SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS - Poems To The Wretches Hearts

Thou, Whose Face Hath Felt The Winter's Wind

O thou, whose face hath felt the winter's wind, 
whose eyes has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist, 
and the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars, 
to thee the spring will be a harvest time. 

O thou, whose only book has been the light 
of supreme darkness which thou feddest on 
night after night when phaebus was away, 
to thee the spring shall be a triple morn. 

O fret not after knowledge - i have none, 
and yet my song comes native with the warmth. 
O fret not after knowledge - i have none, 
and yet the evening listens. 

He who saddens at thought of idleness cannot be idle, 
and he's awake who thinks himself asleep. 

O thou who bent in all the autumn-storms, 
like the trees at the moor amidst the woeful winds. 
To thy wretched heart the spring shall be a triple morn - alas! 
I still long for it!

Grimme Pain

I bleed - the blade's been sharpened, 
the wounds have been cut deep, 
whilst thou weavest thy carpet and lests the heavens weep.

Discouraged hearts thou makest, 
bringest the wretches woe, 
and those that thou forsakest in thee have found a foe.

Tristesse consumes the lands 
- grey! - 
thou paintest life on earth, and those thou hast consumed, 
pray: O give to winter birth!


Gar schauderlich und heulend pfeift der Wind - und sonst nur Stille. 
Die Sonne sinkt, kein Licht durch Nebel dringt - mit ihr mein Wille. 

Endlose Heiden die Schleier tief verhüllen - ein Niemandsland. 
Trostlose Seiten mein Herz mit Gram erfüllen - am Weltenrand. 

Ein Grau in Grau der Welten Angesicht - entschwund'nes Hoffen. 
Die Bäume stehen im Nebel dicht an dicht - im Leid getroffen. 

Da steh ich nun, im Niemandsland verloren und klar empfunden, 
der grimme Herbst er hat mich auserkoren - in mich gefunden.