Poem and Fragments

by Friedrich Hölderlin, Michael Hamburger

Michael Hamburger has been translating the poetry of Friedrich Hölderlin (1770-1843) for over half a century. This lifelong preoccupation culminates in this fourth bilingual edition, incorporating revisions, new translations and other supplementary material. It is the classic English edition of Hölderlin's poetry for our age. Michael Hamburger was born in Berlin in 1924, and came to Britain as a child. He is one of our leading poets and critics, as well as the foremost contemporary translator of German poetry. His `Collected Poems 1941-1994' and several later books of poetry are published by Anvil, as is his `Poems of Paul Celan', for which he was awarded the EC's first European Translation Prize in 1992. Anvil has also published his selections from the poetry of Goethe, Rilke and Peter Huchel and his critical study of modern poetry, `The Truth of Poetry'.

Genres: Poetry, German Literature, Classics, Romanticism, Literature, Philosophy, Germany

624 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1843

About the author

Johann Christian Friedrich Hölderlin was a major German lyric poet, commonly associated with the artistic movement known as Romanticism. Hölderlin was also an important thinker in the development of German Idealism, particularly his early association with and philosophical influence on his seminary roommates and fellow Swabians Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel and Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph Schelling.

Reviews

[Andrew]

I'd heard about Holderlin for years, ever since seriously engaging with German philosophy, and read mere bits and scraps. It was time. I'd been holder'ing it in too long (sorry).

And what I got from it? An absolute headlong deep dive into German romanticism in its purest form, like to the point where I felt I should be reading this on a granite outcrop over the Rhine as the wind buffeted my face, to the point where I started involuntarily humming the overture to Tristan and Isolde in my spare hours. He looks backward in time, mostly, to Greece, and never to Rome. He also looks forward, and his dreamy thoughts would be turned – in grand German tradition – into highly systematic but also highly metaphysical and unworkable cobwebs of axiom and subject and object, and would prove a fertile inspiration for a certain fussy and mustachioed philosopher who donned a brown uniform and tried to hide his Jewish mistress and then cover his tracks vis-a-vis said brown uniform afterwards, who would, in turn, set the stage for a few of the things that would later be called “postmodern.” And the poems themselves are pretty fuckin' gorgeous.

[Nathan · Rating 5 out of 5]

So I have been really immersed in German Idealism, and lately German Romanticism (Jena School) in order to get a better understanding of 19-20th century radical revisions of the human and their world. Hölderlin is crucial here. A romantic poet, friends with Schelling and Hegel, mentored by Schiller. Along with Novalis and Schlegel, he is part of the triumvirate of German Romanticism. I have been reading these thinkers in relation to the preceding and contemporaneous Idealism, and also the succeeding Frankfurt School.

Regarding Hölderlin’s work itself, what can I say? I cried after reading his final poems (not tears, but a proper cry). They were deep. The biography in the penguin book is great. Shines light into a very obscure and underrated thinker. He was a master of poetry and, even in the peak of mental illness, when he was no longer regularly writing, he could suddenly smash out a brilliant piece of prose.

Reading him in relation to his intellectual/historical context is really important to appreciate the richness and depth of his work.

[Y · Rating 4 out of 5]

A collection of poems that give readers peace and gentle delight, as if returning to the drunken yet quiet days of the ancient Greek gods.

[Hon Lady Selene · Rating 4 out of 5]

It was hard to get through these, especially in German, especially since Friedrich was a friend of Hegel. Some poems are pretentious, some quite touching, but all quite lyrical, classical, idealistic and romantic.

When I was a boy

When I was a boy
a god often rescued me
from the shouts and the rods of men
and I played among trees and flowers
secure in their kindness,
And heaven's soft breezes
played with me too.

And as you delight
the hearts of plants
When they extend
Their tender arms towards you,

so you delighted the heart in me
father Helios! and like Endymion
I was your favourite,
Holy Luna!

O all you faithful
Friendly gods!
If only you knew
how my soul has loved you!

Even though when I called to you then
it was not yet with names, and you
never named me as people do,
as though they knew one another.

