Patmos

The god

Is near, and hard to grasp.

But where there is danger,

A rescuing element grows as well.

Eagles live in the darkness,

And the sons of the Alps

Cross over the abyss without fear

On lightly-built bridges.

Therefore, since the summits

Of Time are heaped about,

And dear friends live near,

Growing weak on the separate mountains —

Then give us calm waters;

Give us wings, and loyal minds

To cross over and return.

Thus I spoke, when faster

Than I could imagine a spirit

Led me forth from my own home

To a place I thought I'd never go.

The shaded forests and yearning

Brooks of my native country

Were glowing in the twilight.

I couldn't recognize the lands

I passed through, but then suddenly

In fresh splendor, mysterious

In the golden haze, quickly emerging

In the steps of the sun,

Fragrant with a thousand peaks,

Asia rose before me.

Dazzled I searched for something

Familiar, since the broad streets

Were unknown to me: where the gold-bejeweled

Patoklos comes rushing down from Tmolus,

Where Taurus and Messogis stand,

And the gardens are full of flowers,

Like a quiet fire. Up above

In the light the silver snow

Thrives, and ivy grows from ancient

Times on the inaccessible walls,

Like a witness to immortal life,

While the solemn god-built palaces

Are borne by living columns

Of cypress and laurel.

But around Asia's gates

Unshaded sea-paths rush

About the unpredictable sea,

Though sailors know where

The islands are. When I heard

that one of these close by

Was Patmos, I wanted very much

To put in there, to enter

The dark sea-cave. For unlike

Cyprus, rich with springs,

Or any of the others, Patmos

Isn't splendidly situated,

But it's nevertheless hospitable

In a more modest home. And if

A stranger should come to her,

Shipwrecked or homesick

Or grieving for a departed friend,

She'll gladly listen, and her

Offspring as well, the voices

In the hot grove, so that where sands blow

and heat cracks the tops of the fields,

They hear him, these voices,

And echo the man's grief.

Thus she once looked after

The prophet that was loved by God,

Who in his holy youth

Had walked together inseparably

With the Son of the Highest,

Because the Storm-Bearer loved

The simplicity of his disciple.

Thus that attentive man observed

The countenance of the god directly,

There at the mystery of the wine,

Where they sat together at the hour

Of the banquet, when the Lord with

His great spirit quietly foresaw his

Own death, and forespoke it and also

His final act of love, for he always

Had words of kindness to speak,

Even then in his prescience,

To soften the raging of the world.

For all is good. Then he died. Much

Could be said about it. At the end

His friends recognized how joyous

He appeared, and how victorious.

And yet the men grieved, now that evening

Had come, and were taken by surprise,

Since they were full of great intentions,

And loved living in the light,

And didn't want to leave the countenance

Of the Lord, which had become their home.

It penetrated them like fire into hot iron,

And the one they love walked beside them

Like a shadow. Therefore he sent

The Spirit upon them, and the house

Shook and God's thunder rolled

Over their expectant heads, while

They were gathered with heavy hearts,

Like heroes under sentence of death,

When he again appeared to them

At his departure. For now

The majestic day of the sun

Was extinguished, as he cast

The shining scepter from himself,

Suffering like a god, but knowing

He would come again at the right time.

It would have been wrong

To cut off disloyally his work

With humans, since now it pleased

Him to live on in loving night,

And keep his innocent eyes

Fixed upon depths of wisdom.

Living images flourish deep

In the mountains as well,

Yet it is fearful how God randomly

Scatters the living, and how very far.

And how fearsome it was to leave

The sight of dear friends and walk off

Alone far over the mountains, where

The divine spirit was twice

Recognized, in unity.

It hadn't been prophesied to them:

In fact it seized them right by the hair

Just at the moment when the fugitive

God looked back, and they called out to him

To stop, and they reached their hands to

One another as if bound by a golden rope,

And called it bad —

But when he dies —he whom beauty

Loved most of all, so that a miracle

Surrounded him, and he became

Chosen by the gods —

And when those who lived together

Thereafter in his memory, became

Perplexed and no longer understood

One another; and when floods carry off

The sand and willows and temples,

And when the fame of the demi-god

And his disciples is blown away

And even the Highest turns aside his

Countenance, so that nothing

Immortal can be seen either

In heaven or upon the green earth —

What does all this mean?

It is the action of the winnower,

When he shovels the wheat

And casts it up into the clear air

And swings it across the threshing floor.

The chaff falls to his feet, but

The grain emerges finally.

It's not bad if some of it gets lost,

Or if the sounds of his living speech

Fade away. For the work

Of the gods resembles our own:

The Highest doesn't want it

Accomplished all at once.

As mineshafts yield iron,

And Etna its glowing resins,

Then I'd have sufficient resources

To shape a picture of him and see

What the Christ was like.

But if somebody spurred himself on

Along the road and, speaking sadly,

Fell upon me and surprised me, so that

Like a servant I'd make an image of the god —

Once I saw the lords

Of heaven visibly angered, not

That I wanted to become something different,

But that I wanted to learn something more.

The lords are kind, but while they reign

They hate falsehood most, when humans become

Inhuman.  For not they, but undying Fate

It is that rules, and their activity

Spins itself out and quickly reaches an end.

When the heavenly procession proceeds higher

Then the joyful Son of the Highest

Is called like the sun by the strong,

As a watchword, like a staff of song

That points downwards,

For nothing is ordinary.  It awakens

The dead, who aren't yet corrupted.

And many are waiting whose eyes are

Still too shy to see the light directly.

They wouldn't do well in the sharp

Radiance: a golden bridle

Holds back their courage.

But when quiet radiance falls

From the holy scripture, with

The world forgotten and their eyes

Wide open, then they may enjoy that grace,

And study the light in stillness.

And if the gods love me,

As I now believe,

Then how much more

Do they love yourself.

For I know that the will

Of the eternal Father

Concerns you greatly.

Under a thundering sky

His sign is silent.

And there is one who stands

Beneath it all his life.

For Christ still lives.

But the heroes, all his sons

Have come, and the holy scriptures

Concerning him,

While earth's deeds clarify

The lightning, like a footrace

That can't be stopped.

And he is there too,

Aware of his own works

From the very beginning.

For far too long

The honor of the gods

Has been invisible.

They practically have to

Guide our fingers as we write,

And with embarrassment the energy

Is torn from our hearts.

For every heavenly being

Expects a sacrifice,

And when this is neglected,

Nothing good can come of it.

Without awareness we've worshipped

Our Mother the Earth, and the Light

Of the Sun as well, but what our Father

Who reigns over everything wants most

Is that the established word be

Carefully attended, and that

Which endures be interpreted well.

German song must accord with this.

Dedicated to the Earl of Homburg.