The god Is near, and hard to grasp.
But where there is danger,
A rescuing element grows as well.
Eagles live in the darkness,
And the sons of the Alps Cross over the abyss without fear On lightly-built bridges.
Therefore, since the summits Of Time are heaped about,
And dear friends live near,
Growing weak on the separate mountains —Then give us calm waters;
Give us wings, and loyal minds To cross over and return.
Thus I spoke, when faster Than I could imagine a spirit Led me forth from my own home To a place I thought I'd never go.
The shaded forests and yearning Brooks of my native country Were glowing in the twilight.
I couldn't recognize the lands I passed through, but then suddenly In fresh splendor, mysterious In the golden haze, quickly emerging In the steps of the sun,
Fragrant with a thousand peaks,
Asia rose before me.
Dazzled I searched for something Familiar, since the broad streets Were unknown to me: where the
Patoklos comes rushing down from Tmolus,
Where Taurus and Messogis stand,
And the gardens are full of flowers,
Like a quiet fire.
Up above In the light the silver snow Thrives, and ivy grows from ancient Times on the inaccessible walls,
Like a witness to immortal life,
While the solemn god-built palaces Are borne by living columns Of cypress and laurel.
But around Asia's gates Unshaded sea-paths rush About the unpredictable sea,
Though sailors know where The islands are.
When I heard that one of these close by Was Patmos,
I wanted very much To put in there, to enter The dark sea-cave.
For unlike Cyprus, rich with springs,
Or any of the others,
Patmos Isn't splendidly situated,
But it's nevertheless hospitable In a more modest home.
And if A stranger should come to her,
Shipwrecked or homesick Or grieving for a departed friend,
She'll gladly listen, and her Offspring as well, the voices In the hot grove, so that where sands blowand heat cracks the tops of the fields,
They hear him, these voices,
And echo the man's grief.
Thus she once looked after The prophet that was loved by God,
Who in his holy youth Had walked together inseparably With the Son of the Highest,
Because the Storm-Bearer loved The simplicity of his disciple.
Thus that attentive man observed The countenance of the god directly,
There at the mystery of the wine,
Where they sat together at the hour Of the banquet, when the Lord
His great spirit quietly foresaw his Own death, and forespoke it and
His final act of love, for he always Had words of kindness to speak,
Even then in his prescience,
To soften the raging of the world.
For all is good.
Then he died.
Much Could be said about it.
At the
His friends recognized how
He appeared, and how victorious.
And yet the men grieved, now that evening Had come, and were taken by surprise,
Since they were full of great intentions,
And loved living in the light,
And didn't want to leave the countenance Of the Lord, which had become their home.
It penetrated them like fire into hot iron,
And the one they love walked beside them Like a shadow.
Therefore he sent The Spirit upon them, and the house Shook and God's thunder rolled Over their expectant heads, while They were gathered with heavy hearts,
Like heroes under sentence of death,
When he again appeared to
At his departure.
For now The majestic day of the sun Was extinguished, as he cast The shining scepter from himself,
Suffering like a god, but knowing He would come again at the right time.
It would have been wrong To cut off disloyally his work With humans, since now it pleased Him to live on in loving night,
And keep his innocent eyes Fixed upon depths of wisdom.
Living images flourish
In the mountains as well,
Yet it is fearful how God randomly Scatters the living, and how very far.
And how fearsome it was to leave The sight of dear friends and walk off Alone far over the mountains, where The divine spirit was twice Recognized, in unity.
It hadn't been prophesied to them:
In fact it seized them right by the hair Just at the moment when the fugitive God looked back, and they called out to him To stop, and they reached their hands to One another as if bound by a golden rope,
And called it bad — But when he dies —he whom
Loved most of all, so that a miracle Surrounded him, and he
Chosen by the gods — And when those who lived
Thereafter in his memory,
Perplexed and no longer
One another; and when floods carry
The sand and willows and temples,
And when the fame of the demi-god And his disciples is blown
And even the Highest turns aside his Countenance, so that nothing Immortal can be seen either In heaven or upon the green earth — What does all this mean?
It is the action of the winnower,
When he shovels the wheat And casts it up into the clear
And swings it across the threshing floor.
The chaff falls to his feet, but The grain emerges finally.
It's not bad if some of it gets lost,
Or if the sounds of his living speech Fade away.
For the work Of the gods resembles our own:
The Highest doesn't want it Accomplished all at once.
As mineshafts yield iron,
And Etna its glowing resins,
Then I'd have sufficient resources To shape a picture of him and see What the Christ was like.
But if somebody spurred himself
Along the road and, speaking sadly,
Fell upon me and surprised me, so
Like a servant I'd make an image of the god — Once I saw the lords Of heaven visibly angered, not That I wanted to become something different,
But that I wanted to learn something more.
The lords are kind, but while they reign They hate falsehood most, when humans become Inhuman. For not they, but undying Fate It is that rules, and their activity Spins itself out and quickly reaches an end.
When the heavenly procession proceeds higher Then the joyful Son of the Highest Is called like the sun by the strong,
As a watchword, like a staff of song That points downwards,
For nothing is ordinary. It awakens The dead, who aren't yet corrupted.
And many are waiting whose eyes are Still too shy to see the light directly.
They wouldn't do well in the sharp Radiance: a golden
Holds back their courage.
But when quiet radiance falls From the holy scripture, with The world forgotten and their eyes Wide open, then they may enjoy that grace,
And study the light in stillness.
And if the gods love me,
As I now believe,
Then how much more Do they love yourself.
For I know that the will Of the eternal Father Concerns you greatly.
Under a thundering sky His sign is silent.
And there is one who stands Beneath it all his life.
For Christ still lives.
But the heroes, all his sons Have come, and the holy scriptures Concerning him,
While earth's deeds clarify The lightning, like a
That can't be stopped.
And he is there too,
Aware of his own works From the very beginning.
For far too long The honor of the gods Has been invisible.
They practically have to Guide our fingers as we write,
And with embarrassment the energy Is torn from our hearts.
For every heavenly being Expects a sacrifice,
And when this is neglected,
Nothing good can come of it.
Without awareness we've worshipped Our Mother the Earth, and the Light Of the Sun as well, but what our Father Who reigns over everything wants
Is that the established word
Carefully attended, and
Which endures be interpreted well.
German song must accord with this.
Dedicated to the Earl of Homburg.
