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Hermann Hesse Short Poems

Famous Short Hermann Hesse Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Hermann Hesse. A collection of the all-time best Hermann Hesse short poems


by Hermann Hesse
 Don't be downcast, soon the night will come,
When we can see the cool moon laughing in secret
Over the faint countryside,
And we rest, hand in hand.
Don't be downcast, the time will soon come When we can have rest.
Our small crosses will stand On the bright edge of the road together, And rain fall, and snow fall, And the winds come and go.



by Hermann Hesse
 You brothers, who are mine,
Poor people, near and far,
Longing for every star,
Dream of relief from pain,
You, stumbling dumb
At night, as pale stars break,
Lift your thin hands for some
Hope, and suffer, and wake,
Poor muddling commonplace,
You sailors who must live
Unstarred by hopelessness,
We share a single face.
Give me my welcome back.

by Hermann Hesse
 Many thousand glittering motes
Crowd forward greedily together
In trembling circles.
Extravagantly carousing away For a whole hour rapidly vanishing, They rave, delirious, a shrill whir, Shivering with joy against death.
While kingdoms, sunk into ruin, Whose thrones, heavy with gold, instantly scattered Into night and legend, without leaving a trace, Have never known so fierce a dancing.

by Hermann Hesse
 I walk so often, late, along the streets,
Lower my gaze, and hurry, full of dread,
Suddenly, silently, you still might rise
And I would have to gaze on all your grief
With my own eyes,
While you demand your happiness, that's dead.
I know, you walk beyond me, every night, With a coy footfall, in a wretched dress And walk for money, looking miserable! Your shoes gather God knows what ugly mess, The wind plays in your hair with lewd delight--- You walk, and walk, and find no home at all.

by Hermann Hesse
 How heavy the days are.
There's not a fire that can warm me, Not a sun to laugh with me, Everything bare, Everything cold and merciless, And even the beloved, clear Stars look desolately down, Since I learned in my heart that Love can die.

by Hermann Hesse
 O hour of my muse: why do you leave me,
Wounding me by the wingbeats of your flight?
Alone: what shall I use my mouth to utter?

How shall I pass my days? And how my nights?

I have no one to love.
I have no home.
There is no center to sustain my life.
All things to which I give myself grow rich and leave me spent, impoverished, alone.


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