O brown heath! breadth, solitude in golden, golden sunshine!
The growth of old spears! the fine scent of blonde, slender birches!
And all the glory of space, without man or house!
I love your birds, who whistle in your bushes,
Or jubilantly shoot up to the distant blue ….
I love your flowers, not touched by human hands,
Who bloom colorful and clean, in colorful splendor.
Thy pools, where the depths sing strangely of fairy tales
And royal and cool the swan-flower blooms ….
Thy clouds, silver towers like from afar, great cities,
Which usher in autumn with its rain and winter with its snow;
Then drive on you, my heathen cut off their wild riders,
And close caps and fill swamps,
Then thy being is wild, the storm thy cruel freer,
And the roar of thy old trees winter’s love.
But now! oh breadth, solitude in golden, golden sunshine!
Now you are a silent temple. . . give my heart rest. . .
A small wind blows over the green fins. . .
And high in the sky blue less enjoy the clouds;
A miracle! look in the West, quietly
clears the kym , Forreind and tear, so walks still one last twinkle
Of distant sun slowly over my quiet heath,
Thus it is evening. . . to day his being night his dream.
The moon climbs. . . the little wind is gone. . .
In immovability stood ‘reed and snill still
Ready in the deep waters.—
Now you, my heathen! again a temple, there came a heap,
Each went with his own sorrow and prayed. . . but dumb. . .
Deep beneath the earth they rest, their stone weapons,
That sleep at hand, that became dust.
How often have they seen thee, heathen also in summer, Even
when the autumn storm howls over the plain;
They no longer hear it, their world is different now,
But oh! the immortal longing for the earth remained!
Sad, wild — a whip, who rules her whole heart.
They have walked the lonely path that brings them to life,
As if they had once gone out old and
wary, For ages, from whose shadow world history fades,
And over the way of death their light soles softly slip …. Thus
they return, you, loneliness, you are still their kingdom!
They float over your pools, golden in flowers. . . .
Over the oak-forest, where their deity once dwelt I heard
, sims still singing songs to me,
Oh far, very far, but still full of sound and color!
Their speed of life, stripped of the dusty
garment It still shivers over your silent pools in autumn;
Then the reed-cloth cries, The rain sows with great hands
The screaming water from the cloud-seed,
And throws it on the toasty, brittle heather sand.
Then comes the storm, the howler from the North-West,
And hauls in you, a horse, cruel from bite ….
And that! then a silence grows to the wild,
A silence, such as the heart does not know without tears.
And in that silence new summers are born
And sunny days, which – like great golden flowers –
Crawl through the garden of human life.
So come on. . . goes all. . . as to the one tree the fruit
As the being of the only man on earth,
Who were before him, made him. . . and he
He holds the fate of generations back to him
In hands. . . as a child ….
What toys ….
Date, it was a dreamer …. The heathen had made him so, the brown, glorious, and the beautiful summer skies that drifted over there and the spruce bushes, which were so silent and him only so bulte told.
No one would ever know what was going on inside him. At home with fathers in the heath-house, where the wind came through the seams pipe and the snowflakes through the chimney and on the fire of sheared towers, there he called an apartment one, a pillar, a wick under the mosques was there. Then he stepped with his long legs to Grandma’s, to old Feick, where he found hail. There he got loaves of bread with sherbet and buckwheat groats with lollipops, there they fed him bits and pieces with the sweet cow of poetry and there he tarred for weeks. Then they talked about old times and what was going on here in these regions and as a grandmother just started from; “Our grandfather had to say,” Date knew otherwise. Then he sat down by the fire to pluck for Lútsen the shoemaker, and Grandma got the sheepskin coats up and put the prime in the bridle, but of course,
She told! and hands away oh people! the old room changed before Date’s eyes in a castle or in a large forest or in a hiding place, where ten men sat to drink with beads around their shoulders and horns on their heads or in a very small house of mirror glass with gold floors and silver lamps, dwarfs attached to it. Of all things she knew, a treasure of poetry she had accumulated in the yellow of her heart, and the region in which she was mistaken was so rich in sayings and tales and old tales, that she could talk all night and then she knew much more.
Oh how those children have listened to all the love from ancient times! And when Grandma had it about the dead and the bad guys and the witches, the bigwigs and the forearms, then the gray robbed him over the groove and Grandma had to take him home with him.
Then they walked together the lonely heath paths and the sandy road through the spruce forest of Wychman Hoara and when the beautiful light moon was like now, the heath was not quiet for him and without noise, but full of people. He saw it as clear as day. . . they were there a set, they ate, they drank, they loved, and they died, and under great heaps of stones they buried their head. . . one american was silent there, then others came and did as the first ones and were also silent again and so it has been for centuries now.
Then he became silent under it. . . and ho-t grandmother and he only saw such. And so he learned to know what grief is.
And now Grandma was gone. . . . It was a Sunday and he was sitting on the road, who was taking off his father’s home, and then he had his face on Grandma’s house, it was as brown as the heath itself hiding behind some old birches like a blistering old face. after a great cape. The ground rose a little and the bright sandy spots in the heath glistened like silver in the sun and bright, the glowing light on the red old rich facade faded. The windows were closed, the green shutters with those little hearts in them covered only half of the glass, I could hardly see the blue curtains hanging in front of the glasses. Date knew it, there were a hundred stops put in, but it looked bad only up close, there at the crusaders. the old cat streaked around the door, then she gave up and came meowing way across the country to fathers and roamed him around the feet.
Oh, and how small she was, the human figure there in that great, wide, glorious space around her, where the summer had laid a brown purple robe over it and the warm sun shone above! They hung all out of the lead, and one foot did not want to go with them either, which is why father so often cut a best oak stick for them out of the walls; she had prepared her with the people of John Rikeles in the region. It was some of those executioners who were chasing the mark out of the bones, Dad said. She usually wore an old five-piece jacket and one with a low neck, summers and winters alike, and a red handkerchief with green and red roses. And Date always said it all over again: Grandma’s neck was so thin, there was almost no meat left, all skin and bones, just like the head with those sunken, pale eyes, who-t was only more brilliant than grandmother on the text was of old times. Then Grandma became young again, just as a late twilight of youth went over her life like a sunshine over a desolate land.
“You have my eyes, boy,” said Grandma. Date assumed that they were blue, but he had never thought of that before. It did not bother him, it was the spirit that bound old age and youth together.
Oh, how clearly he saw it again, how hot the sun could shine on Grandma’s back that summer afternoon, just as if she wanted to get the rhyme out of it! With one leap he suddenly flew up and tumbled down the dry dike wall. “Hey, how long will it take today for Grandma to come? I went to meet them ”, she thought and took the step down to Grandma’s and whistled the loudest song like the ljurk above him, which nestled in the Leech at the doltsje in the bells.
Suddenly his eye fell on the closed door. Just as the lightning struck him, it stood so stiff, in the middle of the heath, and it became as white as a cloth.
His lips trembled and as long as he grew, he let himself fall into the heath and buried the crooked boy’s head under the brown bushes.
Grandma was gone …. And he had loved her so much.