor]

This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 16
Word count: 105

July melancholia
Language: English  after the German (Deutsch) 
Flowers of the summer, you are still richly scented:
Winds of the grain fields in the tangy scents of sowing
You draw me after you along the desiccating terrain
I have become estranged from the "open sesame" of the proud gardens.

From out of what was forgotten you entice dreams: the child
Resting upon chaste earth-clods of the grain field
In the blaze of harvest beside naked reapers
By shiny sickle and emptied tankard.

Wasps sleepily rocked themselves in the song of noonday
And upon the [child’s] reddened brow dripped
Through the weak protection of the shade of the stalks
The petals of poppies: broad drops of blood.

Nothing that was ever mine falls prey to fugacity.
As soulfully as of yore I lie in the yearning meadow
From weary lips a murmuring: how I am
So tired of the flowers · so tired of the beautiful flowers!

Authorship

  • Translation from German (Deutsch) to English copyright © 2017 by Sharon Krebs, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
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Based on

 

This text was added to the website: 2017-07-11
Line count: 16
Word count: 148