In lovely blue the steeple blossoms With its metal roof. Around which Drift swallow cries, around which Lies most loving blue. The sun, High overhead, tints the roof tin, But up in the wind, silent, The weathercock crows. When someone Takes the stairs down from the belfry, It is a still life, with the figure Thus detached, the sculpted shape Of man comes forth. The windows The bells ring through Are as gates to beauty. Because gates Still take after nature, They resemble the forest trees. But purity is also beauty. A grave spirit arises from within, Out of diverse things. Yet so simple These images, so very holy, One fears to describe them. But the gods, Ever kind in all things, Are rich in virtue and joy. Which man may imitate. May a man look up From the utter hardship of his life And say: Let me also be Like these? Yes. As long as kindness lasts, Pure, within his heart, he may gladly measure himself Against the divine. Is God unknown? Is he manifest as the sky? This I tend To believe. Such is mans measure. Well deserving, yet poetically Man dwells on this earth. But the shadow Of the starry night is no more pure, if I may say so, Than man, said to be the image of God. -Friedrich Hölderlin, In lovely blue … [First Part] (1823)
Posted on: Wed, 19 Mar 2014 09:40:32 +0000
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