But I knew you better
Than I've ever known mankind,
I understood the silence of the Aether,
but never the words of men.

I was raised by the melody
Of the murmuring grove
and I learned to love
among flowers.

I grew up in the arms of the gods.

[Sajid · Rating 4 out of 5]

Deep in the Alps, the night is shining bright. And the cloud, joyfully forming, covers over the gaping vale.
Turbulent, laughing mountain air, this way and that; suddenly, down through the pine trees shines and dwindles a ray.
 Joyful, shivering chaos slowly hurries to battle.
Young in form, but strong, it revels in loving strife.
Brewing, wavering under the rocks in timeless barriers, morning rises in Bacchic frenzy, deep inside.

Hölderlin's poems are the musical air brimming with the coldness of upcoming nostalgia. Fresh air. Mystical songs which underlines the blazing loneliness of a silent man. Almost every poem Hölderlin wrote had similar undertones–sometimes praying to God,or gods,or Demigods,sometimes about the fatherland, the nature,the beauty, love,loneliness. Reading Hölderlin's poems feels like i am ballooning upward with my spirit... As if i am never again going to touch my feet to the ground.

[Dionysius the Areopagite · Rating 5 out of 5]

How could it have taken me so long to get to Holderlin? O heavens, what a treasure in the February darkness of eastern wintry contemplation! Joy to the grim world via Goethe, Talmudic cap, a Thoreau of the soul; O lyrical beatitude!

[Peter Crofts · Rating 5 out of 5]

I'm not reviewing this particular edition of Hamburger's translations of Holderlin but the Penguin edition which strangely doesn't seem to be on the Goodreads list. The Penguin is probably only about half the size of this particular edition. On that note let me give my thoughts on this poet and translator. Is it best to read an introduction to a poet or writer and then following the work itself? In regards to this poet (Gerard De Nerval is another) I would say no, the reason being once you read of the man's life you're going to take a highly coloured impression into the verse itself. Whatever Holderlin wrestled with is very much in the verse. That being said his Odes and Hymns are absolutely magnificent. I found myself, when it was possible, reaching for this volume right after breakfast, sometimes before. The volume is broken down into the type of poetry and I found, upon finishing a section, that rather than move on I would begin the finished section all over again. I just did not want to finish the book. Holderlin does fit within the general contours of romanticism but there is a finely chiseled lucidness to his poetry that, at least for me, sets him apart. His verse varies from the very brief to the almost epic. Rene Char adored him which should give you some idea of the vitality that dances behind the words. Highly recommended, possibly to be read and contrasted with Leopardi, ideally the recent FSG edition.

[Sean Wilson · Rating 5 out of 5]

Hölderlin's poetry is one of the greatest gifts to humanity. His hexameters and odes provide comfort in this uncertain world we live in. The book contains both the original German text and its English translation. I sometimes envy my wife for being fluent in German but the English text flows very well.

[E. G. · Rating 5 out of 5]

Foreword
Preface
Introduction
Biographical Note

Odes and Epigrams (1797-1799)

Epigrams (1797)
--Good Advice
--Descriptive Poetry
--To Diotima
--Diotima ('Bliss of the heavenly Muse...')
--Bonaparte
--Empedocles
--To the Fates
--Diotima ('You suffer and keep silent and, strange to them...')
--To Her Genius
--Plea for Forgiveness
--Then and Now
--The Course of Life ('High my spirit aspired...')
--Brevity
--Human Applause
--Home ('Content the boatman turns...')
--Good Faith
--Her Recovery ('Nature, she who's your friend...')
--The Unpardonable
--To the Young Poets
--To the Germans ('Do not laugh...')
--The Sanctimonious Poets
--Sunset
--To Our Great Poets
--Socrates and Alcibiades

Epigrams (1799)
--Sophocles
--The Angry Poet
--The Root of All Evil

The Later Odes (1798-1803)

