Traumbild

A dream both strange and sad to see
Once startled and delighted me;
The dismal vision haunts me still,
And in my heart doth wildly thrill.

There was a garden wondrous fair, -
I fain would wander gladly there;
The beauteous flowers upon me gazed,
And high I found my rapture raised.

The birds were twittering above
Their joyous melodies of love;
The sun was red with rays of gold,
The flowers all lovely to behold.

Sweet fragrance all the herbs exhale,
And sweetly, softly blows the gale;
And all things glisten, all things smile,
And show their loveliness the while.

Admit that bright and flowery land
A marble fountain was at hand,
And there I saw a maiden fair
Washing a garment white with care.

Her cheeks were sweet, her eyes were mild,
Fair hair’d and saintly look’d the child,
And as I gazed, she seemed to be
So strange, yet so well known to me.

The beauteous girl, who made all speed,
A song was humming, strange indeed:
“Water, water, quickly run,
let the washing soon be done.”

I went and stood then in her way,
And whisper’d gently: “Prythee say,
Thou maiden sweet and wondrous fair,
For whom dost thou this dress prepare?”

Then spake she quickly: “Ready be!
I’m washing thine own shroud for thee!” –
Scarce let her lips this words let fall,
Like foam the vision vanish’d all.

And still entranced, ere long I stood
Within a desert, gloomy wood:
To reach the skies the branches sought;
I stood amazed and though and thought.

And hark! What hallow echoing sound,
Like axe-strokes fills the air around;
Through waste and wood I speed apace,
Until I reach an open place.

In the green plain before me spread
A mighty oak tree rear’d its head;
And lo! The maiden, strange to see,
Was felling with the axe the tree.

With blow on blow a song she sings,
Unceasing as the axe she swings:
“Iron glittering, iron bright,
hew the oaken chest aright.”

I went and stood then in her way,
And whisper’d gently: “Prythee say,
Thou sweet and wondrous maiden mine,
For whom dost hew the oaken shrine?”

Then spake she quickly: “Time is short,
To hew thy coffin is my sport!” –
Scarce had her lips these words let fall,
Like foam the vision vanish’d all.

Bleak, dim was all above, beneath,
Around was barren, barren heath:
I felt in strange mysterious mood,
And shuddering inwardly I stood.

And as I roam’d on silently,
A whitish streak soon caught my eye;
I hasten’d tow’rd it, and when there,
Behold, I found the maiden fair!

On wide heath stood the snowy maid,
Digging the ground with sexton’s spade;
Scarce dared I gaze on her aright,
So fair yet fearful was the sight.

The beauteous girl, who made all speed,
A song was humming, strange indeed:
“Spade, o spade, so sharp and tried,
dig a pit, both deep and wide.”

I went, and stood then in her way,
And whisper’d gently: “Prythee say,
Thou maiden sweet and wondrous fair,
What means the pit that’s lying there?”

Then spake she quickly: “Silent be!
A cold, cold grave I dig for thee.”
And when the fair maid thus replied,
Its mouth the pit straight opened wide.

And when the pit was full in view,
A chilling shudder pierced me through,
And in the grave so dark and deep
Headlong I fell, and – woke from sleep.

Heinrich Heine, Book of Songs,
translated by Edgar A. Blowring