Margarete Münsterberg, ed., trans. A Harvest of German Verse. 1916.
By Song of the Blue ThrushJoseph Victor Widmann (18421911)
O
I must be gone, my heart is ill.
But, dearest world, before I go,
My life’s last thanks, oh, take thou still.
I was not at the very start.
Yet round me waved the light and air,
When once a prison broke apart.
Until this twilight sank to-day,
And you were daily fair and new,
And I was young and I was gay.
My breast would rise in joyful song,
And there was joy in busy toil:
The longest day was not too long.
And hung it on the steep cliff-side.
One early morn my flight I made
Away into the world so wide.
When once, on such a flight in spring,
In answer to my fairest lay,
I first heard love’s sweet echoing.
And helped our lives at last unfold.
And even care that often came
Would give us but a stronger hold.
E’en what in pain I scarce could brook?
The serpent crept into our nest!
The falcon wild my life-mate took!
My youthful brood, soon came the day
When all had left, away to fare
And their own courage to essay.
And many a gloomy night passed by
When all my heart would beat in fright,
For murder tracked me on the sly.
’Twas after all but full of woe!
Now that I feel it pass away,
It showers over me a glow.
And now must go—my heart is ill—
And now I shall not be at all—
Oh, lovely world—thanks—thank you, still—