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Title and first stanza. Aus hohen Bergen. All rights reserved. Das wird mir nicht klar. In the pleasant valleys near Naumburg There are some charming places But really the nicest of all Of them to me is Pforta. I once stood upon verdant hills Gilded by the beams of sunset, As I looked down into the valley, The quiet meadow's green dress Blanketed with white mist, Suddenly a lovely Tolling sound wafted my way, A gentle reminder to rest.
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The stars shine so bright They draw us into gilded orbit Like guards of heaven Watching us peacefully. They rule in blessed silence And Pforta lies walled in by mist Illuminated by dim lights In spectral shapes. I can never forget The wonderful impression this made: Why am I drawn to the same place? That's something I don't understand.
In: Friedrich Nietzsche in Words and Pictures. Part 2. Nietzsche's School Years and Military Service: Ohne Heimath Without a Home Nietzsche started feeling homesick at Schulpforta, realizing, more than ever, that since his father's death he had been a "homeless" boy, untethered from the world. Und wer mich sieht, der kennt mich, Und wer mich kennt, der nennt mich: Den heimathslosen Hernn Swift horses carry me Without fear and trembling Through the distant land.
And whoever sees me, knows me, And whoever knows me, calls me: The homeless man No one would dare To ask me about Where my home is: I have never been bound To space and fleeting time, Am as free as an eagle! Sweet dreams have fled, The past has fled, The present is gloomy, The far-off future bleak.
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Ich habe nie empfunden Des Lebens Lust u. Having never experienced The joy and happiness of life, I look back sadly Upon long-vanished times. I do not know what I love, I have neither peace nor rest. I would like to die, die Dozing upon a green meadow Clouds drifting by above me, Forest-solitude around me. How nice to fly about Like air around the revolving ball Creeping into every corner, Subsiding in soaring space! Und dann eine Zeitschrift schreiben Ueber den Weltumfang. How nice to engulf the world In universal intensity. And then write a journal About the world's circumference.
In the pit of my stomach I would constrain infinity, Proving, then, with a thousand reasons, That world and time are finite. Schweifen, o Schweifen! To roam, O to roam Freely through the world so wide, With green bows On hat and coat. When I swing the little bell, It sounds so soft, so gentle. My locks of hair flutter Around me in the wind. I look at the deer So lovely in the forest, I become so sad, It too will soon be forgotten.
A fragrant little rose Blooms in the heather, I kiss the little rose And weep a little. Merrily, as wind sweeps And tugs a dream through the heart, A linden blossom falls Down from the tree. Once more, ere I move on And send my glance forward, Lonely, I raise my hands To you, to whom I flee, To whom I, in the deepest depths of my heart, Have solemnly consecrated altars, So that, at all times, His voice would summon me again.
Deeply inscribed upon them glows The words: To the Unknown God. Ich will dich kennen, selbst dir dienen. I want to know you, unknown one, You who have reached deep within my soul, Wandering through my life like a storm, You incomprehensible one, akin to me! I want to know you, even serve you. Und schrei ich laut: Homer! So macht das Jedermann Beschwer. Zur Kirche geht man und nach Haus Und lacht den lauten Schreier aus. Thus annoying everyone. They go to church and then go home And laugh at the loud crier. As a reward for this exuberance Of kindness here is my printed thanks. Nach Pforta To Pforta Ohne Heimath Without a Home To roam, O to roam!
An die Melancholie To Melancholy Verarge mir es nicht, Melancholie, Dass ich die Feder, dich zu preisen, spitze, Und dass ich nicht, den Kopf gebeugt zum Knie, Einsiedlerisch auf einem Baumstumpf sitze. Don't blame me, Melancholy, That I sharpen my pen to praise you, Not that I, head bowed to my knee, Sit hermitlike on a tree stump, hewn.
You often saw me thus, just yesterday, In the heat of the radiant morning sun: A vulture cried greedily in the valley, Dreaming of its staked and rotting carrion. Du sahst das Auge nicht, das wonnenreich Noch hin und her rollt, stolz und hochgemuthe. You failed, wild bird, although I rested mummylike on my seat! You missed my eye, roving to and fro, Blissfully proud in the morning heat. Thus I often sat, unsightly, A crude crooked sacrifice, Recalling with you, Melancholy, Penance for the youthful years of life! Now I sit content, the vulture circling, Avalanche of rolling thunder apace, You speak to me, lacking man's deceiving, Truthfully, yet with an austere face.
Stern goddess, savage and intense, You, dearest friend, try to advance; And point to where the vulture descends, Daring me to deny you amid the rumbling avalanche. Snarling with a hiss of terrible desire, Driven by agonizing greed, she sighs! On her stony bed, seductively, this flower Yearns for the caress of butterflies.get link
Don't blame me, angry deity, That you, with delicate rhymes, I adorn. Trembling at your approach and terrible visage, As you dawn, an evil face is born. After a Nocturnal Thunderstorm Today you hang as misty cover Around my window, goddess of dark cloud, Ashen flakes eerily hover To a roaring brook's angry sound.
O amid your sudden lightning flashes, When your untamed thunder boomed, In valleys poisoned and noxious, Your death-drink, sorceress, was brewed! At midnight, shuddering, your howling cries Awoke me with a jolt, You reached, with blazing eyes, For a piercing thunderbolt. Rushed to my empty bed at last, Fully armored, weapons drawn, Struck your chain mail against the glass, And spoke: "Now hear what I am!
