#joseph von eichendorff
Wed, 19 Oct 2016 11:30:26
On the Death of My Child By Joseph von Eichendorff
FROM far the clocks are ticking,
Deep midnight spreads its shade;
The lamp is burning dimly—
Your little bed is made.
Only the winds are wandering
Around the house and moan,
And by the window harking
We sit inside, alone.
It seems as if you gently
Must knock upon the door:
You’d lost your way, and weary
Had wandered home once more!
How pitiful our folly!
We are the ones who roam,
Lost in the dreadful darkness—
You long have found your home.
Margarete Münsterberg, ed., trans. A Harvest of German Verse. 1916.