--Man
--Hyperion's Song of Fate
--In my boyhood days...
--The Spirit of the Age
--Evening Fantasy
--In the Morning
--The River Main
--My Possessions
--To Princess Augusta of Homburg
--Go down, then, lovely sun...
--To the Germans ('Never laugh at...')
--Rousseau
--Heidelberg (Alcaic version)
--The Neckar
--Home ('Content the boatman turns...')
--Love
--The Course of Life ('More you also desired...')
--Her Recovery ('Nature, look, your most loved...')
--The Farewell (second version)
--Diotima ('You suffer and keep silent, unknown...')
--Return to the Homeland
--The Ancestral Portrait
--The Departed
--Exhortation (second version)
--Nature and Art or Saturn and Jupiter
--Sung beneath the Alps
--The Poet's Vocation
--Voice of the People (second version)
--The Blind Singer
--Chiron
--Tears
--To Hope
--Vulcan
--The Poet's Courage (first version)
--Timidness
--The Fettered River
--Ganymede

Hexameters and Elegies (1800-1801)

--The Archipelago
--Menon's Lament for Diotima
--The Traveller
--Stuttgart
--Bread and Wine
--Homecoming

The Hymns (1799-1803)

--The Ages of Life
--Half of Life
--The Nook at Hardt
--As on a holiday...
--At the Source of the Danube
--The Journey
--Germania
--The Rhine
--Celebration of Peace
--The Only One (first version)
--The Only One (second version)
--Patmos
--Patmos (fragments of the later version)
--Remembrance
--The Ister
--Mnemosyne (third version)

Fragments of Other Hymns (1800-1805)

--German Song
--Home ('And no one knows...')
--For when the grape-vine's sap...
--On fallow foliage...
--What is the life of men...
--What is God?...
--To the Virgin Mary
--The Titans
--At one time I questioned the Muse...
--But when the heavenly...
--The Eagle
--You firmly built alps...
--Whatever is Nearest (third version)
--Colombo
--When there's a flaming...
--For from the abyss...
--Narcissi...
--In Socrates' Time
--Greece (third version)

Last Poems (1807-1843)

--If from the distance...
--On the Birth of a Child
--The world's agreeable things...
--To Zimmer ('The lines of life...')
--Conviction
--The Merry Life
--The Walk
--Spring ('New day descends...')
--Summer ('When then the blooms...')
--Summer ('Still you can see...')
--Autumn ('Nature's bright gleam...')
--Winter ('When past, unseen...')
--Spring ('When springtime from the depth...')

Index of German first lines
Index of English first lines
Index of German titles
Index of English titles

[Brent · Rating 5 out of 5]

Hölderlin was a genius poet and madman: he suffered greatly. He was friends with the mightiest philosophic and poetic minds of Germany, like Schiller, Hegel, and Schelling. He even met Goethe at one point, who viewed him and his poetic potential favorably. He was the consummate "Romantic," writing at the time of high German literary and philosophic output, the era of von Herder and Sturm und Drang. He was a moody child, a literary visionary, and a prophetic poet. He was also difficult to deal with, erratic, idiosyncratic, and melancholic. He had a strained relationship with his sister and his manipulative mother. (His father passed away when he was but a little boy.) Today, he probably would be diagnosed with something like manic-depression and schizophrenia. Disillusioned with philosophy, by 1800 he gave up any hope of achieving a formal academic post and committed himself to writing poetry. "Never fear the poet when he rages; his letter Kills, but his spirit to spirits gives new vigour, new life" (The Angry Poet); "Ich aber bin allein...Viel offenbaret der Gott...Manche helfen Dem Himmel. Diese siehet, Der Dichter. Gut ist es, an andern sich, Zu halten. Denn keiner trägt das Leben allein" (The Titans).

