Along the thorny hedgerow
Singers wander, footsteps wavering
In the evening summer,
In holy peace
Of the vineyard’s distant radiance;
Shadows now in the cool bosom
Of night, eagles mourning.
So gently a moonbeam closes
The crimson marks of sorrow.
III
You giant cities
Raised in stone
Upon the plain!
So dumbstruck
And with darkened brow
The exiled follows the wind,
Bare trees upon the hill.
You rivers dusking in the distance!
Mighty angst
Gruesome sunset
Amongst the storm clouds.
You dying peoples!
Ashen wave
Shattered on the shore of night,
Falling stars.
Springtime of the Soul
Outcry in sleep; down black lanes the wind sweeps,
The blue of spring beckons through breaking branches,
Crimson night dew and all around stars extinguished.
Greenish dusks the river, silver the old avenues
And the towers of the city. O gentle drunkenness
In the gliding boat and the blackbird’s dark call
In childlike gardens. Already the rosy veil clears.
Solemnly murmur the waters. O moist shadows of the pasture,
The striding creature; greenery, blossoming boughs
Touch the crystal brow; shimmering boat-sway.
Softly sounds the sun in rosy clouds on the hill.
Great is the stillness of the fir forest, solemn shadows at river’s edge.
Purity! Purity! Where are the terrible paths of the dead,
Of grey stony silence, the rocks of night
And shadows without peace? The sun’s radiant abyss.
Sister, when I found you in the lonely glade
In the forest, it was noon and great was the beast’s silence;
White under wild oak, and silver blossomed the thorn.
Vast dying and singing flame in the heart.
Darker flow the waters around the lovely play of fish.
Hour of sorrow, the sun’s silent image;
The soul is a stranger of earth. Blueness dusks
Spiritually over the cut-back forest and a dark bell
Chimes long in the village; peaceful cortège.
Silently the myrtle blooms over white lids of the dead.
Softly the waters sound in the sinking afternoon
And on the banks the wilderness greens more darkly, joy on a rosy wind;
By the evening hill the brothers’ gentle song.
In Darkness
(version 2)
The soul silences blue springtime.
Beneath damp evening boughs
The brows of lovers sank in shivers.
O the greening cross. In dark discourse
Man and woman knew each other.
By the bare wall
The solitary wanders with his stars.
Over the moon-bright woodland paths
Sank the wilderness
Of forgotten hunts; blue glance
Breaks from decayed rocks.
Song of the Departed
To Karl Borromaeus Heinrich
Harmony-filled is the flight of birds. The green forests
At evening have gathered into the more silent huts;
The crystal meadows of the roe.
A darkness softens the plash of the brook, moist shadows
And the flowers of summer that ring beautifully on the wind.
Already darkens the brow of musing man.
And a little lamp shines, goodness, in his heart
And the peace of the meal; for bread and wine are blessed
By God’s hands, and out of nocturnal eyes
The brother silently gazes on you, so he might rest from thorny wandering.
O to dwell in the soulful blueness of night.
Lovingly the room’s silence also embraces the shades of the ancestors,
The crimson martyrs, lament of a mighty race
That piously dies out in the lonely grandchild.
For from black minutes of madness the sufferer awakens more radiant
On the petrified threshold
And the blue coolness embraces him powerfully and the lucent close of autumn,
The silent house and the saying of the forest,
Measure and law and lunar paths of the departed.
DREAM AND DERANGEMENT
Dream and Derangement
In the evening the father became an old man; in dark rooms the countenance of the mother turned stony and the boy felt upon him the weight of the degenerated race. Sometimes he recalled his childhood, crowded with sickness, horror and morbid anxiety, secretive games in the star-garden, or feeding rats in the courtyard at dusk. From the blue mirror stepped the slender form of the sister and he plunged into darkness as if dead. At night his mouth burst open like a red fruit and stars shone over his speechless sorrow. His dreams filled the ancient house of the fathers. At evening he liked to walk through the decayed churchyard, or he contemplated the corpses in the darkening crypts, the green mottles of putrefaction on their beautiful hands. At the door of the convent he asked for a crust of bread; the shade of a black horse leapt from the darkness and he was struck with terror. When he lay on his cool bed, unspeakable sobbing overcame him. But there was no one who might have lain a hand on his brow. When autumn came, he went, a seer, into the brown lowlands. O, the hours of wild ecstasy, the evenings by the green river, the hunts. O, the soul, which softly sang the song of the yellowed reed; fiery piety. Silent and long he gazed into the starry eyes of the toad, felt with trembling hand the coolness of ancient stone and discoursed with the sacred legend of the blue source. O, the silver fish and the fruit, which fell from crippled trees. The chords of his steps filled him with pride and disdain for men. On the way home he came upon an uninhabited palace. Decayed gods stood in the garden, mourning in the evening. But to him it seemed: here I lived forgotten years. An organ chorale filled him with a trembling of God. But he spent his days in a dark cave, lied and stole and hid, a flaming wolf, before the mother’s white countenance. O, the hour when, with stony mouth, he sank down in the star-garden, the murderer’s shadow fell over him. With crimson brow he walked onto the moor and God’s wrath chastened his metal shoulders; O, the birches in the storm, the dark animals which shunned his deranged paths. Hate burned his heart, lust, when in the green summer garden he showed violence to the silent child, and recognized in the radiance his own insane countenance. Woe, in the evening by the window, when from purple flowers, a greyish skeleton, death stepped. O, you towers and bells; and the shadows of night fell stony upon him.
