Das ist der alte Märchenwald
Das ist der alte Märchenwald
It is the old, enchanted wood;
The linden-tree's in flower.
The cold, white magic of the moon
Maddens me with its power. . . .
I wandered on, and as I went
I heard the heavens ringing;
Of love and the keen ache of love
The nightingale was singing.
Of love and the keen ache of love
She sang; of tears and laughter —
So sad her mirth, so sweet her sobs,
That dead dreams followed after.
I wandered on, and as I went
A wide space lay before me.
And there, with towering spires, there rose
A castle huge and stormy.
Barred were its windows; over all
Lay grief and silence, giving
The sense that in these wasted walls
Nothing but Death was living.
Before the door there lay a Sphinx
,Half-horrible, half-human;
A lion's form in body and claws,
The forehead and breast — a woman.
A woman fair! Her marble gaze
Was sensuous and commanding.
Her dumb lips curved into a smile
Of secret understanding.
The nightingale so sweetly sang,
What use was my resistance —
I kissed her radiant face, and that
Transformed my whole existence.
For lo, the marble statue woke;
The stone was touched with fire;
She drank the fervor of my kiss
With an unslaked desire.
She drank my very breath from me
And then, with lustful ardor,
Her lion's claws sank in my flesh,
Holding me closer, harder.
Oh exquisite torture, rapturous wounds!
The pain and the pleasure unending —
For while I was thrilled with the kiss of her mouth,
The claws were tearing and rending.
The nightingale sang " Oh wondrous Sphinx;
Oh Love, why all this distressing
Mingling of death-like agony
With every balm and blessing?
" Oh lovely Sphinx! Explain to me
This riddle that puzzles sages.
I've pondered on it hopelessly,
Alas, for many ages. "
— All this I could have said just as well in decent prose. . . . But when one reads over one's old poems, freshening a phrase here and there, and touching them up fox a new printing, the lyric habit of rhyme and rhythm steals over one imperceptibly — and lo! it is with verse that I open this third edition of the " Book of Songs. "
Oh Phaebus Apollo! if these verses be bad thou wilt surely forgive me. . . . For thou art an all-wise god, and thou knowest well enough why it was that many years have passed since I have busied myself exclusively with the measuring and harmonizing of words. . . . Thou knowest why the flame which once delighted the world with its brilliant display of fire-works was suddenly turned to a more serious blaze. . . . Thou knowest why this silently glowing fire is now consuming my heart. Thou dost understand me, great and glorious god; for even so didst thou exchange, now and again, the golden lyre for the mighty bow and the death-dealing arrows. . . . Dost thou not still remember Marsyas, whom thou didst flay alive? That was long ago, and a similar example may be necessary. . . . Thou smilest, oh my eternal Father!
H EINRICH H EINE .
Written in Paris, February 20, 1839.
It is the old, enchanted wood;
The linden-tree's in flower.
The cold, white magic of the moon
Maddens me with its power. . . .
I wandered on, and as I went
I heard the heavens ringing;
Of love and the keen ache of love
The nightingale was singing.
Of love and the keen ache of love
She sang; of tears and laughter —
So sad her mirth, so sweet her sobs,
That dead dreams followed after.
I wandered on, and as I went
A wide space lay before me.
And there, with towering spires, there rose
A castle huge and stormy.
Barred were its windows; over all
Lay grief and silence, giving
The sense that in these wasted walls
Nothing but Death was living.
Before the door there lay a Sphinx
,Half-horrible, half-human;
A lion's form in body and claws,
The forehead and breast — a woman.
A woman fair! Her marble gaze
Was sensuous and commanding.
Her dumb lips curved into a smile
Of secret understanding.
The nightingale so sweetly sang,
What use was my resistance —
I kissed her radiant face, and that
Transformed my whole existence.
For lo, the marble statue woke;
The stone was touched with fire;
She drank the fervor of my kiss
With an unslaked desire.
She drank my very breath from me
And then, with lustful ardor,
Her lion's claws sank in my flesh,
Holding me closer, harder.
Oh exquisite torture, rapturous wounds!
The pain and the pleasure unending —
For while I was thrilled with the kiss of her mouth,
The claws were tearing and rending.
The nightingale sang " Oh wondrous Sphinx;
Oh Love, why all this distressing
Mingling of death-like agony
With every balm and blessing?
" Oh lovely Sphinx! Explain to me
This riddle that puzzles sages.
I've pondered on it hopelessly,
Alas, for many ages. "
— All this I could have said just as well in decent prose. . . . But when one reads over one's old poems, freshening a phrase here and there, and touching them up fox a new printing, the lyric habit of rhyme and rhythm steals over one imperceptibly — and lo! it is with verse that I open this third edition of the " Book of Songs. "
Oh Phaebus Apollo! if these verses be bad thou wilt surely forgive me. . . . For thou art an all-wise god, and thou knowest well enough why it was that many years have passed since I have busied myself exclusively with the measuring and harmonizing of words. . . . Thou knowest why the flame which once delighted the world with its brilliant display of fire-works was suddenly turned to a more serious blaze. . . . Thou knowest why this silently glowing fire is now consuming my heart. Thou dost understand me, great and glorious god; for even so didst thou exchange, now and again, the golden lyre for the mighty bow and the death-dealing arrows. . . . Dost thou not still remember Marsyas, whom thou didst flay alive? That was long ago, and a similar example may be necessary. . . . Thou smilest, oh my eternal Father!
H EINRICH H EINE .
Written in Paris, February 20, 1839.
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