Percy Bysshe Shelley "The flower that smiles today"
William Shakespeare "First Sonnet"
William Shakespeare "Sonett Nr. 1"(deutsch)
Edgar Allan Poe "The Raven"
Joseph Freiherr von Eichendorff "Mondnacht"
Johann Wolfgang von Goehte "Bei Betrachtung von Schillers Schädel"

---

Percy Bysshe Shelley "The flower that smiles today..."
The flower that smiles today
Tomorrow dies,
All that we wish to stay
Tempts and then flies;
What is the world`s delight?
Lightning that mocks the night,
Brief even was bright.

Virtue, how frail it is!
Fiendship, how rare!
Love, how it sells poor bliss
For proud despair!
But these though soon they fall,
Survive their joy, and all
Which ours we call.

Whilst skies are blue and bright,
Whilst flowers are gay,
Whilst eyes that change ere night
Make glade the day;
Whilst yet the clam hoursd creep,
Dream thou - and from thy sleep
Then wake to weep.



William Shakespeare "1st Sonnet"
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty`s rose might never die.
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed`st thy light`s flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world`s fresh ornamet,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within tine own bud buriest thy content,
And, tender churl, mak`st waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world`s due, by the grave and thee.

William Shakespeare "Sonett Nr. 1" (deutsch)
Den höchsten Wesen wünschen wir Gedeihen,
Auf daß der Rose Schönheit nie verdorrt.
Doch muß des Todes reife Blüte sein,
So pflanzt ein Erbe ihr Gedächtnis fort.
Du lebst nur Dir, der Schönheit Selbstgenuß,
Schürst eigenen Glanz der Dich verzehrend scheint,
Schaffst Hungersnot statt reichem Überfluß.
Grausam Dir selbst gesinnt, Dein eigner Feind.
Hut bist du noch der frische Schmuck der Welt,
Der einz`ge Herold für des Frühlings Reiz,
Doch wenn Dein Schatz in einer Blüte fällt,
Wir zur Verschwendung süßer Filz, dein Geiz.
Hab Mitleid, bring nicht überreiche Gabe,
Der Welt Anrecht, in Dir und in dem Grabe.


Edgar Allan Poe "The Raven"

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" -
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never - nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting -
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!



Joseph Freiherr von Eichendorff "Mondnacht"
Es war, als hätt der Himmel
Die Erde still geküßt,
Daß sie im Blütenschimmer
Von ihm nun träumen müßt.

Die Luft ging durch die Felder,
Die Ähren wogen sacht,
Es rauschten leis die Wälder,
So sternklar war die Nacht.

Und meine Seele spannte
Weit ihr Flügel aus,
Flog durch die stillen Lande,
Als flöge sie nach Haus.


Johann Wolfgang von Goehte "Bei Betrachtung von Schillers Schädel"
Im ernsten Beinhaus wars, wo ich beschaute,
        Wie Schädel Schädeln angeordnet paßten;
        Die alte Zeit gedacht ich, die ergraute.
Sie stehn in Reih geklemmt, die sonst sich haßten,
        Und derbe Knochen, die sich tödlich schlugen,
        Sie liegen kreuzweis, zahm allhier zu rasten.
Entrenkte Schulterblätter! was sie trugen,
        Fragt niemand mehr, und zierlich tätge Glieder,
        Die Hand, der Fuß, zerstreut aus Lebensfugen.
Ihr Müden also lagt vergebens nieder,
        Nicht Ruh im Grabe ließ man euch, vertrieben
        Seid ihr herauf zum lichten Tage wieder,
Und niemand kann die dürre Schale lieben,
        Welch herrlich edlen Kern sie auch bewahrte,
        Doch mir Adepten war die Schrift geschrieben,
Die heilgen Sinn nicht jedem offenbarte,
        Als ich inmitten solcher starren Menge
        Unschätzbar herrlich ein Gebild gewahrte,
Daß in des Raumes Moderkält und Enge
        Ich frei und wärmefühlend mich erquickte,
        Als ob ein Lebensquell dem Tod entspränge,
Wie mich geheimnisvoll die Form entzückte!
        Die gottgedachte Spur, die sich erhalten!
        Ein Blick, der mich an jenes Meer entrückte,
Das flutend strömt gesteigerte Gestalten.
        Geheim Gefäß! Orakelsprüche spendend,
        Wie bin ich wert, dich in der Hand zu halten?
Dich höchsten Schatz aus Moder fromm entwendend
        Und in die freie Luft, zu freiem Sinnen,
        Zum Sonnenlicht andächtig hin mich wendend.
Was kann der Mensch im Leben mehr gewinnen,
        Als daß sich Gott-Natur ihm offenbare?
        Wie sie das Feste läßt zu Geist verrinnen,
        Wie sie das Geisterzeugte fest bewahre.

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