No one loved him. Lie and unchasteness burned his head in darkening rooms. The blue rustle of a woman’s gown made him stiffen into a column and the nocturnal form of his mother stood in the doorway. Above his head loomed the spirit of evil. O, you nights and stars. At evening he walked with the cripple by the mountain; upon the icy summit lay the rosy glow of sunset and his heart rang out softly in the dusk. The stormy firs sank heavily over them and the red hunter stepped out of the forest. When night fell, his heart shattered like crystal and darkness beat at his temples. Beneath bare oaks he strangled a wild cat with icy hands. To his right emerged the form of an angel in lament, and in the darkness the shadow of the cripple grew. But he lifted a stone and threw it at the other, so he fled howling, and in the tree’s shadow the gentle countenance of the sighing angel died out. Long he lay on a stony field and gazed in awe at the golden tent of stars. Hounded by bats, he fell back into the darkness. Breathless he entered the decayed house. In the yard he, a wild beast, drank the well’s blue water, until he turned cold. Feverishly he sat on the icy stair, railing against God, that he might perish. O, the grey countenance of horror, wh
en he lifted round eyes over the slit throat of a dove. Sweeping up unknown stairs he encountered a Jewish girl and grasped at her black hair and seized her mouth. Hostile forms followed him through dark lanes and his ear was torn by the clang of iron. Along autumnal walls he, a boy sacristan, followed the silent priest; beneath withered trees drunkenly he breathed in the scarlet of his solemn vestment. O, the decayed disk of the sun. Sweet torments consumed his flesh. In a deserted passage his own bloodied form appeared to him, stiff with muck. More deeply he admired the noble works of stone; the tower that nightly storms the blue firmament with hellish grimaces; the cool grave, in which man’s fiery heart is enshrined. Woe to the speechless guilt it signifies. But when he walked along the autumnal river beneath bare trees pondering the glowing, a flaming demon appeared to him in a hairy coat, the sister. Awakening, the stars died out above their heads.
O this accursed race. When in tarnished rooms every destiny has been fulfilled, death enters the house with decayed steps. O, that outside it was spring and a beautiful bird was singing in the blossoming tree. But greyish the meagre green withers at the windows of the nocturnal ones and the bleeding hearts still ponder evil. O, the dusking spring paths of those who ponder. More righteously he delights in the blossoming hedge, the farmer’s first sowing and the singing bird, God’s gentle creature; the evening bell and the beautiful fraternity of man. So that he might forget his fate and the spike of the thorn. Freely greens the brook, where silver his foot wanders, and a telling tree rustles above his demented head. So with silver hand he lifts the serpent, and in fiery sobbing his heart melted away. Exalted is the silence of the forest, greening darkness and the mossy wildlife, fluttering up as night falls. O the shudder, when every being is aware of its guilt, walks thorny paths. So he found the white form of the child in the thorn bush, bleeding for the coat of its bridegroom. But he stood before her buried in his steely hair, silent and suffering. O the shining angels, whom the crimson night wind scattered. Night-long he dwelt in a crystal cavern and leprosy grew silver on his brow. A shadow, he went down the border path beneath autumn stars. Snow fell, and blue mournfulness filled the house. Like a blind man the hard voice of the father rang out and instilled dread. Woe of the bowed appearance of women. Under stiffened hands progeny and instruments of a terrified race decayed. A wolf tore the firstborn and the sisters fled into dark gardens to bony old men. A deranged seer, the other sang along mouldered walls and his voice devoured God’s wind. O the lust of death. O you children of a dark race. Silver shimmer the evil blooms of the blood on the temple of the other, the cold moon in his broken eyes. O, the nocturnal ones, O, the accursed.
