Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Die Baume stehn der Frucht entladen,
Und gelbes Laub verweht ins Tal
Das Stoppelfeld in Schimmerfaden
Erglanzt am niedern Mittagstrahl.
Es kreist der Vogel Schwarm , und ziehet;
Das Vieh verlangt zum Stall, und fliehet
Die magern Aun,vom Reife fahl,
O geh am sanften Scheidetage
Des Jahrs zu guter letzt hinaus;
Und nenn inn Summertag und trage
Den letzten schwer gefunden StrauB.
Bald stegt Gewolk und Sscbwartz dahinter
Der Sturm,und sein Genof,der Winter,
Und hult in Flocken Feld und Haus.
Ein weiser Mann,ihr Lieben haschet
die Freuden im Voruberfliehn,
Empfangt, was kommt unuberraschet,
Und pluckt die blumen, weil sie blunt.
Und sind die Blumen auch verschwunden;
So steht am Winterherd umwunden
Sein Festpokai mit immergrun
Noch trocken fuhrt durch Tal und Hugel
Der langst vertraube Sommerpfad.
Nur rotlich hangt am wasserspiegel
Der Baum, den grun ihr neulich sacht.
Doch grunt beim1 Rot der Hagendorne
Und Spillbeern, unsure Lagenstatt!
So still an warmer Sonne liegend,
Sehn wir das bunte Feld Hinan,
Und dort, auf schwartzer Brache plugend,
Mit Lustegpfeif ,den Ackermann.
Die Krah’n in fricher Furche schwammen
Dem Pfluge nach, und scbrein und Larmen;
Und dampfend zieht das Gaulgespanm,
Natur, wie schon in jedem Kleide!
Auch noch im Sterbekleid wie schon!
Sie micht in Wehmut sanfte Freude,
Und lachelt tranend noch I’m Gehen.
Du,welkes Laub, dad niederschauert,
Du Blumchen, lispelst: Nicht getrauert!
Wir werden schoner auferstehn!

Johann Heinrich Voss

Arminius could You translate this into English if You see it?
I came across it in reference to mythological works, and is be interested in finding out what it means.

Thanks,

The following text is the original (German) text:

I will do the translation soon.

By the way:

Spanish translation:

English translation:

That’s a good poem too. Isn’t it?

Thank You.

Yes, the Rilke poem is beautiful, as well.

The following text is the translation of Johann Heinrich Voß’ poem „Der Herbsttag“:

"The autumn day

The trees stand unloaded to the fruit,
And yellow foliage drifts away in the valley;
The stubblefield in light thread
Gleams in the lower midday beam.
The bird’s swarm wheels, and moves;
The cattle demands for the stable, and flee
The meagre meadows, paled from the rime.

Oh go on the gentle scabbard day
Of the year finally out;
And call it summer day and carry
The last hardly found bunch.
Soon clouds rise, and blackly behind it
The storm, and his enjoying, the winter,
And wraps in flakes field and house.

A wise man, dear ones, snatches
the joys in over-fleeing,
Receives what comes unsurprised,
And picks the flowers, because they bloom.
And if the flowers have also disappeared;
So stands at the winter stove entwined
Its festival cup with evergreen.

Still drily leads through valley and hill
The long been familar summer path.
Only reddishly hangs on the water level
The tree that green you recently saw.
Yet greens the field of the winter grain;
Yet greens with red of the hawthorns
And spill berries, our bed for the night!

So quietly recumbent in the warm sun,
We see the coloured field upward,
And there, on black fallow ploughing,
With lust whistling, the field man:
The crows in fresh furrow swarm
After the plough, and scream and make a noise;
And steamingly the horse team drags.

Nature, how nicely in every dress!
Still in the dying dress as nicely!
It mixes gentle joy in melancholy,
And smiles watering still in the walking.
You, wilted foliage, that shivers down,
You little flower, lisps: not mourned!
We will more beautifully rise!“

(Translated by me.)

Thank You for the translation and tonight I will try to compare the Voss with the Rilke for tje interest in synonymous structural and generally aesthetic contrast.

Do You think there is a flow of influence from the Vass to the Rilke?

He may have read him although he isn’t at all as well known and I came across it quite by chance.

I am pretty sure that Rilke knew Voß’ poem. But I am not sure whether there was a flow of influence from Voß to Rilke

Rilke’s poem „Archaischer Torso Apollos“:

English translation:

The hero is he who is immovably centered-Emerson

When I was a boy
A god often rescued me
From the shouts of the rods of men
And played among the trees and flowers
Secure in their kindness and the breezes of heaven
Were playing there too.

And as you delight
The hearts of plants
When they stretch towards you with little strength

So you delight the heart in me
Father Helios and like Endymion
I was your favorite
Moon O all

Your friendly
And faithful gods
I wish you could know
How my soul have loved you.
then
it was not yet with names and you
Never named as people do
As they knew one another

I knew you better
Then I have ever known them.
I understood the stillness above the
sky
If never knew the words of men.

Trees were my teachers
Melodious trees
And I learned to love
Among flowers

I grew up in the arms of the gods.

Holderlin

That which ought to live eternally in song must in life perish–Schiller

1 John 3:14

If this last derivation. to humanities" .reluctant return to the underworld ,regressively human quest, remaining only as merely another journey into the abyss, a journey more formidable then any outward expansion to newer and newer open land , then its not that they will be stymied in their efforts, but that within the scope and context of their struggle , they will be met by limitations in recognizing a continuum of laws and identities as available sources of useful energy.

A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than for other people.

Thomas Mann

A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than for other people

To Arc a fellow traveler

Promised an ode about a tree
That I haunted
For many
And it haunted me so o am haunting it
Now and planting the seed of my soul there so that some day
Some far far
Day I or someone haunted like wise

May feel am am anchored
Roots deeply burrowed
Into blackest of earth

Made fertile for immortality
Which is within the now that the tree sings airs
Of eternal song5 (5 stanzas to follow)

And it is for me that she does
And for You

Where is Arminius, until hear of his disposition, can not let his ideas die.