As it turned out, Hölderlin would have to brave this life alone. In 1802 the mother of the pupil he was tutoring, his love interest and muse (Susette Gontard, his "Diotima") died, and he nearly went insane. In 1804, the German philosopher Friedrich Schelling thought his friend's condition was improving. However, by 1807, at the behest of his mother, he was forcibly removed from Homburg and taken to a mental institution, the Autenrieth clinic in Tübingen. There he was subjected to the Autenrieth mask (a device to stop patients from screaming), the straightjacket, and torturous submersions into frigid water inside a cage (p. xxxv, introduction). The treatment "worked" inasmuch as it absolutely broke him. He fell into a "catatonic stupor," and was taken in by an amiable and generous carpenter family, the Zimmers. He had read his novel Hyperion and admired Hölderlin's work. Hölderlin was given three months to live; ironically, there he would live for the next thirty-six years until his death.

The majority of Hölderlin's output was in one singular decade from 1797-1807. His magnum opus, Hyperion was published in two parts in 1797 and 1799 respectively. To frame the time period for the reader, Kant's second edition (the one that really made the splash) of his Critique of Pure Reason was published in 1787; Schelling's System of Transcendental Idealism was published in 1800; Hegel's Phenomenology of Spirit was published in 1807; and Goethe's Faust, part I, was published in 1808. Lastly, reading Hölderlin in the German is essential, even if you read the English and compare it with the German, or read the German after reading the English. Translating Hölderlin, at least to me, is probably not as hard as translating Mallarmé, but it does pose its difficulties. Hölderlin used wonderful repetition and wrote in some bizarre meters (like translating Pindar's Odes into German).

Hölderlin invites us to open our eyes yet again to the Gods, and condemns those who speak of them contemptuously. "Cold hypocrites, of gods do not dare to speak!" (The Sanctimonious Poet). He cries out to the God of Time, the Sun, the Moon, and the Air. Indeed, his parents were Kronos, Helios, Selene/Diana, and Vater Aether; indeed, he was raised by the gods, "Im Arme der Götter wuchs ich groß" (In My Boyhood Days). The pastoral life was divinized, the simple life wherein mankind dwells with the gods, the fates, the sprites, and the gods dwell with man. Yet Hölderlin's gods are not distant Epicurean gods in the intermundia. Rather, his gods need us as much as we need them. "Mute is the Delphian god, and desolate, long now deserted...But the light above speaks kindly to mortals as ever, full of promises, hints, and the great Thunderer's voice, it Cries: do you think of me? and the sorrowing wave of the Sea God echoes back: do you never think of me now, as you once did? (The Archipelago). "But their own immortality Suffices the gods, and if The Heavenly have need of one thing, It is of heroes and human beings And other mortals...Then gods and mortals celebrate their nuptials, All the living celebrate, And Fate for a while Is leveled out, suspended (The Rhine).

The "Golden Age" that Hölderlin was pining for was a return to a distant age of the past that he, at some point, genuinely thought he could exhort his Patria, Germany, to return to. Eventually, however, he became disillusioned that Germany did not take this "turn" as he had hoped for which caused him great distress. Hölderlin thereupon turned inward and created his idyllic utopia through his poetry, the only vehicle he had in order to find stability, satisfaction, and divine community, even if he was the lone individual to go on this venture. "So too would I go home, had I Reaped as much wealth as I've gathered sorrow...For they who lend us heavenly light and fire, The gods, with holy sorrow endow us too. So be it, then, A son of Earth I Seem; and was fashioned to love, to suffer (Home). Hölderlin knew that his vocation as a poet was necessary even if his visions did not engender change. To be sure, his work was largely ignored during his lifetime, and he died in relative obscurity. "Who wants poets," he lamented, "at all in lean years?" (Bread and Wine).

In my opinion, Hölderlin's genius poem of poems is "Patmos." In it, Hölderlin is caught up in a similar fashion as St. John the Revelator imprisoned on the island of Patmos. The poem commences in a haunting quatrain:

"Near is
And difficult to grasp, the God.
But where danger threatens
That which saves from it also grows."