Oder modre Wurm! Irrlicht, verglimm! Or melt in my mad glow! Dies ist der Herbst This is the autumn Dies ist der Herbst. Die Sonne schleicht zum Berg Und steigt hinauf und ruht bei jedem Schritte. Ich seh's und sterbe dann, Und sterbe gern. This is the autumn. The sun crawls along the mountain And climbs up And rests with every step.
Upon worn, strained threads The wind plays its song: Hope flees, He soughs to her. O fruit of the tree, Shaken, you fall! What lone secret did the night Reveal to you, That icy horror veiling your cheeks, Your crimson cheeks? I see it and then die, And die gladly. Um Mittag, wenn At noon, when Und dunkler noch und treuer blickt die Tanne Als sonst sie blickt. Wir lieben dich! At noon, when The young summer rises into the mountains, There, too, he speaks, But we only see his speech: His billowing breath is like a wanderer's In frosty winter: Icy mountain and fir and spring Reply to him as well, But we only see the reply.
For, as a greeting, the torrent Drops down from the rocks And stands there listening like a white pillar. And the fir looks even more somber and faithful Than it usually looks. And between ice and deadly gray stone Suddenly light flashes: Who will explain it to you? In the eye of a dead man Will once again be light: His grieving child will embrace him, Kiss him. For the light in his eye says: "I love you" And snowy mountain and brook and fir They, too, express To the summer's boy only This single phrase: We love you!
We love you! Mein Gruss ist Abschied Ich sterbe jung.
week Gerda Tobler’s “MusenKuss” (“Kiss of the Muse”) « Helen Davey
My greeting is farewell I will die young. Desperat Desperate Lauf' ich schon, wo lauf' ich hin? Spring' ich in die Wellen? Horrible to my senses are Spitting companions! I already run, where do I run? Do I jump in the waves? I prefer to live wickedly and simply A free bird upon the rooftops, Preferably amongst a den of thieves, Oath and marriage breakers!
Fluch der Bildung, wenn sie speit! Fluch dem Tugendbunde! Curse the culture, when she spews! Curse the league of virtues! Even the purest holiness Doesn't wear gold in her mouth.
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Fremdestes ist nun mir teuer! Hand, halt das Steuer! The strange is now dear to me!
Hold the helm, hand! We stand fast on our feet! We can never return! Out there, the beyond: from the distance to greet Us with death, glory, fortune! This is no book: what do books matter! What do coffins and shrouds matter! Sanctus Januarius This is no book: what do books matter! To these coffins and shrouds! The past is the prey of books: Yet within lives an eternal present. Columbus Novus Dorthin will ich, und ich traue Mir fortan und meinem Griff!
Stehst du doch selbst am Steuer, Lieblichste Victoria! There I'll go, and I'll keep Trust in myself and my grip! The sea is open: in the deep Floats my Genoese ship. At the helm are you, Loveliest victory! Das Wort The Word Doch bleibt das Wort ein zartes Wesen, Bald krank und aber bald genesen. But the word remains a delicate creature, At once sick and yet soon recovered. Fie to all those ugly trades, That put big and tiny words to death! Pinie und Blitz Pine and Lightning Close by, the clouds are sitting: I wait on the first lightning. Whoever has much to proclaim one day Geht die Welt nicht schief und schiefer?
Isn't the world getting more and more crooked? A poem written in a letter to Resa von Schirnhofer at the end of November The "True German. Der Wanderer The Wanderer Then a bird sings through the night. Was geht's dich an? Denn du sollst gehn Und nimmer, nimmer stille stehn! Was stehst du noch? The good bird falls silent and says: "No, wanderer, no! The night is not beautiful to me when alone. What's that to you? As Lewald reminds his readers, Gluck would never have considered spending six months out of the year as a German Kapellmeister when he was in Paris setting the French text of Philippe Quinault to music.
Meyerbeer, according to Lewald, was willing to leave behind his triumphant position in Paris to serve as a Prussian Kapellmeister in Berlin. One resorts to the most complex, crassest harmonies and striking, passionate rhythms that Meyerbeer especially conceived of with demonic ideas and the cosmopolitan mixing of melodies. At first glance, the Germans and the French believe to see themselves unified in their most inward nature, but on closer examination, they find that only collected trivialities are offered to them. The reception Meyerbeer experienced upon his return to Berlin shows that many Berliners felt as if their native son had returned to his roots in order to cultivate and to foster a rejuvenation of German music and culture at home.
Jahrhundert, ed. Herbert Schneider Hildesheim: Olms, , Bonnie J. Mit e. Vorrede von Jean Paul, vol. Kunz, Metzler, ], In his studies in Northern Germany, Meyerbeer worked with B. See S. Sein Streben, sein Wirken und seine Gegner. Lyser Dresden: Blochmann, , 9. Auch kam noch das Interesse an seinem Wettstreit mit Piccinni hinzu. This is a complex issue that falls outside the scope of this essay. See Marc A.
Hansen, L. In Wien z. In Vienna, for example, Mozart has become no more than a name, and his works are starting to disappear in the same manner as his grave, whose location no one knows. All three of these writers note that often criticism of Spontini was a subtle means of criticizing the king and his backward policies. That same year, the king offered Meyerbeer the position of Generalmusikdirektor. Mark Violette, ed.
Two years after the production of Armide, on 5 February , Meyerbeer petitioned King Frederick William IV to command that the Hofoper perform at least two operas by contemporary German composers and if no new works have been composed in a given year, then the Hofoper should stage earlier works by these composers or of German composers of the past.
Carl Dahlhaus, Esthetic of Music, trans. Austin Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ,