1.
It is still bright night in the Alps, and a cloud, Authoring joyfulness, covers the yawning valley.
Playful mountain breezes rush and toss about, and a ray Of light shines abruptly through the firs and disappears.
Chaos, quivering with joy, hurries slowly to do battle. Young in form, yet strong, it celebrates a loving quarrel Among the cliffs. It ferments and shakes within its eternal Limits, for the morning accelerates in ecstatic dance.
The year advances more rapidly out there, and the holy hours, The days, are more boldly ordered and mixed.
A storm bird marks the time, and stays high in the air Between the mountains, announcing the day.
Now the little village awakens down below. Fearless, Familiar with the heights, it peers up beyond the treetops.
It senses the growth, for the ancient streams fall like lightning, And the ground yields fine mists under the crashing waters.
Echo resounds, and the vast workplace flexes its arm, Sending forth its gifts, by day and by night. 2.
Peaks of silver shine silently above, And the sparkling snow is full of roses.
Still higher above the light lives the god, pure And holy, pleased with the divine play of light beams.
He lives there quietly and alone: his face is bright. At home in the ether he seems ready to grant life And create joy for us. Gradually and sparingly, Remembering the necessity for moderation and the needs Of the living, he sends true happiness to the cities And houses, and mild rains to open the countryside,
And soft breezes and gentle seasons of spring. With a gentle hand he cheers the saddened,
Renews the seasons, the creative one, refreshes And touches the quiet hearts of the elderly.
Down into the deep his influence extends: it Reveals and illumines, just as he pleases.
And now life begins again. Gracefulness Flourishes as it did before, and the Spirit Is present and approaches, and a joyful Disposition fills its wings. 3.
I had much to say to him, for whatever poets think Or sing about is addressed mainly to him and his angels.
I asked him for much, out of love to the Fatherland, So the Spirit wouldn't suddenly fall upon us unbidden.
I prayed much for you too, my landspeople, who have cares Inside the Fatherland: to whom holy gratitude, smiling, brings Back the exiles.
At the same time the lake rocked my boat, And the steersman sat quietly and approved our journey.
Far on the lake's surface joyous waves surged under the sails, And now the city rises brightly in the early morning,
And our boat came well guided from the shaded Alps To rest in the harbor. Here the shore is warm And the open valleys are friendly, brightened by Beautiful pathways, flourishing and shining toward me.
Gardens lie round about, bright buds open, the song of birds Welcomes the wanderer. Everything seems familiar;
Even people passing by greet each other as if they were Friends, and every face appears like kin. 4.
But of course, this is the land of your birth, the soil Of your own country: what you seek is close by and Rises to meet you. The traveller stands before you, O happy Lindau, surrounded by waves, like a son At your door affectionately singing your praises. This is a welcoming gate to the nation, inviting you To travel forth into the distance, a place of promises And miracles, where the Rhine, like a mythological Animal, breaks its way downwards into the plains, And the jubilant valley leads through the bright Mountains toward Como, or off toward the open sea In the direction of the sun. But the sacred Gateway prompts me to go on home instead, Where the busy highways are familiar to me,
To visit the countryside and beautiful valleys Of the Neckar, and the forests, where godlike green Oak and beech trees and silent birches gather, and A friendly spot in the mountains still holds me captive. 5.
Dear friends are there to welcome me. O voice of the city, voice of my mother!
You touch and awaken what I learned long ago. But it's really them: sun and joy shine for you,
My dear ones, almost brighter than ever in your eyes. Yes, it's still the same. It thrives and ripens,
For nothing that lives and loves relinquishes loyalty. Best of all, this treasure, which rests under the arch Of holy peace, is reserved for young and old alike. I speak foolishly.
It's pure joy. But tomorrow And after, when we go out and view the living fields, When the trees are blossoming on Spring holidays,
I'll speak and share my hopes with you, dear friends. I've heard much about our great Father, but I've said Nothing. He renews passing time above in the heights, And he reigns over mountains. He'll soon bestow heavenly Gifts and call for brighter song and send many good spirits. Come, you preservers!
Angels of the year!
And you, 6.
Angels of the house, come! May the power of Heaven spread Through all the veins of life, ennobling and invigorating And dispensing joy! So that joyful angels attend upon Human goodness every hour of the day, and that Such joy as I experience now, when loved ones Are properly reunited, be suitably sanctified.
When we bless the meal, upon whom shall I call, And when we rest after the day's activity, tell me,
How will I offer thanks? Should I call the Highest by name? A god doesn't like what is inappropriate. Maybe our joy Isn't big enough to grasp him. We must often remain silent, A sacred language is missing — hearts are beating and yet Speech can't emerge? But the sound of string music Resonates hour by hour, and perhaps that pleases The approaching gods. Begin the music, and the worries Almost vanish which would have affected our joy.
Willingly or not, poets must often concern themselves With such things, but not with others.
