Second Book: The Book of Pilgrimage

Summary

You feel no awe at the storm's rage,

you who have seen it rise.

The trees flee. Their flight beats out

avenued strides.

You know that he from whom they flee

is the same you seek,

and your senses sing, and paean his name,

as you stand behind the pane.

The summer's weeks halt and no longer

drive the trees' blood

but seem to let it fall at last

to the Cause of all.

Midsummer force was tangible

as fruit in your grasp,

but now reclaims the ineffable,

and you — are again the guest.

The summer has been your own house

and your life's drift stayed;

now you must travel out to your heart

as across the plains.

The enormous solitude begins;

the days grow deaf;

your senses lose their world to the wind:

dried leaves reft.

Heaven watches through its empty

branches, the heaven you own;

now be the land it watches over

and evening song.

Be humble as the least thing ripening

towards the real —

daß Der, von dem die Kunde ging,

dich fühlt, wenn er dich greift.

Ich bete wieder, du Erlauchter,

du hörst mich wieder durch den Wind,

weil meine Tiefen niegebrauchter

rauschender Worte mächtig sind.

Ich war zerstreut; an Widersacher

in Stücken war verteilt mein Ich.

O Gott, mich lachten alle Lacher

und alle Trinker tranken mich.

In Höfen hab ich mich gesammelt

aus Abfall und aus altem Glas,

mit halbem Mund dich angestammelt,

dich, Ewiger aus Ebenmaß.

Wie hob ich meine halben Hände

zu dir in namenlosem Flehn,

daß ich die Augen wiederfände,

mit denen ich dich angesehn.