(Heidegger would quote this as a portent at the end of his essay on technology.) Hölderlin begins by describing his native land, and soon is caught up in a vision and transported to "Asia" where he finds himself wrestling with identifying in order to praise this saving power. Who is it that shall save? Is it the gods? Is it a Christ? Who does Zeus, the Thunderer send? Is it the son of God? Is it the son of Zeus, Dionysus? "From the thundering god issues the gladness of wine. Therefore in tasting them we think of the Heavenly who once were Here and shall come again, come when their advent is due; Therefore also the poets in serious hymns to the wine-god Never idly devised, sound that most ancient one's praise" (Bread and Wine). Dionysus, the god of wine, the son of god shall come again, and his advent is nigh. He shall take us in an ecstatic caravan, dancing in mirth and quaffing draughts of wine.

But also, "Meanwhile, though, to us shadows comes the Son of the Highest, Comes the Syrian and down into our gloom bears his torch. Blissful the wise men see it; in souls that were captive there gleams a Smile, and their eyes shall yet thaw in response to the light" (Bread and Wine).

In Bread and Wine, Hölderlin writes how mankind became accustomed to the heavenly light of the gods, and they became proud and ungrateful. They built big cities and empires only to worship themselves and forsake the gods. So the gods depart, and forsake mankind; yet, each one needs the other. "Why no more does a god imprint on the brow of a mortal, Struck, as by lightning, the mark, brand him, as once he would do?...Little they seem to care whether we live or do not" (Bread and Wine). "The Syrian," ultimately his Christ-like figure who saves the world and reconciles mankind back to the gods. In this, he attempted to reconcile Ancient Greece and Christianity in order to bring Germany back to communion, as it were. "You Graces of Hellas, you daughters Of Heaven, I went to you, So that, if the journey is not too far, You may come to us, beloved ones" (The Journey).

Jesus' body is the bread (Matt 26:26). And "Bread is a fruit of the earth" (Bread and Wine). Dionysus gives freely of his wine, yet so do the Christ (Matt 26:28). In the end, we are left wondering who it is that Hölderlin is praising in his Bread and Wine. In the end, however, it might not matter much; for we trust in the saving power of the God, who shall reconcile the Heavenly back with the Earthly; the divine back with the human; the sons of the Most High with the sons of the Earth. "Dreams more gentle and sleep in the arms of Earth lull the Titan, Even that envious one, Cerberus, drinks and lies down" (Bread and Wine). Or in other words, "the wolf shall lie with the lamb (Is 11:6). Who shall we praise? Hölderlin spent his life suffering, and yet always in gratitude to God.

"To praise what's higher: for this the
God gave me speech and a heart that is grateful" (To Princess Augusta of Homburg).
-b

[Algirdas · Rating 4 out of 5]

Hölderlinas Hölderlinu, asmeniškai man ši knyga - dar vienas susitikimas su Gintaru Beresnevičiumi, dar vienas langas į jo pasaulį. Labai geras straipsnis knygos pabaigoje. Nežinau ar gerai padariau pirmiausiai jį perskaitęs, nes Hölderliną skaičiau jau jo įtakoje.

[— · Rating 4 out of 5]

I may have just found a new favorite poet!

I thoroughly recommend looking through at least some of his poems online or getting a pdf. And picking up his collected poems is a good idea too. Don't buy this book from Penguin though.

[Caspar "moved to storygraph" Bryant]

I was doing my best to read this parallel text in my delightfully rusty german so I award myself points for trying , I'm not the strictest

beautiful & in a completely dire translation by hamburger which somehow makes a dynamic, exciting 19th-century poet sound like he's William morris writing in the 15th. Also maybe I'm missing something but it looks like ? somebody ? forgot to give us the original text on page 326 & there are parallel verses in English, but not the same english - possibly the literal trans.?

I really enjoyed this though & the caspar on the cover, he's one of those to live WIth

[Tom Romer · Rating 5 out of 5]

POET OF MODERNITY

Friedrich Hölderlin has something of a mythical status among thoughtful ('intellectual') circles as a poet who, in his yearning for the old days of Ancient Greece and the gods of old, introduced these themes in his poems, as well as, in the epigrams that start the book, apt commentary on his time which still applies today.

In short, he was a poet who, to poetise modernity, went back in time to the roots of our civilization, two and a half thousand years ago, and as such has a relevance and urgency for those of us today who feel that a quiet, underground spiritual rejuvenation needs to be brought to our spiritless times.

