The seventh elegy
Advertising no longer, not advertising, outgrown voice,
be your cry of nature; Although you scream like the bird,
when the season picks him up, the rising, almost forgetting,
that he is a caring animal and not just a single heart,
that throws her into a happy mood, into the deep heavens. Like him, like that
Do you want, no less – that, still invisible,
the friend lead you, the quiet, in the one answer
slowly wakes up and warms up over listening, –
Your daring feeling, the glowing feeling.
Oh, and the spring concepts – there is no place,
that does not carry the tone of the Annunciation. First that little one
questioning Auflaut, the, with increasing silence,
a pure affirmative day largely ignores.
Then up the stairs, call-steps up to the dreamed
Temple of the future -; then the trill, fountain,
which preempts the falling stream already the falling
in the game of promise. And in front of him, the summer.
Not only the mornings of the summer – not only
how they turn into day and radiate before beginning.
Not only the days that are tender around flowers, and above,
around the designed trees, strong and powerful.
Not only the devotion of these unfolded forces,
not only the paths, not just the meadows in the evening,
not only, after a late thunderstorm, the breathing clarity,
not only the approaching sleep and an ancestor, in the evening.
but the nights! But the high, the summer,
Nights, but the stars, the stars of the earth.
O to be dead once and they know infinitely,
all the stars: for how, how, how they forget!
Behold, I called the lover. But not her only
would. It would come from weak graves
Girls and stalls. Because, how do I restrict,
how, the call called? The sunken seek
still earth. – Your children, a local
once grasped thing would be valid for many.
Do not think that fate is more than the density of childhood;
how often do you overtake the beloved, breathing,
breathing after blissful running, for nothing, into the open air.
Being here is amazing. You knew it, girl, her also,
which you seemingly lack, sank -, you, into the worst
Alleys of cities, black people, or garbage
Open. For one hour was everyone, maybe not
just an hour, barely with the times
Messile between two parts – since they are an existence
would have. Everything. The veins full of life.
Only, we forget so easily what the laughing neighbor
not confirmed or envied us. Visible
let’s lift it, where the most visible happiness is us
only to be known when we transform it within.
Nowhere, beloved, will there be world, than within. Our
Life goes with transformation. And less and less
the outside disappears. Where once a permanent home was,
imagines conceived structure, across, to conceivable
completely proper, as if it were still completely in the brain.
The Zeitgeist creates a vast store of power, without form
like the exciting urge he gains from everything.
He no longer knows temples. These, of the heart, waste
we save secretly. Yes, where one survives,
a once-prayed thing, a served, knelt thing -,
Keep it as it is, already in the invisible.
Many are no longer aware, but without the benefit,
that’s it inwardly Baun, with pillars and statues, bigger!
Every dull reversal of the world has such disinherited ones,
where the former is not and not yet the next.
Because the next is also far for the people. We should
do not confuse this; it strengthens the preservation in us
the still recognized figure. – This was standing once among humans,
in the middle of fate, in the devastating, middle-of-the-road
in ignorance-where did it stand, how being, and bent
Stars to safe skies. Angel,
to you still I show it, there! in your view
stand it saved last, now finally upright.
Pillars, pylons, the sphinx, the aspiration,
gray from passing city or from strange, the thorn.
Was not it miracles? O astonishment, angel, because we Items since,
we, O great one, tell us that we were able to do this, my breath
is not enough for the praise. So we have that yet
do not miss the rooms, these granting them
our rooms. (What must they be terribly big,
because they do not overfill millennia of our feelings.)
But a tower was big, right? O angel, it was him, –
big, even next to you? Chartres was great – and music
went even further and exceeded us. But only himself
a lover – oh, alone at the nocturnal window.
She did not hand you her knee -?
believe Not, that I advertise.
Angel, and I would dare you too! You are not coming. Because my
Call is always on the way; against such strong
You can not walk in the current. Like a stretched one
Poor is my call. And his for grasping
open hand remains in front of you
open, like defense and warning,
Incomprehensible, far away.
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