https://sonett.fontane-place.de/ Tue, 30 Jun 2026 10:37:53 +0000 MyBB https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17659 Mon, 21 Apr 2008 12:53:00 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17659 Two ways of Love

Most love is like a stormy Summer day,
That roars and blusters through the hours of light;
Then, when the slackening sun brings on the night,
Without word spoken, falls and dies away;

Nor is there aught of all its tyrant sway,
Save some few lopped-off boughs, that meets the sight,
And haply some stray bird, struck down in flight;
But all 'tis gone, as if it were not aye.

Yet Love, that's worth the name, is othergate:
Like an October day, more gently fair
And less unstable than the Summer's glare,

It till the night prolongs its sober state;
And when with evening needs it must abate,
Affection's sunset glorifies its air.]]> Two ways of Love

Most love is like a stormy Summer day,
That roars and blusters through the hours of light;
Then, when the slackening sun brings on the night,
Without word spoken, falls and dies away;

Nor is there aught of all its tyrant sway,
Save some few lopped-off boughs, that meets the sight,
And haply some stray bird, struck down in flight;
But all 'tis gone, as if it were not aye.

Yet Love, that's worth the name, is othergate:
Like an October day, more gently fair
And less unstable than the Summer's glare,

It till the night prolongs its sober state;
And when with evening needs it must abate,
Affection's sunset glorifies its air.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17658 Mon, 21 Apr 2008 11:22:11 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17658 Schopenhauer

Thou, that hast weighed the world and found it nil,
That with the sword of thought hast rent apart
The inmost veil from off its quivering heart,
Mething the measure of its good and ill,

And as the leach that seeks to cure or kill,
Hast, to their eyes who shrink not from the smart
Of Truth's untempered, life-offending dart,
Bared all the workings of the wheels of Will;

The butt of brainless witlings who outright
All that's unflattering to their wit uncouth
And gross dull sense reject, - the mere dismay

Of those who fear to see the face of light,
Still in their hearts thou dwellest, come what may,
Who look for leading to the torch of Truth.]]> Schopenhauer

Thou, that hast weighed the world and found it nil,
That with the sword of thought hast rent apart
The inmost veil from off its quivering heart,
Mething the measure of its good and ill,

And as the leach that seeks to cure or kill,
Hast, to their eyes who shrink not from the smart
Of Truth's untempered, life-offending dart,
Bared all the workings of the wheels of Will;

The butt of brainless witlings who outright
All that's unflattering to their wit uncouth
And gross dull sense reject, - the mere dismay

Of those who fear to see the face of light,
Still in their hearts thou dwellest, come what may,
Who look for leading to the torch of Truth.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17657 Mon, 21 Apr 2008 11:13:02 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17657 Dante

When i of poets dream, not Spenser sweet
Nor Hafiz high it is that holds my thought;
Nor Shakespeare, last for crowning wonder wrought;
Nay, in my mind I see Ravenna street

And there, head bowed beneath the noontide heat,
A black-robed dreamer fare, austere and haught,
With eyes turned inward, unregarding aught,
Who no man greeteth and whom none doth greet:

And as he goes, at him the passers-by
Point with scared looks and murmur, "This is he
"Who did hell-fire and purging pains aby.

"Mark but how black his cheeks and temples be!"
Fools, see ye not upon his brows hell's stress
Not only writ, but Heaven's approof no less?]]> Dante

When i of poets dream, not Spenser sweet
Nor Hafiz high it is that holds my thought;
Nor Shakespeare, last for crowning wonder wrought;
Nay, in my mind I see Ravenna street

And there, head bowed beneath the noontide heat,
A black-robed dreamer fare, austere and haught,
With eyes turned inward, unregarding aught,
Who no man greeteth and whom none doth greet:

And as he goes, at him the passers-by
Point with scared looks and murmur, "This is he
"Who did hell-fire and purging pains aby.

"Mark but how black his cheeks and temples be!"
Fools, see ye not upon his brows hell's stress
Not only writ, but Heaven's approof no less?]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17656 Mon, 21 Apr 2008 11:06:22 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17656 Liebestraum

Medreamt I saw Love like a luteplayer
Come carolling to me along the stream.
Bound were his temples with the glad sun's beam
And in his hand he held a dulcimer,

Among whose strings a little wind did stir.
And "Do I wake", to him I said, "or dream?
"And dost thou live, indeed, or only seem?
"Long have I lacked thee, many a weary year."

But he, "Away! I come not now for thee.
"What would you rhymesters with my golden boon,
"Who all things twist into an idle tune?

"Forsooth, for those alone my favours be,
"Who in this round do nothing but my will
"And without thought the world's desire fulfil."]]> Liebestraum

Medreamt I saw Love like a luteplayer
Come carolling to me along the stream.
Bound were his temples with the glad sun's beam
And in his hand he held a dulcimer,

Among whose strings a little wind did stir.
And "Do I wake", to him I said, "or dream?
"And dost thou live, indeed, or only seem?
"Long have I lacked thee, many a weary year."