Friends with German idealist philosophers Schelling and Hegel, he influenced the young Nietzsche and, in the 20th century, has been interpreted by giant thinkers Walter Benjamin and Martin Heidegger, the latter seeing in Hölderlin a new Homer for Europe and the main anchor point for his philosophy.

It is of course historically material that Hölderlin was regarded as 'schizophrenic' in his lifetime, but that says more about the dogmatic and conformist culture of his time, still prevalent today, than it does Hölderlin's mind which was able, for example, to provide a seminal translation of Sophocles.

As a modern day classics student and amateur thinker, very drawn to the Hellenistic, Latin and Teutonic traditions, Hölderlin is a point of reference for me as he truly is at the crossroads of these powerful currents which have so much to offer us in our day and age.

This Penguin edition is very handsome and includes the German texts as well as Michael Hamburger's much-lauded English translations.

It contains selections from Hölderlin's entire creative life, be it the odes, the elegies, the hymns and so forth.

I recommend this book, and Hölderlin generally, to all who have a penchant for Ancient Greece, Latin poetry, and German literature, or The Humanities with a capital 'H'.

[Mike · Rating 4 out of 5]

One of my favorite Romantic poets. While in Austria over the summer of '07, I made a special trip to Tübingen just to visit Hölderlin Tower (and the infamous "Goethe Puked Here" tavern sign). These poems brought me back to my time in Bavaria and the Black Forest; in fact, it almost feels like these poems demand to be read in those locations for the full experience. In terms of this collection, I felt that the translations were a little rigid at times, but I still enjoyed having all the best works in one volume, especially a sampling of Hölderlin's later work in the midst of his mental collapse. I also hadn't read many of the hexameters or elegies before, so those were worth the read alone.

[David Hinton · Rating 4 out of 5]

If you haven't read Holderlin yet but love poetry, please be sure to check him out. This is an excellent collection of his poems with very good translations. And, with a Caspar David Friedrich painting on the cover, it is a good addition to your collection of German Romanticism.

[Karl Hallbjörnsson · Rating 5 out of 5]

Man, I love this guy! His writing just vibrates so well with my mind. This edition is wonderful: the cover is beautiful, the poems are both in German and English and there's a lot of material to read and re-read. Highly recommended.

[Aidan Jude · Rating 4 out of 5]

I don’t read much 19th century romantic poetry anymore, but this was good.


For if the gods need of one thing,

It is of heroes and human beings

---

I was reared by the euphony

Of the rustling copse

And learned to love

Amid the flowers.

I grew up in the arms of Gods.

---

for *once* I

Lived like the gods,

and no more is needed

---

Latest News: Apollo’s become the god of journalists, press men, And his blue-eyed boy he who reports all the facts.

[Billie Pritchett]

What's best about this Penguin edition is that it contains dual German and English translations so that for those poems that move you most in English you can sound out in German to get a deeper sense of the poem's music.

[Will · Rating 3 out of 5]

(counting as read only because this is a compilation of sorts from which I've sampled the majority of the contained work)

This compilation can be dry due to the sheer volume of similar material, but when taken a little bit at a time, it is a salve for a dry soul. His poetics are absolutely top shelf more often than not, and his trademark blend of the Classical and (in his time) Modern is truly, incredibly beautiful. Not much else to say aside from how essential Hölderlin is to any Average Poetry Enjoyer's oeuvre.

I read this mostly before bed aloud with my wife, and filled in the gaps between poems read aloud elsewhere.

[Alexander · Rating 5 out of 5]

dead pantheist. greek poet born in a 18th century lutheran family. lover of nature and german idealism. contemporary of hegel and schiller, but much less fortunate. hölderlin’s tale is a tragic song, but one that perhaps is best reflected on in his own words:

“On a fine day – they should consider – almost every mode of song makes itself heard; and Nature, whence it originates, also receives it again.”

this melody has resonated in history, after all, and been received.

