April is the cruellest month, breeding |
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Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing |
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Memory and desire, stirring |
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Dull roots with spring rain. |
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Winter kept us warm, covering |
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Earth in forgetful snow, feeding |
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A little life with dried tubers. |
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Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee |
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With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, |
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And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, |
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And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. |
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Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch. |
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And when we were children, staying at the archduke's, |
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My cousin's, he took me out on a sled, |
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And I was frightened. He said, Marie, |
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Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. |
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In the mountains, there you feel free. |
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I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. |
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What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow |
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Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, |
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You cannot say, or guess, for you know only |
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A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, |
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And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, |
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And the dry stone no sound of water. Only |
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There is shadow under this red rock, |
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(Come in under the shadow of this red rock), |
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And I will show you something different from either |
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Your shadow at morning striding behind you |
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Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; |
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I will show you fear in a handful of dust. |
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Frisch weht der Wind |
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Der Heimat zu. |
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Mein Irisch Kind, |
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Wo weilest du? |
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'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; |
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'They called me the hyacinth girl.' |
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—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, |
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Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not |
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Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither |
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Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, |
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Looking into the heart of light, the silence. |
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Od' und leer das Meer. |