But he, "Away! I come not now for thee.
"What would you rhymesters with my golden boon,
"Who all things twist into an idle tune?

"Forsooth, for those alone my favours be,
"Who in this round do nothing but my will
"And without thought the world's desire fulfil."]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17655 Mon, 21 Apr 2008 10:58:26 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17655 Mendelssohn

This of the children of the bride-chamber
Was, sure, who mourn not, for the bridegroom yet
With them abideth. Pure of passion's fret,
His song the springs of love and peace doth stir,

Brimming with bliss unmingled heart and ear,
As of the harps before the White Throne set,
That, with their golden jubilance, unlet
Of time, hymn on in heaven's eternal year.

Whilst in this weary world yet hearts there be,
Which forth unto sweet music fain must go,
Still shall his glory fill the lands, though he,

From fret of life and death delivered long,
The rapturous tides of heaven ebb and flow
Feeleth and hearkeneth to the angels' song.]]> Mendelssohn

This of the children of the bride-chamber
Was, sure, who mourn not, for the bridegroom yet
With them abideth. Pure of passion's fret,
His song the springs of love and peace doth stir,

Brimming with bliss unmingled heart and ear,
As of the harps before the White Throne set,
That, with their golden jubilance, unlet
Of time, hymn on in heaven's eternal year.

Whilst in this weary world yet hearts there be,
Which forth unto sweet music fain must go,
Still shall his glory fill the lands, though he,

From fret of life and death delivered long,
The rapturous tides of heaven ebb and flow
Feeleth and hearkeneth to the angels' song.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17654 Mon, 21 Apr 2008 10:50:23 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17654 Haydn

As on one walking in the graves by night
The glad May morning comes at unawares
And the young day, with all its frolic airs
And throstles' song and scent and flower-delight,

Brims up his darkling soul with life and light,
So, in our time, when vain Tchaikowsky tears
Our still-vexed ears and dreary Dvorak shares
With Brahms and Sullivan the dullard might,

Haydn, thine unsophisticaated strain,
Wherein the fields flower and the small birds sing,
Our saddened souls to life and love again

Restores and sets our laggard thought a-wing
To where May-memories fill the heart's inane
With all the happy auspices of Spring.]]> Haydn

As on one walking in the graves by night
The glad May morning comes at unawares
And the young day, with all its frolic airs
And throstles' song and scent and flower-delight,

Brims up his darkling soul with life and light,
So, in our time, when vain Tchaikowsky tears
Our still-vexed ears and dreary Dvorak shares
With Brahms and Sullivan the dullard might,

Haydn, thine unsophisticaated strain,
Wherein the fields flower and the small birds sing,
Our saddened souls to life and love again

Restores and sets our laggard thought a-wing
To where May-memories fill the heart's inane
With all the happy auspices of Spring.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17653 Thu, 17 Apr 2008 19:55:11 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17653 Stéphane Mallarmé

Friend of my youth, with whom I shared the chance
Of life for thirty years in joy and woe,
That hand in hand and heart in heart didst go
With me, though England's I and thou of France,

Thou hast fared on before me, in advance,
Into the mystic seas, to ebb and flow
Of time that answer not nor to and fro
Are shaken of the surge of circumstance.

Brother, farewell! I shall not see thee more;
i know that nevermore, for joy or pain
Our eyes shall meet, our hands shall clasp again;

Yet closelier, I doubt not, than of yore
Our souls shall join in some translunar sphere,
Where never Winter comes nor leaves are sere.]]> Stéphane Mallarmé

Friend of my youth, with whom I shared the chance
Of life for thirty years in joy and woe,
That hand in hand and heart in heart didst go
With me, though England's I and thou of France,

Thou hast fared on before me, in advance,
Into the mystic seas, to ebb and flow
Of time that answer not nor to and fro
Are shaken of the surge of circumstance.

Brother, farewell! I shall not see thee more;
i know that nevermore, for joy or pain
Our eyes shall meet, our hands shall clasp again;

Yet closelier, I doubt not, than of yore
Our souls shall join in some translunar sphere,
Where never Winter comes nor leaves are sere.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17652 Thu, 17 Apr 2008 19:48:52 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17652 Der Tod als Freund
A picture by Alfred Rethel


  rethel-tod-als-freund.jpg (Größe: 52,4 KB / Downloads: 190)

Near is the night of thy long day at hand.
Past is the Past, with all its joy and dole;
Life's mists are lifting from the appointed goal.
The sunset sleeps upon the slumbering land,

A mellow glory fall'n on sea and strand;
And with his hand of bone, Friend Death doth toll
The bell that parleys with the parting soul:
Almost the hour-glass empty is of sand.