[Tonia · Rating 5 out of 5]

Amazing, amazing poet and thinker. This is a great edition, but I would also recommend comparing with the Sieburth version as the translations are slightly different, but comparing the two really captures the language/meaning on one hand and the other gives you more the feel of the poetic elements.

[Sunblinding · Rating 5 out of 5]

Now come, fire
For eager are we to greet the day.
No created world every hindered the course of thunder;
Full of a dark light,
Life is death, and a death a type of life, too.
Thus, it is good to rely upon others:
For no one can bear this life alone.

[Jenni · Rating 5 out of 5]

If you like Holderlin, this book has 787 pages of poems and fragments. Originals are on the opposite page.

[Gpdimonderose giacintho · Rating 5 out of 5]

Holderlin

[Floria Lomme · Rating 5 out of 5]

Life-changing poems.

[Alyosha · Rating 4 out of 5]

For once he loved like the gods, and no more is needed...

[S P · Rating 4 out of 5]

from Introduction
xxiii "'A lyrical poem', he wrote 'is the continuous metaphor of a feeling.' A tragic poem, on the other hand, 'is the metaphor of an intellectual point of view'; and this intellectual point of view 'can be no other than the awareness of being at one with all that lives.'
xxxvii 'Zimmer's comment on Hölderlin's 'madness' is as good as any: 'It's the too much he had in him that cracked his mind.'"

from In my boyhood days...
In my boyhood days
Often a god would save me
From the shouts and the rod of men;
Safe and good then I played
With the orchard flowers
And the breezes of heaven
Played with me.

And as you make glad
The hearts of the plants
When toward you they stretch
Their delicate arms,
[...]
I was reared by the euphony
Of the rustling copse
And learned to love
Amid the flowers

I grew up in the arms of the gods (27-9)

from Bread and Wine
And in vain we conceal our hearts deep within us, in vain we,
Master and novice alike, still keep our courage in check.
For who now would stop us, who would forbid us rejoicing?
Day-long, night-long we’re urged on by a fire that’s divine.
Urged to be gone. Let us go, then! Off to see open spaces,
Where we may seek what is ours, distant, remote though it be!
One thing is sure even now: at noon or just before midnight,
Whether it’s early or late, always a measure exists,
Common to all, though his own to each one is also allotted,
Each of us makes for the place, reaches the place that he can.
Well, then, may jubilant madness laugh at those who deride it,
When in hallowed Night poets are seized by its power;
Off to the Isthmus, then! To land where wide open the sea roars
Near Parnassus and snow glistens on Delphian rocks;
Off to Olympian regions, up to the heights of Cithaeron,
Up to the pine-trees there, up to the grapes, from which rush
Thebe down there and Ismenos, loud in the country of Cadmus:
Thence has come and back there points the god who’s to come. (153)

The Nook at Hardt
Down slopes the forest
And, bud-like, inward
Hang the leaves, for which
Down below a ground blossoms forth,
Quite able to speak for itself.
For there Ulrich
Once walked; and often, over the footprint,
A great destiny ponders,
Made ready, on the residual site. (173)

from The Rhine
The voice it was of the noblest of rivers
Of freeborn Rhine,
And different were his hopes when up there from his brothers
Ticino and Rhodanus
He parted and longed to roam, and impatiently
His regal soul drove him on towards Asia. (199)
[...]
And that is why his word is a jubilant roar,
Nor is he fond, like other children,
Of weeping in swaddling bands;
For where the banks at first
Slink to his side, the crooked,
And greedily entwining him,
Desire to educate
And carefully tend the feckless
Within their teeth, he laughs,
Tears up the serpents and rushes
Off with his prey, and if in haste
A greater one does not tame him,
But lets him grow, like lightning he
Must rend the earth and like things enchanted
The forests join his flight and, collapsing, the mountains. (201)

Home
And no one knows

But meanwhile let me walk
And pick wild berries
To quench my love for you
Upon your paths, O Earth

