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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore —
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door —
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore —
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore —
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door —
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; —
This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here I opened wide the door; ——
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" —
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore —
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door —
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door —
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore —
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door —
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered — not a feather then he fluttered —
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before —
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore —
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never — nevermore'."
But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore —
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite — respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! —
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted —
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore —
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore —
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore —
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting —
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — nevermore!
AntwortenEdgar Allan Poe
in Rumpelkammer 03.09.2008 13:28von Alcedo • Mitglied | 2.708 Beiträge | 2838 Punkte
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love -
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went on envying her and me -
Yes! - that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we -
Of many far wiser than we -
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling - my darling - my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Edgar Allan Poe
in Rumpelkammer 03.09.2008 15:35von Simone • Mitglied | 1.674 Beiträge | 1674 Punkte
The Sleeper
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin molders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! where lies
Irene, with her Destinies!
O, lady bright! can it be right-
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop-
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully- so fearfully-
Above the closed and fringed lid
'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come O'er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress,
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold-
Some vault that oft has flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o'er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals-
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone-
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
Edgar Allan Poe
in Rumpelkammer 03.09.2008 15:38von Simone • Mitglied | 1.674 Beiträge | 1674 Punkte
Alone
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
Edgar Allan Poe
in Rumpelkammer 19.01.2009 09:02von Alcedo • Mitglied | 2.708 Beiträge | 2838 Punkte
so mögen ihm also die eigenen Glocken zum Geburtstag läuten:
The Bells
I
Hear the sledges with the bells-
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And an in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III
Hear the loud alarum bells-
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,
Now–now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows:
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-
Of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV
Hear the tolling of the bells-
Iron Bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people–ah, the people-
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All Alone
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone-
They are neither man nor woman-
They are neither brute nor human-
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells-
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells-
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells:
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-
Bells, bells, bells-
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
RE: Edgar Allan Poe
in Rumpelkammer 13.05.2009 12:42von Gedichtbandage • Mitglied | 531 Beiträge | 525 Punkte
The Conqueror Worm
Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!
That motley drama- oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out- out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
___
Eroberer Wurm (aus "Die Deutsche Gedichtebibliothek")
O schaut, es ist festliche Nacht
Inmitten einsam letzter Tage!
Ein Engelchor, schluchzend, in Flügelpracht
Und Schleierflor sieht zage
Im Schauspielhaus ein Schauspiel an
Von Hoffnung, Angst und Plage,
Derweil das Orchester dann und wann
Musik haucht: Sphärenklage.
Schauspieler, Gottes Ebenbilder,
Murmeln und brummeln dumpf
Und hasten planlos, immer wilder,
Sind Puppen nur und folgen stumpf
Gewaltigen düsteren Dingen,
Die umziehn ohne Form und Rumpf
Und dunkles Weh aus Kondorschwingen
Schlagen voll Triumph.
Dies närrische Drama! – O fürwahr,
Nie wird's vergessen werden,
Nie sein Phantom, verfolgt für immerdar
Von wilder Rotte rasenden Gebärden,
Verfolgt umsonst – zum alten Fleck
Kehrt stets der Kreislauf neu zurück –
Und nie die Tollheit, die Sünde, der Schreck
Und das Grausen: die Seele vom Stück.
Doch sieh, in die mimende Runde
Drängt schleichend ein blutrot Ding
Hervor aus ödem Hintergrunde
Der Bühne – ein blutrot Ding.
Es windet sich! – windet sich in die Bahn
Der Mimen, die Angst schon tötet;
Die Engel schluchzen, da Wurmes Zahn
In Menschenblut sich rötet.
Aus – aus sind die Lichter – alle aus!
Vor jede zuckende Gestalt
Der Vorhang fällt mit Wetterbraus:
Ein Leichentuch finster und kalt.
Die Engel schlagen die Schleier zurück,
Sind erbleicht und entschweben in Sturm,
»Mensch« nennen sich sie das tragische Stück,
Seinen Helden »Eroberer Wurm«.
_
Der Eroberer Wurm (aus "Projekt Gutenberg")
Im Weltenraum ist Galanacht.
Im Theater sitzt gedrängt
Eine Engelschar in Festestracht,
Verschleiert, zährendurchtränkt,
Und lauscht einem wechselvollen Stück,
Wo Furcht und Hoffen sich drängt,
Dieweil im Orchester Sphärenmusik
Sich langsam hebt und senkt.
Gottähnliche Mimen murmeln leis
Den Text und kommen und gehn
Auf großer, formloser Wesen Geheiß,
Die in den Kulissen stehn,
Mit ernsten Gebärden, feierlich stumm
Die Wände schieben und drehn,
Und mit ihren Flügeln ins Publikum
Unsichtbares Leiden wehn.
Dies Drama, wechselvoll, fieberisch,
Es bleibt der Welt unverkürzt,
Mit einem scheckig bunten Gemisch
Von Tollheit und Sünde gewürzt,
Dahinter sich eitel Elend und Graus
Zum verworrenen Knoten schürzt,
Und ein Phantom sich unter Applaus
Ins leere Dunkel stürzt.
Doch sieh! eine Form aus ekler Brut
Schleicht in den Mimenknäul –
Ein kriechendes Untier, rot wie Blut,
Das sich windet und windet, dieweil
Es nach und nach die Mimen verzehrt
Unter der Opfer Geheul,
Und die Engelschar ein Schauder durchfährt
Ob der unendlichen Greu'l.
