Towards the bay now flies the gull
And twilight gathers low,
Where, over watered mudflats,
Is reflected evening glow.
Birds of grey are flitting
Across the watery lea;
Islands lie like dreams
In mists upon the sea.
I hear the ferment of the mud
With its mysterious sound,
The cry of lonely birds-
Like this, is it always found.
Once more the gentle shudder
Until the winds subside
When voices are discerned
That with the deep confide.
Theodor Storm (1817- 1888) Denmark*
Translated by David Paley
Source: Poems Without Frontiers
* Note: Storm's hometown is now part of Germany, but during his lifetime was part of Denmark
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