Gedichte

Maxwell Parish (????-????):
Aircastles (Ausschnitt)

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WILLIAM ALLINGHAM (1824-1889)
THE FAIRIES

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleaseure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As to dig one up in spite,
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!

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EMILIY DICKINSON (1830-1886)
CHERRYTIME

When I sound the fairy call,
Gather here in silent meeting,
Chin to knee on the orchard wall,
Cooled with dew and cherries eating.
Merry, merry,
Take a cherry;
Mine are sounder,
Mine are rounder,
Mine are sweeter.
For the eater
When the dews fall.
And you'll be fairies all.

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HEINRICH HEINE (1797-1856)
DIE ELFEN

Durch den Wald im Mondenscheine
sah ich jüngst die Elfen reiten;
ihre Hörner hört´ich klingen,
ihre Glöckchen hört´ich läuten

Ihre weißen Rößlein trugen
güldnes Hirschgewei und flogen
rasch dahin wie wilde Schwäne
Kam es durch die Luft gezogen

Lächelnd nickt mir die Kön´gin,
lächelnd im Vorüberreiten.
Galt das meiner neuen Liebe,
oder soll es Tod bedeuten?

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Sir Frank Dicksee: La Belle Dame sans Merci

JOHN KEATS (1795-1821)
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

I
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

II
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

III
I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

IV
I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful, a faery's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

V
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery's song.

VI
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

VII
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
I love thee true.

VIII
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gaz'd and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes -
So kiss'd to sleep.

IX
And there we slumber'd on the moss,
And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dream'd
On the cold hill side.

X
I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cry'd - 'La Belle Dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!'

XI
I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill side.

XII
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

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EDUARD MÖRIKE (1804-1875 )
ELLENLIED

Bei Nacht im Dorf der Wächter rief:
Elfe!
Ein ganz kleines Elfchen im Walde schlief -
Wohl um die Elfe! -
Und meint, es rief ihm aus dem Tal
Bei seinem Namen die Nachtigall,
Oder Silpelit haett ihm gerufen.
Reibt sich der Elf die Augen aus,
Begibt sich vor sein Schneckenhaus,
Und ist als wie ein trunken Mann,
Sein Schlaeflein war nicht voll getan,
Und humpelt also tippe tapp
Durchs Haselholz ins Tal hinab,
Schlupft an der Mauer hin so dicht,
Da sitzt der Glühwurm, Licht an Licht.
"Was sind das helle Fensterlein?
Da drin wird eine Hochzeit sein:
Die Kleinen sitzen beim Mahle,
Und treibens in dem Saale.
Da guck ich wohl ein wenig 'nein!"
- Pfui, stoesst den Kopf an harten Stein!
Elfe, gelt, du hast genug?
Gukuk! Gukuk!

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CHRISTIAN MORGENSTERN (1871-19149)
DER ZWÖLFELF

Der Zwölf-Elf hebt die linke Hand:
Da schlägt es Mitternacht im Land.
Es lauscht der Teich mit offnem Mund
Ganz leise heult der Schluchtenhund.
Die Dommel reckt sich auf im Rohr
Der Moosfrosch lugt aus seinem Moor.
Der Schneck horcht auf in seinem Haus
Desgleichen die Kartoffelmaus.
Das Irrlicht selbst macht Halt und Rast
auf einem windgebrochnen Ast-
Sophie, die Maid, hat ein Gesicht:
Das Mondschaf geht zum Hochgericht.
Die Galgenbrüder wehn im Wind.
Im fernen Dorfe schreit ein Kind.
Zwei Maulwürf küssen sich zur Stund
als Neuvermählte auf den Mund.
Hingegen tief im finstern Wald
ein Nachtmahr seine Fäuste ballt:
Dieweil ein später Wanderstrumpf
sich nicht verlief in Teich und Sumpf.
Der Rabe Ralf ruft schaurig: ,Kra!
Das End ist da! Das End ist da!'
Der Zwölf-Elf senkt die linke Hand:
Und wieder schläft das ganze Land.
Das Problem
Der Zwölf-Elf kam auf sein Problem
und sprach: "Ich heisse unbequem.
Als hiess ich etwa Drei-Vier
statt Sieben - Gott verzeih mir!"
Und siehe da, der Zwölf-Elf nannt sich
von jenem Tag ab Dreiundzwanzig.

