Mnemosyne

By Friedrich Holderlin

Homecoming

It is still bright night in the Alps, and a cloud, 

Authoring joyfulness, covers the yawning valley. 

Playful mountain breezes rush and toss about, and a ray 

Of light shines abruptly through the firs and disappears. 

Chaos, quivering with joy, hurries slowly to do battle. 

Young in form, yet strong, it celebrates a loving quarrel 

Among the cliffs. It ferments and shakes within its eternal 

Limits, for the morning accelerates in ecstatic dance. 

The year advances more rapidly out there, and the holy hours, 

The days, are more boldly ordered and mixed. 

A storm bird marks the time, and stays high in the air 

Between the mountains, announcing the day. 

Now the little village awakens down below. Fearless, 

Familiar with the heights, it peers up beyond the treetops. 

It senses the growth, for the ancient streams fall like lightning, 

And the ground yields fine mists under the crashing waters. 

Echo resounds, and the vast workplace flexes its arm, 

Sending forth its gifts, by day and by night. 

Peaks of silver shine silently above, 

And the sparkling snow is full of roses. 

Still higher above the light lives the god, pure 

And holy, pleased with the divine play of light beams. 

He lives there quietly and alone: his face is bright. 

At home in the ether he seems ready to grant life 

And create joy for us. Gradually and sparingly, 

Remembering the necessity for moderation and the needs 

Of the living, he sends true happiness to the cities 

And houses, and mild rains to open the countryside, 

And soft breezes and gentle seasons of spring. 

With a gentle hand he cheers the saddened, 

Renews the seasons, the creative one, refreshes 

And touches the quiet hearts of the elderly. 

Down into the deep his influence extends: it 

Reveals and illumines, just as he pleases. 

And now life begins again. Gracefulness 

Flourishes as it did before, and the Spirit 

Is present and approaches, and a joyful 

Disposition fills its wings. 

I had much to say to him, for whatever poets think 

Or sing about is addressed mainly to him and his angels. 

I asked him for much, out of love to the Fatherland, 

So the Spirit wouldn't suddenly fall upon us unbidden. 

I prayed much for you too, my landspeople, who have cares 

Inside the Fatherland: to whom holy gratitude, smiling, brings 

Back the exiles. At the same time the lake rocked my boat, 

And the steersman sat quietly and approved our journey. 

Far on the lake's surface joyous waves surged under the sails, 

And now the city rises brightly in the early morning, 

And our boat came well guided from the shaded Alps 

To rest in the harbor. Here the shore is warm 

And the open valleys are friendly, brightened by 

Beautiful pathways, flourishing and shining toward me. 

Gardens lie round about, bright buds open, the song of birds 

Welcomes the wanderer. Everything seems familiar; 

Even people passing by greet each other as if they were 

Friends, and every face appears like kin. 

But of course, this is the land of your birth, the soil 

Of your own country: what you seek is close by and 

Rises to meet you. The traveller stands before you, 

O happy Lindau, surrounded by waves, like a son 

At your door affectionately singing your praises. 

This is a welcoming gate to the nation, inviting you 

To travel forth into the distance, a place of promises 

And miracles, where the Rhine, like a mythological 

Animal, breaks its way downwards into the plains, 

And the jubilant valley leads through the bright 

Mountains toward Como, or off toward the open sea 

In the direction of the sun. But the sacred 

Gateway prompts me to go on home instead, 

Where the busy highways are familiar to me, 

To visit the countryside and beautiful valleys 

Of the Neckar, and the forests, where godlike green 

Oak and beech trees and silent birches gather, and 

A friendly spot in the mountains still holds me captive. 

Dear friends are there to welcome me. 

O voice of the city, voice of my mother! 

You touch and awaken what I learned long ago. 

But it's really them: sun and joy shine for you, 

My dear ones, almost brighter than ever in your eyes. 

Yes, it's still the same. It thrives and ripens, 

For nothing that lives and loves relinquishes loyalty. 

Best of all, this treasure, which rests under the arch 

Of holy peace, is reserved for young and old alike. 

I speak foolishly. It's pure joy. But tomorrow 

And after, when we go out and view the living fields, 

When the trees are blossoming on Spring holidays, 

I'll speak and share my hopes with you, dear friends. 

I've heard much about our great Father, but I've said 

Nothing. He renews passing time above in the heights, 

And he reigns over mountains. He'll soon bestow heavenly 

Gifts and call for brighter song and send many good spirits. 

Come, you preservers! Angels of the year! And you, 

Angels of the house, come! May the power of Heaven spread 

Through all the veins of life, ennobling and invigorating 

And dispensing joy! So that joyful angels attend upon 

Human goodness every hour of the day, and that 

Such joy as I experience now, when loved ones 

Are properly reunited, be suitably sanctified. 

When we bless the meal, upon whom shall I call, 

And when we rest after the day's activity, tell me, 

How will I offer thanks? Should I call the Highest by name? 

A god doesn't like what is inappropriate. Maybe our joy 

Isn't big enough to grasp him. We must often remain silent, 

A sacred language is missing — hearts are beating and yet 

Speech can't emerge? But the sound of string music 

Resonates hour by hour, and perhaps that pleases 

The approaching gods. Begin the music, and the worries 

Almost vanish which would have affected our joy. 

Willingly or not, poets must often concern themselves 

With such things, but not with others. 

* * *

Mnemosyne 

The fruits are ripe, dipped in fire,

Cooked and sampled on earth. And there's a law,

That things crawl off in the manner of snakes,

Prophetically, dreaming on the hills of heaven.

And there is much that needs to be retained,

Like a load of wood on the shoulders.

But the pathways are dangerous.

The captured elements and ancient laws of earth

Run astray like horses. There is a constant yearning

For all that is unconfined. But much needs

To be retained. And loyalty is required.

Yet we mustn't look forwards or backwards.

We should let ourselves be cradled

As if on a boat rocking on a lake.

But what about things that we love?

We see sun shining on the ground, and the dry dust,

And at home the forests deep with shadows,

And smoke flowering from the rooftops,

Peacefully, near the ancient crowning towers.

These signs of daily life are good,

Even when by contrast something divine

Has injured the soul.

For snow sparkles on an alpine meadow,

Half-covered with green, signifying generosity

Of spirit in all situations, like flowers in May —

A wanderer walks up above on a high trail

And speaks irritably to a friend about a cross

He sees in the distance, set for someone

Who died on the path... what does it mean?

My Achilles

Died near a fig tree,

And Ajax lies in the caves of the sea

Near the streams of Skamandros —

Great Ajax died abroad

Following Salamis' inflexible customs,

A rushing sound at his temples —

But Patroclus died in the King's armor.

Many others died as well.

But Eleutherai, the city

Of Mnemosyne, once stood upon

Mount Kithaeron. Evening

Loosened her hair, after the god

Had removed his coat.

For the gods are displeased

If a person doesn't compose

And spare himself. 

But one has to do it, 

And grief is soon gone.