Fall.
Exhausted life
clothed in fog,
love’s magic forgotten.
Golden rye.
Here and there little raised heads
of stiffened cornflowers—
with ashen blueness
blueing still.
They’re so weak,
crushed—no one glories
in them, no one plucks them,
bands of feet only trample them.
Gray meadows.
Damp vales
sigh mists.
And between them wind
the stripped rows of rye
at which peer the young shoots—
the newly born
sprouts of future life.
Twilight.
Shadows slink on the fields,
as if seeking the enchantment
that was here in summer.
Not finding it
they sow hoarfrost all around.
Now the village is sprinkled with little fires,
only at one cottage
no one ignites the kindling.
By the window stands the mother,
gazing thoughtfully into the distance.
There, into the all swallowing
dusk, the carts appear,
quietly rocking.
The mother steps aside,
the daughter approaches.
She’s all adorned—
with garlands of rue on her head,
loosened braids
amber enchaining
her young breasts.
Only there is no fire in her eyes—
Tears extinguished it.
And her bosom swells
so restlessly, as if heaving from
pain.
The matchmakers came—
a wealthy young man had visited
from a distant farm.
But for her right here,
in her birthplace village is her sweetheart.
With him in midsummer’s
harvest
she sings songs,
weaves a veil of dreams;
with him in early spring
she scatters echoes in the green woods;
plaits a garland of golden leaves
in the autumn.
Her mother chatters:
--There you will be in charge, together,
and here from work,
from hardship
your white hands will blacken,
your rosy cheeks will pale, the way thin linens pale
from cold dew.
The maiden heard.
Revolting is her mother’s chatter.
Each word piles
stones on her heart.
And she feels so clearly—
in her is concealed love’s secret,
she is serenaded
by love’s eternal song,
she is like the lily’s goblet,
when it
is buffeted by the slightest wind.
The maiden’s glance falls
on the late evening fog.
Do these mists of autumn
murmur songs of love?
And the dews of spring?
And suddenly!
Glowing maiden.
She’s—the flame of love.
She found an answer—
Mother mine,
dear old one!
The dear dew is bedding,
The sweet fog is covering.