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John Atkinson Grimshaw: Iris

HEINRICH SEIDEL (1842-1902)
DIE ELFE

Nächtlich bei des Mondes Schimmer,
Wenn der Wind schläft in den Wipfeln,
Tanzt die wunderschöne Elfe
Auf dem stillen, schilfumgebnen
Wasserrosenteich im Walde.
Nimmer dringt in diese Gründe
Nur ein Hauch des Menschendaseins!
Selbst der Glocke weithinhallend
Klanggeton stirbt versummend
In dem weiten Meer der Wipfel.
Und es steht der Wald im Lauschen
Auf das eigne Schweigen lautlos.
Und die wunderschöne Elfe
Wiegt sich über stillem Wasser
Wie ein schimmernd Duftgebilde,
Dass das leuchtend helle Goldhaar
Um die weissen Glieder wallet.
Breitend ihre schönen Arme
Schwebt sie ob dem dunklen Grunde,
Wie ein lieblicher Gedanke

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WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616)
IF YOU SEE A FAERY RING

If you see a faery ring
In a field of grass,
Very lightly step around,
Tip-toe as you pass,
Last night faeries frolicked there-
And they're sleeping somewhere near.
If you see a tiny faery,
Lying fast asleep
Shut your eyes
And run away,
Do not stay to peek!
Do not tell
Or you'll break a faery spell.

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(UNBEKANNT)
HERE WE COME A-PIPING

Here we come a-piping,
In springtime and in May;
Green fruit a-ripening,
And Winter fled away.
The Queen she sits upon the strand,
Fair as lily, white as wand;
Seven billows on the sea,
Horses riding fast and free,
And bells beyond the sand.

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LEIGH HUNT (1784-1859)
SONG OF FAIRIES ROBBING AN ORCHARD

We, the Fairies, blithe and antic,
Of dimensions not gigantic,
Though the moonshine mostly keep us,
Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.

Stolen sweets are always sweeter,
Stolen kisses much completer,
Stolen looks are nice in chapels,
Stolen, stolen, be your apples.

When to bed the world are bobbing,
Then's the time for orchard-robbing;
Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling,
Were it not for stealing, stealing.

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JOHN LYLY (1554-1606)
BY THE MOON WE SPORT AND PLAY

By the moon we sport and play,
With the night begins our day,
As we dance the dew doth fall:
Trip it, little urchins all!
Two by two, and three by three,
And about go we, and about go we!

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Florence Anderson: Fairy and Wesp

KATHERINE MANSFIELD (1888-1923)
THE OPAL DREAM CAVE

In an opal dream cave I found a fairy:
Her wings were frailer than flower petals,
Frailer far than snowflakes.
She was not frightened, but poised on my finger,
Then delicately walked into my hand.
I shut the two palms of my hands together
And held her prisoner.
I carried her out of the opal cave,
Then opened my hands.
First she became thistledown, Then a mote in a sunbeam,
Then--nothing at all.
Empty now is my opal dream cave.

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EDGAR ALLAN POE (1809-1849)
FAIRY-LAND

Dim vales- and shadowy floods-
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over!
Huge moons there wax and wane-
Again- again- again-
Every moment of the night-
Forever changing places-
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial,
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down- still down- and down,
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain's eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be-
O'er the strange woods- o'er the sea-
Over spirits on the wing-
Over every drowsy thing-
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light-
And then, how deep!- O, deep!
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like- almost anything-
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before-
Videlicet, a tent-
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again,
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.

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Brian Froud: Wild Crouch

DORA SIGERSON SHORTER (1866-1918)
THE WIND ON THE HILLS

Go not to the hills of Erin
When the night winds are about;
Put up your bar and shutter
And so keep the danger out.

For the good-folk whirl within it,
And they pull you by the hand,
And they push you on the shoulder,
Till you move to their command.

And lo! you have forgotten
What you have known of tears,
And you will not remember
That the world goes full of years:

A year there is a lifetime
And a second but a day;
And an older world will meet you
Each morn you come away.

Your wife grows old with weeping,
And your children one by one
Grow gray with nights of watching,
Before your dance is done.

And it will chance some morning
You will come home no more;
Your wife sees but a withered leaf
In the wind about the door.

And your children will inherit
The unrest of the wind;
They shall seek some face elusive,
And some land they never find.

When the wind is loud, they sighing
Go with hearts unsatisfied,
For some joy beyond remembrance,
For some memory denied.

And all your children's children,
They cannot sleep or rest,
When the wind is out in Erin
And the sun is in the West.

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PERCY BYSHE SHELLEY (1792-1822)
HYMN OF PAN

From the forests and the highlands
We come , We come;
From the river girt islands,
Where loud waves are dumb
Listening to my sweet pipings.
The wind in the reeds and the rushes
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,
The cicale above in the lime,
and lizards below in in the grass,
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,
Listening to my sweet pipings.

The Seleni, and Sylvans, and Fauns,
And the Nymphs of the woods and the waves,
To the edge of the moist river lawns.
And the brink of the dewy caves,
And all that did then attend and follow,
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,
With envy of my sweet pipings.
I sang of the dancing stars,
I sang of the Daedal earth,
And of Heaven- and the giant wars,
And Love and Death, and Birth!

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