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Emanuel Geibel:
Ich sah den Wald sich färben
Ich sah den Wald sich färben,
Die Luft war grau und stumm;
Mir war betrübt zum Sterben
Und wußt' es kaum, warum.
Durchs Feld vom Herbstgestäude
Hertrieb das dürre Laub;
Da dacht' ich: deine Freude
Ward so des Windes Raub.
Dein Lenz, der blütenvolle,
Dein reicher Sommer schwand;
An die gefrorne Scholle
Bist du nun festgebannt.
Da plötzlich floß ein klares
Getön in Lüften hoch:
Ein Wandervogel war es,
Der nach dem Süden zog.
Ach, wie der Schlag der Schwingen,
Das Lied ins Ohr mir kam,
Fühlt' ich's wie Trost mir dringen
Zum Herzen wundersam.
Es mahnt' aus heller Kehle
Mich ja der flücht'ge Gast:
Vergiß, o Menschenseele,
Nicht, daß du Flügel hast.
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Emanuel Geibel:
I saw the forest staining
I saw the forest staining,
the air was mum and grey;
Sad was my spirit, waning,
but why I could not say.
Through fields, from shrubs of autumn,
the dried-up leaves were blown:
So wind had robbed my bosom
and all my joy had gone.
My spring, so full of flowers,
my summer, full of mirth,
had vanished, and my powers
had frozen to the earth.
A voice of jubilation
sounds sudden in the skies:
A bird on its migration
to Southern climate flies.
Oh, when I hear the beating
of wings, the song so free,
I feel a solace meeting
my heart exquisitely,
because its fleeting visit
to me so clearly sings:
Remember, human spirit,
the fact that you have wings!
Alright, once more I have to beg your pardon. I know, Geibel says "Your spring" instead of "My spring" - and I perpetrated that shift thrice in one stanza (plus some temporal shifts in others).
A poet addressing himself - or his fate or alter ego admonishing or advising him - seems much more common in German than in English. The split teutonic soul, I guess. There is little doubt in the German text who says what to whom but, when literally translated into English, the reader might justifiedly wonder whether the poet had perhaps had a companion.
But enough of lame excuses. As penitence I'll include a link here to Thomas Hardy's The Darkling Thrush . Why? Because the situation is so similar: The poet, out in the woods and, as befits a poet, full of doom and gloom in the dying season, is being confronted by the enthusiastic song of a bird. Birds do that, in German and in English.
The reaction is interesting and telling. Geibel fullheartedly embraces the inspiration, he takes it inside. Hardy remains analytical, aloof. He can't bring himself to believe the good news. Geibel's reaction is that of a typical German romantic; Hardy's that of a sad and knowing master of his craft. At least, that's the way I read it. Not that there ever are rights and wrongs in such matters - all that there are, are different personalities - but it occurs to me - translators have personalities, too, even if they are not supposed to! - that Hardy may have had a point. Or prescience: He penned the poem just fourteen years before the great slaughter of the First World War.
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