Here where
and thorns of roses
And sweet lime-trees give out their fragrance
Beside the beeches, at noon, when in the yellowish cornfield
There is a whisper of growth, by the straight stalk,
And the ear inclines its neck to one side
Like autumn, but now beneath
The oaks’ high vault, where I ponder
And question heavenward, the stroke of the bell,
Familiar to me,
Rings out from afar, with a golden ring, at the hour when
The bird’s awake once more. Then all is well. (267)

Where there's a flaming...
Where there's a flaming above the vineyard
And black as coal
The vineyard looks, around the
Autumn season, because
More fierily breathe the pipes of life
In the grapevine's shadows. But
Lovely it is to unfold
The soul and our brief life (313)

from Greece
But above, all reflection, lives Aether. But silver
On pure days
Is light. As a sign of love
Violet-blue the earth.
A great beginning can come
Even to humble things.
Everyday but marvellous, for the sake of men,
God has put on a garment.
[...]
Unmeasured paces, though,
He limits, but like blossoms golden then
The faculties, affinities of the soul consort
So that more willingly
Beauty dwells on earth and one or the other spirit
More communally joins in human affairs. (319)

[Joseph Myers · Rating 5 out of 5]

Edward Kanterian, concerning Hölderlin, shows us that his poetry is aesthetic intellectual intuition i.e. a type of anamnesis or henosis which allows one to at least touch the holy source rather than return to it (being a way out of the dogmatic subjective reflectivism of Kant and Fichte by reconciling inner and outer world not by a logic or judgement, but by that which can be given and un-mediated). Now Hölderlin should not be confined to this saturated doxography, but rather given over to Heidegger's understanding of Hölderlin and poetry in general:

"𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘐𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥; 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴, 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴, 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘖𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦. 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘭, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘺. 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘣𝘺 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘖𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘚𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘖𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘴. 𝘗𝘳𝘰���𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘥-𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘮 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘦𝘪𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘴 𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘺: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘢 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴. 𝘗𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘥-𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴. 𝘈𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦'𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩, 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥."

Poetry is primordial uttering which brings being into being, expropriating concealed-ness out into Aletheia. It is a thrust into the Open, much like a childbirth.

"' 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘢𝘺, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘦-𝘨𝘰𝘥'𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴, 𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘺 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.' 𝘗𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰, 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘦-𝘨𝘰𝘥, 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘨𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴, 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥'𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴, 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘺. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘨𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘺, 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘨𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦, 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬? 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘤𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥. 𝘛𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴: 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥, 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘨𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥'𝘴 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘺. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘺, 𝘪𝘯 𝘏ö𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘯'𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥'𝘴 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘺 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵."

So, the poet is singing after the fleeing gods who have fled, and with that breath of song that questions and declares the absence. In hallowed sadness and heavenward contemplation Hölderlin asks: why has man withdrawn from God, and why has God withdrawn from us? Look at how the spectacle of Antony and Cleopatra goes, the crestfallen Antony drawing his last breaths from a self-inflicted stab wound, being raised up on ropes unto Cleopatra (who, for him is beauty's zenith) gazes up at her with outstretched arms in final desperation. In this image there is seen none other than Hölderlin (that wretched creature) in Bacchic nostalgia groping for Father ether.

[Ben · Rating 4 out of 5]

GOOD ADVICE
You've a head and a heart? Reveal only one of them, I say;
If you reveal both at once, doubly they'll damn you, for both.

THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL
Being at one is godlike and good, but human, too human, the mania
Which insists there is only the One, one country, one truth and one
way.

from VOICE OF THE PEOPLE - Second Version
The voice of God I called you and thought you once
In holy youth; and still I do not recant!
No less indifferent to our wisdom
Likewise the rivers rush on, but who does

Not love them? Always too my own heart is moved
When far away I hear those foreknowing ones,
The fleeting, by a route not mine but
Surer than mine, and more swift, roar seaward,

For once they travel down their allotted paths
With open eyes, self-oblivious, too ready to
Comply with what the gods have wished them
Only too gladly will mortal beings

Speed back into the All by the shortest way;
So rivers plunge -- not movement, but rest they seek --
Drawn on, pulled down against their will from
Boulder to boulder -- abandoned, helmless --

By that mysterious yearning towards the chasm;
Chaotic deeps attract, and whole peoples too
May come to long for death....