Hugo von Hofmannsthal Poems

We are all creatures of flame. The butterfly: the intensity of a short life and fragility become color.
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I know that flowers never fall out of open windows by themselves. Especially not at night. But that's beside the point.
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One fills the large Delft jugs,
Painted with blue dragons and birds,
With a loose sheaf of bright flowers:
Among them jasmine, ripe roses unfolding,
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»Works« are dead rock, sprung from resounding chisel,
When the master is at work, chipping away at his living self.
»Works« announce the mind as pupas announce the butterfly:
»Look, it left me behind – lifeless – and fluttered away.«
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Thoughts are apples on the tree,
Not meant for anyone in particular,
But they end up belonging
To the one who takes them.
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You are the garden locked,
Your childlike hands are waiting,
Your lips are without violence.
You are the fountain sealed,
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We are alone in the dark. You up there have lips, rolled-up leaves, hands entwined with rosy blood and bluish veins,
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Dann, erst dann komm ich zum Weiher,
Der in stiller Mittel spiegelt,
Mir des Gartens ganze Freude
Träumerisch vereint entriegelt.
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Wirklich, bist du zu schwach, dich der seeliger, Zeit zu erinnern?
Über dem dunkelnden Tal zogen die Sterne herauf,
Wir aber standen im Schatten und bebten. Die risige Ulme
Schüttelte sich wie im Traum, warf einen Schauer herab
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