Email Poem

Your IP Address: 216.73.216.12
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
“To Edward Young”
by Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock
translation by Michael R. Burch

Die, aged prophet: your crowning work your fulcrum;
now tears of joy
tremble on angel-lids
as heaven extends its welcome.

Why linger here? Have you not already built, great Mover,
a monument beyond the clouds?
Now over your night-thoughts, too,
the pallid free-thinkers hover,

feeling there's prophecy amid your song
as it warns of the dead-awakening trump,
of the coming final doom,
& heaven’s eternal wisdom.

Die: you have taught me Death’s dread name, elide,
bears notes of joy to the ears of the just!
Yet remain my teacher still,
become my genius & guide.



The Choirs
by Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock
translation by Michael R. Burch

Dear Dream, which I must never behold fulfilled,
pale diaphanous Mist, yet brighter than orient day!,
float back to me & hover yet again
before my swimming sight!

Do they wear crowns in vain, those who forbear
to recognize your heavenly portraiture?
Must they be encased in marble, one & all,
ere the transfiguration be wrought?

Yes! For would the grave allow, I’d always sing
with inspiration stringing the lyre,—
amid your Vision’s tidal joy,
my pledge for loftier verse.

Great is your power, my Desire! Few have ever known
how it feels to melt in bliss; fewer still have ever felt
devotion’s raptures rise
on sacred Music’s wing!

Few have trembled with joy as adoring choirs
mingled their hallowed songs of heartfelt praise
(punctuated by each awe-full pause)
with unseen choirs above!

On each arched eyelash & burning cheek,
the fledgling tear quivers; for they imagine the goal,—
each shimmering golden crown
where angels wave their palms.

Deep, strong, the song fills swelling hearts,
never scorning tears it imbues,
whether shrouding souls in gloom
or steeping them in holy awe.

Borne on the deep, slow sounds, holy awe
descends upon the assembly
blending their choral force,
their theme, Impending Doom!

Joy, Joy! They can scarcely bear it!
The organ’s thunder rolls,
louder & louder, to the congregations’ cries,
till the temple trembles.

Enough! I sink! The worshipers bow
before the altar,—bow low to the earth;
taste the communal cup,
then drink devoutly.

When my bones rest beside this church
as worshipers sing songs of praise,
the grave shall acknowledge their vision
with heaves of sweet flowers in bloom.

That morning, ringing through the rocks,
as hymns are sung in praise, O, joyous tune!,
I’ll hear—“He rose again!”
vibrating through my tomb.
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required