Peace over all the landscape lies without
And peace within upon thy quiet end,
Life and its cares forgotten, hope and doubt,

Its storms all fallen stirless. - Heaven send
That, when my sands of life are running out,
Death by my side, as thine, may stand as friend!]]> Der Tod als Freund
A picture by Alfred Rethel


  rethel-tod-als-freund.jpg (Größe: 52,4 KB / Downloads: 190)

Near is the night of thy long day at hand.
Past is the Past, with all its joy and dole;
Life's mists are lifting from the appointed goal.
The sunset sleeps upon the slumbering land,

A mellow glory fall'n on sea and strand;
And with his hand of bone, Friend Death doth toll
The bell that parleys with the parting soul:
Almost the hour-glass empty is of sand.

Peace over all the landscape lies without
And peace within upon thy quiet end,
Life and its cares forgotten, hope and doubt,

Its storms all fallen stirless. - Heaven send
That, when my sands of life are running out,
Death by my side, as thine, may stand as friend!]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17651 Thu, 17 Apr 2008 19:43:00 +0200 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17651 Pan im Gebüsch
a picture by Hans Thoma


  thoma-pan.jpg (Größe: 46,61 KB / Downloads: 168)

What pip'st thou in the twilit thicket, Pan?
What dost thou here in this our day of June,
Thou that, long shut from sight of sun and moon,
Deforcing death's immitigable ban,

Revisitest the haunts and hours of man
And in our woodlands, where the ringdoves croon
Songs sad as life, re-trillst the olden tune
The blue bird fluted when the world began?

Back to thy grave, gray ghost, in Paxos Isle!
There, mid the moan of the Ionian main,
Under the sapphires of the Grecian sky,

All lapt and rounded with the warm sun's smile,
There dream thy dreams of sunny days gone by,
Far from our sad wan world of strife and pain.]]> Pan im Gebüsch
a picture by Hans Thoma


  thoma-pan.jpg (Größe: 46,61 KB / Downloads: 168)

What pip'st thou in the twilit thicket, Pan?
What dost thou here in this our day of June,
Thou that, long shut from sight of sun and moon,
Deforcing death's immitigable ban,

Revisitest the haunts and hours of man
And in our woodlands, where the ringdoves croon
Songs sad as life, re-trillst the olden tune
The blue bird fluted when the world began?

Back to thy grave, gray ghost, in Paxos Isle!
There, mid the moan of the Ionian main,
Under the sapphires of the Grecian sky,

All lapt and rounded with the warm sun's smile,
There dream thy dreams of sunny days gone by,
Far from our sad wan world of strife and pain.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17440 Sun, 28 Oct 2007 11:59:24 +0100 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17440
THIS is the glamour of the world antique ;
The thyme-scents of Hymettus fill the air,
And in the grass narcissus-cups are fair.
The full brook wanders through the ferns to seek
The amber haunts of bees ; and on the peak
Of the soft hill, against the gold-marged sky,
She stands, a dream from out the days gone by.
Entreat her not. Indeed, she will not speak !
Her eyes are full of dreams ; and in her ears
There is the rustle of immortal wings ;
And ever and anon the slow breeze bears
The mystic murmur of the songs she sings.
Entreat her not : she sees thee not, nor hears
Aught but the sights and sounds of bygone springs.]]>
THIS is the glamour of the world antique ;
The thyme-scents of Hymettus fill the air,
And in the grass narcissus-cups are fair.
The full brook wanders through the ferns to seek
The amber haunts of bees ; and on the peak
Of the soft hill, against the gold-marged sky,
She stands, a dream from out the days gone by.
Entreat her not. Indeed, she will not speak !
Her eyes are full of dreams ; and in her ears
There is the rustle of immortal wings ;
And ever and anon the slow breeze bears
The mystic murmur of the songs she sings.
Entreat her not : she sees thee not, nor hears
Aught but the sights and sounds of bygone springs.]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17439 Sun, 28 Oct 2007 11:58:41 +0100 ZaunköniG]]> https://sonett.fontane-place.de/showthread.php?tid=17439
SHALL he not bless me ? will he never speak
Those words of proud concession, 'Let me go
For the day breaketh ! Wearily and slow
The shrouded hours troop past across the peak,
Eastering ; and I, with hands grown all too weak
And strength that would have failed me long ago,
But for the set soul, strain to overthrow
The instant God. Alas ! 'tis I that speak-
Not Jacob I that in this night of days
Do wrestle with the angel Art, till breath
And gladness fail me ! Yet the stern soul stays
And will not loose him till he bless me ay,
Even though the night defer my victory
Until the day break on the dawn of death.]]>
SHALL he not bless me ? will he never speak
Those words of proud concession, 'Let me go
For the day breaketh ! Wearily and slow
The shrouded hours troop past across the peak,
Eastering ; and I, with hands grown all too weak
And strength that would have failed me long ago,
But for the set soul, strain to overthrow
The instant God. Alas ! 'tis I that speak-
Not Jacob I that in this night of days
Do wrestle with the angel Art, till breath
And gladness fail me ! Yet the stern soul stays
And will not loose him till he bless me ay,
Even though the night defer my victory
Until the day break on the dawn of death.]]>