J. W. V O N G O E T H E (1749-1832)
Sacred Longing
Not a soul except the wise
Must know; the crowd is quick to blame.
Of the living, I will prize
Him who yearns for death in flame.
Where the cool dark nights of passion
Sired you once, as you now sire,
You’re transfixed in mystic fashion
By the candle’s silent fire.
Nothing any longer thralls you
In the shadows’ tangled netting.
Now a higher craving calls you
To a more intense begetting.
Distance cannot stay your flight.
Spellbound in your furious dash,
Finally, greedy for the light,
Butterfly, you burn to ash.
You who will not seize this quest –
Die and reawaken! –
Roam the world a pallid guest,
Sightless and forsaken.
The Years
The years are lovely people. They
brought yesterday, they bring today.
For us their generous ways suffice
to fashion a fool’s paradise.
Then all at once they change their mind
and cease to be so frank and kind.
No longer give, no longer borrow.
They take today, they take tomorrow.
Translated by Jan Schreiber
Sacred Longing
Not a soul except the wise
Must know; the crowd is quick to blame.
Of the living, I will prize
Him who yearns for death in flame.
Where the cool dark nights of passion
Sired you once, as you now sire,
You’re transfixed in mystic fashion
By the candle’s silent fire.
Nothing any longer thralls you
In the shadows’ tangled netting.
Now a higher craving calls you
To a more intense begetting.
Distance cannot stay your flight.
Spellbound in your furious dash,
Finally, greedy for the light,
Butterfly, you burn to ash.
You who will not seize this quest –
Die and reawaken! –
Roam the world a pallid guest,
Sightless and forsaken.
The Years
The years are lovely people. They
brought yesterday, they bring today.
For us their generous ways suffice
to fashion a fool’s paradise.
Then all at once they change their mind
and cease to be so frank and kind.
No longer give, no longer borrow.
They take today, they take tomorrow.
Translated by Jan Schreiber
