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A SONG FOR TWO IN THE NIGHT

 (1825)

_She_. How soft the night wind strokes the meadow grasses

And, breathing music, through the woodland passes!

Now that the upstart day is dumb,

One hears from the still earth a whispering throng

Of forces animate, with murmured song

Joining the zephyrs' well-attunèd hum.

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_He_. I catch the tone from wondrous voices brimming,

Which sensuous on the warm wind drifts to me,

While, streaked with misty light uncertainly,

The very heavens in the glow are swimming.

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_She_. The air like woven fabric seems to wave,

Then more transparent and more lustrous groweth;

Meantime a muted melody outgoeth

From happy fairies in their purple cave.

To sphere-wrought harmony

Sing they, and busily

The thread upon their silver spindles floweth.

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_He_. Oh lovely night! how effortless and free

O'er samite black-though green by day--thou movest!

And to the whirring music that thou lovest

Thy foot advances imperceptibly.

Thus hour by hour thy step doth measure--

In trancèd self-forgetful pleasure

Thou'rt rapt; creation's soul is rapt with thee!
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By Eduard Mörike (1804-1875) Set by Hugo Wolf (1860-1903) , “Der Feuerreiter”, from Mörike-Lieder, no. 44. Translation © by Emily Ezust, from The Lied & Art Song Texts Page.

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Der Feuerreiter

Do you see at the window

there again, that red cap?

Something must be the matter

for it is going up and down.

And what a sudden mob

is now by the bridge near the field!

Hark! the fire-bell is shrilling:

beyond the hill,

beyond the hill,

there's a fire in the mill!

Look, there he goes, galloping furiously

through the gate - it's the fire-rider

on his horse, a bony nag

like a fire-ladder!

Across the fields, through the smoke and heat

he plunges, and he's already reached his goal!

Over there the bells are pealing,

beyond the hill,

beyond the hill,

there's a fire in the mill!

You who so often smelled fire

from a mile off,

and with a fragment of the holy cross

maliciously conjured the blaze -

Woe! from the rafters there grins

the Enemy of Man in hellish light.

May God have mercy on your soul!

Beyond the hill,

beyond the hill,

he is raging in the mill!

Not an hour had passed

before the mill was reduced to rubble;

but the bold rider

from that hour was never seen again.

People and wagons in crowds

turn toward home away from all the horror;

and the bell stops ringing:

beyond the hill,

beyond the hill,

it's burning!

Later a miller found

a skeleton together with the cap

upright against the wall of the cellar

sitting on the mare of bone:

Fire-rider, how coolly

you ride now to your grave!

Hush! there it falls to ashes.

Rest well,

rest well,

down there in the mill!

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Written by EDUARD MÖRIKE in 1828.

Translation: Charles Wharton Stork

“Früh im Wagen”

The morning frost shines gray

Along the misty field

Beneath the pallid way

Of early dawn revealed.

Amid the glow one sees

The day-star disappear;

Yet o'er the western trees

The moon is shining clear.

So, too, I send my glance

On distant scenes to dwell;

I see in torturing trance

The night of our farewell.

Blue eyes, a lake of bliss,

Swim dark before my sight,

Thy breath, I feel, thy kiss;

I hear thy whispering light.

My cheek upon thy breast

The streaming tears bedew,

Till, purple-black, is cast

A veil across my view.

The sun comes out; he glows,

And straight my dreams depart,

While from the cliffs he throws

A chill across my heart.

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Arthur Hughes

by Eduard Mörike (1804-1875)

Set by Hugo Wolf (1860-1903) , “An die Geliebte”, from Mörike-Lieder, no. 32. Translation copyright © by Emily Ezust, from The Lied & Art Song Texts Page

An die Geliebte

When, from the deep calm I feel at seeing your image,

I mutely take delight in your high worth,

then I properly hear the gentle breathing

of the angel that is disguised within you.

And an astounded, questioning smile springs

to my lips, as I wonder: isn't it a deceiving dream,

that now, in you, to my eternal pleasure,

my boldest wish - my only wish - is fulfilled?

To the depths then to the depths my senses fall;

I hear in the nocturnal distance of divinity

the melodious roaring of the stream of fate.

Dazed, I turn my eyes then upwards,

toward the heavens, and there all the stars are smiling;

I kneel to listen to their song of light.

Eduard Mörike, 1824