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The gentle winds are awakened,
They murmur and waft day and night,
They create in every corner.
Oh fresh scent, oh new sound!
Now, poor dear, fear not!
Now everything, everything must change.
The world becomes more beautiful with each day,
One does not know what may yet happen,
The blooming doesn't want to end.
The farthest, deepest valley blooms:
Now, poor dear, forget the pain!
Now everything, everything must change.
Sound the flute!
Now it's mute!
Bird's delight,
Day and night,
Nightingale,
In the dale,
Lark in sky,--
Merrily,
Merrily merrily, to welcome in the year.
Little boy,
Full of joy;
Little girl,
Sweet and small;
Cock does crow,
So do you;
Merry voice,
Infant noise;
Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the year.
Little lamb,
Here I am;
Come and lick
My white neck;
Let me pull
Your soft wool;
Let me kiss
Your soft face;
Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.
Days of delight
Are you almost here?
Bringing the sunlight
Hills and woods near?
Oh, and the streams
Richer in flow.
Is this the valley?
This the meadow?
How blue now and fresh!
Heaven and height!
The bright golden fish
In the lake’s night.
Rainbows of feathers
Rustle the leaves:
Celestial songs, where
Echo deceives.
Under the greenery’s
Blossoming powers,
The buzzing of bees
Sipping the flowers.
A gentle movement
Trembling in air,
Sleep-bringing scent
Loveliest stir.
Soon there’s a greater
Force to the breeze,
Yet it is lost there,
Now, in the trees.
But back to the heart
It’s carried again.
Muses, help me with art,
To suffer joy’s pain!
Since yesterday say, here,
What’s happened to me?
My Beloved Sisters,
The Beloved I see!
I love a storm in early May
When springtime's boisterous, firstborn thunder
Over the sky will gaily wander
And growl and roar as though in play.
A peal, another - gleeful, cheering...
Rain, raindust... On the trees, behold!-
The drops hang, each a long pearl earring;
Bright sunshine paints the thin threads gold.
A stream downhill goes rushing reckless,
And in the woods the birds rejoice.
Din. Clamour. Noise. All nature echoes
The thunder's youthful, merry voice.
You'll say: 'Tis laughing, carefree Hebe -
She fed her father's eagle, and
The Storm Cup brimming with a seething
And bubbling wine dropped from her hand.
Frost-locked all the winter,
Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
What shall make their sap ascend
That they may put forth shoots?
Tips of tender green,
Leaf, or blade, or sheath;
Telling of the hidden life
That breaks forth underneath,
Life nursed in its grave by Death.
Blows the thaw-wind pleasantly,
Drips the soaking rain,
By fits looks down the waking sun:
Young grass springs on the plain;
Young leaves clothe early hedgerow trees;
Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
Swollen with sap put forth their shoots;
Curled-headed ferns sprout in the lane;
Birds sing and pair again.
There is no time like Spring,
When life's alive in everything,
Before new nestlings sing,
Before cleft swallows speed their journey back
Along the trackless track -
God guides their wing,
He spreads their table that they nothing lack, -
Before the daisy grows a common flower
Before the sun has power
To scorch the world up in his noontide hour.
There is no time like Spring,
Like Spring that passes by;
There is no life like Spring-life born to die, -
Piercing the sod,
Clothing the uncouth clod,
Hatched in the nest,
Fledged on the windy bough,
Strong on the wing:
There is no time like Spring that passes by,
Now newly born, and now
Hastening to die.
A light exists in spring
Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here
A color stands abroad
On solitary hills
That science cannot overtake,
But human nature feels.
It waits upon the lawn;
It shows the furthest tree
Upon the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.
Then, as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
Without the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay:
A quality of loss
Affecting our content,
As trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a sacrament.
Title: Goethe´s Garden in Early Spring set to E. Grieg´s "Last Spring" ♪. Source: Anna Rubato. Date Published: March 31, 2014. Description:
Situated in the beautiful Ilm valley the house and garden given to Goethe by the Duke Carl August in 1776 became his first place of residence in Weimar. He stayed there for six years before he moved to a house in the centre of Weimar. He kept his first house though - by then called the garden house - as a place of refuge and to entertain guests. It is reported that he often visited it until shortly before his death on March 22, 1832. There is a certain likelihood that Goethe´s last impressions of his terraced garden may not have differed much from the scenes shown in the video.
Given the fact that its first owner is a world-famous poet the garden is refreshingly unpretentious sporting large patches of white and blue windflowers, violets and buttercups.
The sheet music (arrangement of Grieg´s "Last Spring" for flute and piano) can be found at flutetunes.com.
