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Mein Schleswig-Holstein, tief im Schnee versiegelt, Wie lieb ich dann dich erst, mein Wiegenland: Du hast die Türen alle fest verriegelt, Und deine Knicks sind Wetterschirm und Wand Bis sich in deinen Fenstern wieder spiegelt Des Sommers roter Abendsonnenbrand. Mein Schleswig-Holstein, tief im Schnee vermummt Nie bist du laut, nun bist du ganz verstummt.
Alfred Lichtenstein: Winterabend
Dec. 28th, 2004 01:08 pmWinterabend
Alfred Lichtenstein
In gelben Fenstern trinken Schatten heißen Tee.
Sehnsüchtge wiegen sich auf hartem Schimmerteiche.
Arbeiter finden eine sanfte Damenleiche.
Johlende Dunkle werfen glimmend blauen Schnee.
An hohen Stangen hängt, verfleht, ein Streichholzmann.
Kaufläden flackern trüb durch frostbeschlagne Scheiben,
Vor denen Menschenleiber wie Gespenster treiben.
Studenten schneiden ein erfrornes Mädchen an.
Wie lieblich der kristallne Winterabend brennt!
Schon strömt ein Platinmond durch eine Häuserlücke.
Bei grünlichen Laternen unter einer Brücke
Liegt ein Zigeunerweib. Und spielt ein Instrument.
Alfred Lichtenstein
In gelben Fenstern trinken Schatten heißen Tee.
Sehnsüchtge wiegen sich auf hartem Schimmerteiche.
Arbeiter finden eine sanfte Damenleiche.
Johlende Dunkle werfen glimmend blauen Schnee.
An hohen Stangen hängt, verfleht, ein Streichholzmann.
Kaufläden flackern trüb durch frostbeschlagne Scheiben,
Vor denen Menschenleiber wie Gespenster treiben.
Studenten schneiden ein erfrornes Mädchen an.
Wie lieblich der kristallne Winterabend brennt!
Schon strömt ein Platinmond durch eine Häuserlücke.
Bei grünlichen Laternen unter einer Brücke
Liegt ein Zigeunerweib. Und spielt ein Instrument.
Lord Alfred Tennyson: The Splendor Falls
Apr. 28th, 2004 07:31 pmThe Splendor Falls
Lord Alfred Tennyson
The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O, hark, O, hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O, sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying,
Blow, bugles; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
Lord Alfred Tennyson
The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O, hark, O, hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O, sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying,
Blow, bugles; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it's queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it's queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
