by
Gottfried Keller (1819 - 1890)
Horch ‑ endlich zittert es durch meine Bretter
Language: German (Deutsch)
Available translation(s): ENG FRE
Horch - endlich zittert es durch meine Bretter!
Was für ein zauberhaft metallner Klang,
Was ist das für ein unterirdisch Wetter,
Das mir erschütternd in die Ohren drang?
Jach unterbrach es meine bangen Klagen,
Ich lauschte zählend, still, fast hoffnungsvoll:
Eilf - zwölf - wahrhaftig, es hat zwölf geschlagen,
Das war die Turmuhr, die so dröhnend scholl!
Es ist die große Glock, das Kind der Lüfte,
Das klingt ins tiefste Fundament herab,
Bahnt sich den Weg durch Mauern und durch Grüfte
Und singt sein Lied in mein verlassnes Grab.
Gewiß sind jetzt die Dächer warm beschienen
Vom sonnigen Lenz, vom lichten Ätherblau;
Nun kräuselt sich der Rauch aus den Kaminen,
Die Leute lockend von der grünen Au.
Was höhnst du mich, du Glockenlied, im Grabe,
Der Rufer in des Herrgotts Speisesaal,
Mahnst ungebeten, daß ich Hunger habe
Und nicht kann hin zum ärmlich stillen Mahl? -
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, and transliterations (if applicable):
- ENG English (Martin Stock) , title 1: "Hark - at last the panels tremble!", copyright © 2004, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- FRE French (Français) (Pierre Mathé) , title 1: "Écoute : finalement ça vibre à travers mes planches !", copyright © 2010, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [
Administrator]
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 20
Word count: 147
Hark ‑ at last the panels tremble!
Language: English  after the German (Deutsch)
Hark - at last the panels tremble!
What an enchanting, metallic sound this is!
What kind of underground thunderstorm
pounded against my eardrums?
All of a sudden it interrupted my fearful moaning,
I listened - counting, still, and almost hopeful:
Eleven - twelve - indeed, the clock struck twelve;
That full sound came from the clock tower!
It is the big bell, the child of wind and air,
Its sound goes down to the deepest basement,
Makes its way through walls and tombs
And sings its tune into my lonesome grave.
I can imagine rooftops in warm sunlight,
In vernal sun, against a backdrop of ether blue skies;
Thin bands of smoke rising from chimneys,
Inviting everyone to leave the green meadows and come in.
Why are you scoffing me, tune of the bell, here in my grave,
Caller of the Lord's great dining room,
Reminding me, without my asking, that I am hungry
And cannot go to have my plain and silent meal?
Authorship:
- Translation from German (Deutsch) to English copyright © 2004 by Martin Stock, (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: 2004-04-10
Line count: 20
Word count: 164