Aus sind die Lichter – ausgeweht;
Mit der Wucht eines Sturmes fällt
Der Vorhang, ein Leichentuch, sternbesät,
Über das bretterne Zelt.
Die Engel erheben sich abgespannt
Und erklären der bangen Welt,
Daß die Tragödie »Mensch« benannt
Und Eroberer »Wurm« ihr Held.
_________________________________________________________
>> Du verdammter Sadist:
Du versuchst deine Leser zum Denken zu zwingen.<< - E. E. Cummings zu Ezra Pound
| 86 Beiträge | 171 Punkte
Seit meiner Kindheit glich ich nicht
den anderen, sah meine Sicht,
statt ihrer. Mir war nicht gegeben
die gleiche Leidenschaft zu leben.
Auch speiste mir derselbe Quell
mein Trauern nicht, schlug mein Herz hell,
dann nicht durch ihn, er drang nicht ein,
und liebte ich, liebt‘ ichs allein.
Als Kind hat früh in mir gekreißt,
der Sturm, der jetzt mein Leben heißt,
gezeugt aus Gutem und aus Bösen,
ein Wunder bliebs, nicht aufzulösen.
In Springflut und in Quellgesängen,
in Bergen, roten Felsenhängen,
im Sonnenlicht, das nach mir greift
in dem ein Herbstgoldleuchten reift,
im Blitz, der falb am Himmel schwelt,
ihn spaltet, aber mich verfehlt,
im Donnergrollen das verhallt,
der Wolke, die zum Bild sich ballt,
wo blau sonst bleibt des Himmels Licht,
blickt mir ein Dämon ins Gesicht.
RE: Edgar Allan Poe
in Rumpelkammer 22.04.2016 07:50von Alcedo • Mitglied | 2.708 Beiträge | 2838 Punkte
gewohnt stark von dir, Sneaker!
formal sehr dicht am Original, im durchgehend vierhebigen Jambus, hast du bloß drei mal weiche Kadenzpaarungen eingestreut. Poe hatte zwei mit taken/awaken und fountain/mountain.
aber vor allem beeindruckt mich, dass du die letzten vier Paarreime in der harten Kadenz, dermaßen stimmig, durchziehen konntest - Kompliment!
mein Highlight war deine Übertragung des „autumn tint of gold“. da ist dir die, in meinen Augen, schönste Paarung gelungen: herrlich dein „Herbstgoldleuchten“ an der Stelle.
überhaupt, ist mir das die schönste Alone-Übertagung die mir bisher begegnet ist.
Dankeschön
Alcedo
das Original hier oben bei #4:
Edgar Allan Poe
Dreamland
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule-
From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE- out of TIME.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the tears that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters- lone and dead,-
Their still waters- still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,-
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,-
By the mountains- near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-
By the grey woods,- by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp-
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,-
By each spot the most unholy-
In each nook most melancholy-
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past-
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by-
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion
'Tis a peaceful, soothing region-
For the spirit that walks in shadow
'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not- dare not openly view it!
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.
Schattenland
Wege, einsam, voll Erschauern,
wo verfluchte Engel lauern,
wo ein Eidolon – die Nacht –
Herrscher ist des Throns der Macht,
führten jüngst mich in dies‘ Land,
her von Thules Küstenstrand,
der so fern liegt, wild und weit,
fern von Raum und fern von Zeit.
Schluchten und Höhlen und endlose Tiefen,
ewige Fluten und Forste, die triefen
von Tau, der Formen den Augen verzerrt,
berstende Berge, kein Ufer versperrt
rastloser Wellen wogendes Streifen
hinauf zum flammenden Himmel zu greifen.
Seen, von leblosen Wassern gefüllt,
Ufer, von endloser Ferne verhüllt,
Seen so einsam, so grau und so kalt,
schweigend und still, zum Leben zu alt,
bleich wie erblindete Spiegel liegend,
die Kälte erblassender Lilien wiegend.
In Seen so einsam, so grau und so kalt,
schweigend und still, zum Leben zu alt,
bleich wie erblindete Spiegel liegend,
die Kälte erblassender Lilien wiegend,
in Bergen, in raunender Flüsse Lauf
- ihr glucksendes Wispern hört nimmermehr auf -,
in dunkelnden Wäldern , in Sümpfen und Mooren,
Kröten und Lurchen zur Heimat erkoren,
in tückischen Tümpeln und trügenden Teichen,
der Heimat von Ghulen, den Fressern von Leichen,
in Plätzen von Gott und von Menschen verflucht,
in Winkeln von Schwermut und Trauern gesucht,
sieht der Wanderer voll Schrecken,
die Vergangenheit sich recken:
Leiber in Laken, verblassende Schemen,
die Pfade in andere Richtungen nehmen,
Freunde, der Erde, den Würmern gegeben,
die Seele dem Himmel, dem ewigen Leben.
In ein Herz, das Trauer trägt,
wird ein Balsam hier gelegt,
für den Geist, den Schatten hält,
ist es eine Wunderwelt.
Doch die durch die Lande ziehen,
müssen das Erkennen fliehen,
niemals darf ein Auge wagen,
hier Geheimem nachzujagen.
Jeder Blick sei hier verhohlen,
hat des Herrschers Wort befohlen,
so dass Wandrer, die hier gehen,
wie durch trübe Gläser sehen.
Wege, einsam, voll Erschauern,
wo verfluchte Engel lauern,
wo ein Eidolon – die Nacht –
Herrscher ist des Throns der Macht,
führten jüngst mich heim ins Land,
fort von Thules trübem Strand,
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