Georg Trakl

(3 February 1887 - 3 November 1914 / Salzburg)

Georg Trakl Poems

1. December 4/6/2012
2. Hour Of Grief 4/6/2012
3. I 4/6/2012
4. En-Route 4/6/2012
5. Evening Walk 4/6/2012
6. In Hellbrun 4/6/2012
7. From The Still Days 4/6/2012
8. Gipsy 4/6/2012
9. Nature Theater 4/6/2012
10. Encounter 4/6/2012
11. Sunny Afternoon 4/6/2012
12. The Dream Of An Afternoon 4/6/2012
13. Summer Dawn 4/6/2012
14. The Church 4/6/2012
15. Fairy Tale 4/6/2012
16. Summer Sonata 4/6/2012
17. Luminous Hour 4/6/2012
18. The Saint 4/6/2012
19. To Angela 4/6/2012
20. Justice 4/6/2012
21. The Evening 4/6/2012
22. The Three Ponds In Hellbrunn 4/6/2012
23. In Wine Country 4/6/2012
24. In The Moonlight 4/6/2012
25. Homecoming 4/6/2012
26. December Sonnet 4/6/2012
27. Deliriums 4/6/2012
28. Decay 4/6/2012
29. Night Song 4/6/2012
30. The Heart 2/3/2012
31. The Dead Church 4/6/2012
32. To A Woman Passer-By 4/6/2012
33. In The Evening 4/6/2012
34. The Deep Song 4/6/2012
35. The Sun 2/3/2012
36. The Rats 2/3/2012
37. My Heart At Evening 4/6/2012
38. Devotion 4/6/2012
39. Three Dreams 4/6/2012
40. The Dark Valley 4/6/2012

Comments about Georg Trakl

  • Soul Watcher Soul Watcher (6/24/2016 7:56:00 AM)

    I like to read to this great poet, thank you for sharing his poems

    3 person liked.
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Best Poem of Georg Trakl

De Profundis

There is a stubble field on which a black rain falls.
There is a tree which, brown, stands lonely here.
There is a hissing wind which haunts deserted huts- -
How sad this evening.

Past the village pond
The gentle orphan still gathers scanty ears of corn.
Golden and round her eyes are gazing in the dusk
And her lap awaits the heavenly bridegroom.

Returning home
Shepherds found the sweet body
Decayed in the bramble bush.

A shade I am remote from sombre hamlets.
The silence of God
I drank from the woodland well.

On my forehead cold metal ...

Read the full of De Profundis

Psalm

It is a light, that the wind has extinguished.
It is a pub on the heath, that a drunk departs in the afternoon.
It is a vineyard, charred and black with holes full of spiders.
It is a space, that they have white-limed with milk.
The madman has died. It is a South Sea island,
Receiving the Sun-God. One makes the drums roar.
The men perform warlike dances.
The women sway their hips in creeping vines and fire-flowers,
Whenever the ocean sings. O our lost Paradise.

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