Celebration Of Peace

The holy, familiar hall, built long ago,

Is aired, and filled with heavenly,

Softly echoing, quietly modulating music.

A cloud of joy sends fragrance

Over the green carpets.  Shining in the

Distance, a splendid row of gold-wreathed

Cups stands, well-ordered, full of ripe fruits.

Tables stand at the sides, rising above

The leveled ground.  For now in the evening

Loving guests have gathered, coming from far.

And with half-shut eye I think I can see

The prince of the festival himself,

Smiling from the day's earnest work.

Though you like to deny your foreign origin,

And even when you lower your eye, tired

From the long crusade — forgotten, lightly shadowed —

And you assume the appearance of an acquaintance,

Still you're recognized by everyone; your superiority

Alone almost forces one to his knees.

Being nothing in your presence, I know

You are not mortal.  A wise person can

Explain a lot, but where a god appears,

There is different clarity.

He isn't of the present, yet doesn't come unannounced;

And one who feared neither flood nor flame

Doesn't surprise us without a reason, now that all is quiet,

And dominion is invisible among spirits and humans.

That is, just now the work become audible,

Long in preparation, from morning to evening.

For the thunderer's echo, the thousand-year storm,

Roars immeasurably down towards rest, resounding

In the depths, while peaceful sounds rise above it.

But you, days of innocence, become dear to us:

Today you bring the festival, beloved ones!

And the spirit flourishes in the evening stillness,

And I must counsel you, friends, to prepare the wreaths

And the food, since now we're like eternal youths,

Even if our hair were silver grey.

There are many I should like to invite, but you,

Who were devoted to mankind in a friendly, yet

Earnest way, and who liked to stay at the well

Under Syrian palms, near the city...  the fields

Of grain rustled in the wind, the coolness drifted

Down from the shaded holy mountain,

And the loyal clouds, your friends,

Cast their shadows around you,

So that your holy, daring radiance shone gently

Through the wilderness upon men, o Youth!

But then a deadly fate enshadowed you

More darkly, terribly and definitively

In the middle of your words.  Thus everything

From heaven passes quickly, but not in vain.

For a god, knowing always the proper measure,

Touches sparingly and just for a moment the homes

Of men — unexpectedly, and no one knows when.

But then something boisterous may appear,

And wildness may come to the holy place from afar.

Grasping about roughly, it touches upon madness,

And fills some intention thereby.

Gratitude doesn't follow the gift

From the gods immediately:

It has to be deeply studied first.

For if the giver hadn't been cautious,

From the blessing of the hearth both

Floor and ceiling would have gone up in flames.

We've received much from the gods.

Fire was handed to us, and the ocean's

Flood and shore.  Much more,

For alien powers have become familiar

To us in a human way.  The stars

Over your head can teach you things,

Although you can't equal them.

Yet of the all-living ones — from whom

Issue much pleasure and song —

One is a calmly powerful son.

Knowing his father, we recognize him,

Now that the high Spirit of the World

Has descended to mankind

To keep the holidays.

He had long become too great to be

The Lord of Time, and his territory

Extended far... when would it

Have exhausted him?  But a god

May once choose mundane life also,

Like mortals, and share their fate.

One law of fate requires that people

Should know each other, so that when

Silence returns, there will also be a language.

Where the spirit is at work, we are present too,

And talk about what is best.  To me, the best

Is when the picture is done, and the artist

Finishes and steps transfigured from his workplace,

The quiet God of Time, and only the reconciling

Law of love extends from here to heaven.

Man has learned much since morning,

For we are a conversation, and we can listen

To one another.  Soon we'll be song.

And the picture of time, which the great spirit unfolds,

Lies as a sign before us, indicating that a covenant

Between himself and others, himself and other powers exists.

Not he alone, but also the unconceived and eternal ones

Are recognizable in the picture,

Just as our mother, the earth, recognizes herself,

And light and air, through the plant kingdom.

But the all-gathering day of the festival

Is the ultimate sign of love, the witness

Of your existence, o holy powers.

The gods aren't revealed in miracles now,

Nor do they remain unseen as during a storm;

Now they are met together as guests,

A holy number, holy in every way,

And present in choruses of song.

And the person they love most,

Their favorite, is here.

Thus I've summoned you to the banquet

Now prepared, you, the unforgettable one,

To the evening of time, o Youth,

To be the Prince of the Festival.

And our race will not sleep

Until all the promised, immortal gods

Are here in our halls

To speak of their heaven.

Lightly breathing winds

Proclaim your arrival;

Valley mists announce you all,

And the earth, still sounding from the storm.

Hope colors the cheeks;

Mother and child

Sit before the house door,

Looking upon the peace.

Few seem to die:

A premonition, sent from the golden light,

Holds the soul back;

A promise retains the eldest.

Now all labors,

The seasoning of life,

Are prepared and completed above.

Everything pleases,

Simple things the most.

The long-awaited

Golden fruit

Has fallen from the ancient tree

After terrible storms,

But then is guarded, like a treasured possession,

By holy Fate with gentle weapons:

This has the shape of the gods.

Like a lioness, Mother,

Nature, you lament,

Since you lost your children.

Your enemy, all-loving one,

Has stolen them from you,

Since you adopted him almost

To be your own son, placing

Gods in the company of satyrs.

Thus you've created much

And buried much,

Because that which you brought

To light too soon, all-powerful one,

Now hates you.

But this too you recognize and accept,

For whatever arouses fear prefers

To rest insensate below

Until its time has come.

Poet's Note: "Please read these pages only if you're feeling kind. Then they won't seem unintelligible, and will certainly prove less offensive. But to those who find my language too unconventional, I confess I can't help it. On a beautiful day almost any kind of song can be listened to, and Nature, where it comes from, will receive it back. The author intends to lay before the public a whole collection of similar pieces, and this is just a sample."