Monday, 11 June 2018

At the wood's edge - Eduard Mörike

At the wood's edge I can lie for long afternoons
In the grass listening to the cuckoo;
It seems to lull the whole valley to sleep
With peaceful harmony of its laments.

Here I feel at ease, and my worst vexation,
Putting up with the vanity of others,
Can never reach me to inflict pain,
And I can indulge myself to my liking.

And if the fine people only just thought,
How lavishly poets while away their time,
They would learn to eye me with envy.

For the sonnet's taut wreath is woven
In my hands of itself it seems,
While my eyes savor distant scenes.

Eduard Mörike (1804–1875)
Translated by Charles L. Cingolani 
Source: Poetry of Eduard Mörike

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