Deep is the slumber in dark poisons, filled with stars and the white countenance of the mother, the stony one. Bitter is death, sustenance of the guilt-laden; in the brown branches of the ancestral tree, smirking, the earthen faces decay. But softly sang the other in the green shadow of the elderberry, when he woke from evil dreams; sweet plaything, a rosy angel approached him, so that he, gentle deer, slept into night; and he saw the starry countenance of purity. When summer came the sunflowers sank golden over the garden fence. O, the industry of bees and the walnut tree’s green leaves; passing thunderstorms. Silver the poppy also bloomed, in green bud bore our nocturnal star dreams. O, how silent the house when the father passed into darkness. The fruit ripened crimson on the tree and the gardener moved his rough hands; O the hirsute signs in the streaming sun. But at evening silently the dead man’s shadow entered the circle of the mourners and crystalline sounded his step over the green meadow by the forest. Silent, those gathered around the table; with waxen hands the dying broke the bread, the bleeding. Woe of the sister’s stony eyes, when at the meal her madness broke out on the brother’s temple, when beneath the mother’s anguished hands the bread became stone. O the putrefied, when with silver tongues they silenced hell. So the lamps in the cool room died out and through crimson masks the people silently watched each other. Night-long the rain poured and refreshed the meadow. In thorny wilderness the dark one followed yellow paths through the corn, song of the lark and gentle stillness of green branches, so that peace is found. O, you hamlets and mossy steps, radiant view. But bony steps falter over sleeping serpents at the forest edge and always the ear follows the cruel shriek of the vulture. At evening he found a stony wasteland, escort of the dead into the dark house of the father. Crimson cloud smothered his head, so he silently savaged his own blood and image, a lunar countenance; sank away stonily into emptiness, when in a broken mirror, a dying youth, the sister appeared, night devoured the accursed race.
POEMS PUBLISHED IN DER BRENNER, 1914–15
In Hellbrunn
Ever shadowing the blue lament of evening
Along the hill, the springtime pond—
As though the shades of those long deceased,
The bishops and noblewomen, floated over them—
Already their flowers bloom, earnest violets
In evening ground, soughing of the blue source’s
Crystal wave. So spiritually green
The oaks over the forgotten paths of the dead,
Golden cloud over the pond.
The Heart
The wild heart turned white in the wood;
O dark dread
Of death, so gold
Died in a grey cloud.
November evening.
At the stark gate of the slaughterhouse
Stood the throng of pauper women;
Into every basket
Putrid flesh and entrails fall;
Accursed fare!
Evening’s blue dove
Brought no atonement.
Dark call of trumpets
Passed through the elms’
Damp golden leaf,
A tattered banner
Smoking with blood,
So that in savage melancholy
A man listens.
O! you brazen ages
Buried there in the glow of sunset.
From the darkened hallway stepped
The golden form
Of the maiden youth
Enclosed by pale moons,
Autumnal courtiers,
Black firs felled
In the night storm,
The sheer fortress.
O heart
Shimmering in snowy coolness.
Sleep
(version 2)
Cursed you dark poisons,
White sleep!
This most strange garden
Of dusking trees
Filled with snakes, moths,
Spiders, bats.
Stranger! Your doomed shadow
In the sunset’s afterglow,
A dark corsair
In the salty sea of woe.
At the edge of night white birds flutter up
Over falling cities
Of steel.
The Thunderstorm
You wild mountains, the eagle’s
Noble grief.
Golden cloud
Smokes over stony wasteland.
The firs breathe patient stillness,
Black lambs at the abyss,
When suddenly the blue
Grows strangely silent,
The bumblebees’ gentle drone.
O green flower—
O silence.
Dreamlike the dark spirits of the torrent
Overwhelm the heart,
Darkness,
That closes in over the ravines!
White voices
Roaming through eerie courtyards,
Torn terraces,
The fathers’ massive resentment, the lament
Golden war cry of the boy
And the one unborn
Sighs from blind eyes.
Oh pain, flaming contemplation
Of the great soul!
Already in the black melee
Of horses and carriages
A ghoulish rose-hued lightening
In resounding pines.
Magnetic coolness
Floats about this fevered head,
Glowing melancholy
Of a wrathful god.
Fear, you venomous snake,
Black, die in stone!
So the tears flow down
In wild torrents,
Storm-mercy,
Thunder threatening echoes
On snowy summits all around.
Fire
Purifies torn night.
Evening
With dead hero forms
Moon you fill
The silent forests,
Crescent moon—
With the gentle embrace
Of lovers,
The shadows of eminent ages
The mouldering rocks all around;
So bluish it shines
Towards the city,
Where cold and evil
A decaying race dwells,
Grooming a dark future
For the white grandchildren.
You moon-swallowed shadows
Sighing in the crystal void
Of the mountain lake.
Night
I sing you wild fissure,
In the night storm
Towering mountains;
You grey towers
Brimming with hellish grimaces,
Fiery beasts,
Rough ferns, spruces,
Crystal flowers.
Agony everlasting,
That you hunt for God
Gentle spirit,
Sighing in the falls,
In surging pines.
Golden flares the fire