So shall we always hasten toward an unknown shore,
and sink into the grave’s dark night,
without a sheltered haven in the raging storm,
without a refuge in the bitter winter’s plight?
Look, lake, look! Not a year has passed
since she played upon your waves, so joyous and so wild;
and now—now I, poor wretch, sit here alone,
upon this stone where you so often saw us side by side.
As now, you roared, all wild and restless then,
and tore your breast against the rocky shore;
you tossed and raged along the edge,
and often flung your foam against her feet.
Do you remember, lake? One night, alone,
she and I were rowing silently across your icy waters.
The breeze had fallen; you, too, were calm;
in your sleep, you heard no sound but our two oars.
Then suddenly, a heavenly song, so fresh and strange,
awoke the ancient echo all around us.
At once your foaming waves lay still,
and these harmonious words were heard—do you remember?
“Hold back, O Time, your tireless wings;
sweet hours, do not rush away—stand still a moment.
And you, my night, do not depart with all your stars;
now that we are together, life is beautiful.”
The sorrows of this world, its loneliness, its poverty—
so many wish to leave them far behind.
For them, fly swiftly, swiftly, Time,
and leave us caught in Love’s sweet bonds,
that we may drink our fill of such a tender captivity.
In vain! The hours fly on. No one awaits me;
no one is listening for my voice. The night is cruel.
The stars grow dim and vanish; secretly,
the merciless dawn begins to rise. Have pity on us, daybreak!
In vain! All things deceive us; all are dreams and illusion.
Our life is Love, and Love our only joy.
Let us not seek some other, far-off harbour in this world:
Time’s savage sea has no shore.
“Jealous, stubborn Time, tell me: why must joy’s hours
be snuffed out, vanishing like lightning,
while dark and bitter moments of misfortune
fly past as swiftly, yet are never forgotten?
“From the deep abyss that swallows us,
from eternity that floods over us,
nothing, O Time, nothing rises into the light;
nothing takes root or grows—you consume it all.
“Then of all the joy I knew, not even a trace will remain?
Shall I leave nothing behind upon this dark earth?
Is it not a cruel shame that, after our swift passage,
not one footprint should survive, O unjust Time?”
O lake, O silent rocks, O caves and woods,
you who behold my grief, I ask one favour:
you, whom no one can frighten into ruin,
do not forget us, even when I, too, am in the grave.
When the storm lashes you, and when you sleep
deep beneath the waves, my foam-crowned lake,
do not forget us. You alone beheld our love;
you alone remember how our hearts were kindled—and you will pity us.
I want your pines and firs, your rocks, your ravine,
the murmur of your foam, the echo’s voice,
your cool clouds, the breeze, your mist,
your spring, your reeds, your grass, your birds,
the silver-browed star, the fragrance that it scatters,
the blue that flows across your waters, sweetest lake—
all in creation that has feeling, breath, or mind,
to say: “The dark and fiery ones loved!”