Your eyelashes, great long ones,

Your two eyes’ darkling water,

Let me dive therein,

Let me sink deep.

To the shaft climbs the miner

And swings his dimming lamp

Over the gate of ore,

High on the shadow wall,

Look, I climb the way down,

To forget all in your body,

What afar above us drones,

Brightness and pain and day.

In open fields there grows,

Where the wind stands, drunk with the corn,

High-grown thorn, high and ill

Counter the heavens’ blue.

Give me your hand,

We shall grow together,

A quarry of wind,

Lonesome flock of birds,

To hear in summer

The organ of thunderstorms wanly,

To bathe in the autumn light,

On the bank of blue day.

And from time to time stand

On the brink of the darkling wellhead,

Deep in the silence to look,

Our own love to seek out.

Or else we step lightly from out

The shadows of gold gleaming forests,

Huge in a red of eve,

Touching your brow just so soft.

One time to stand at the ending,

Where sea in yellowish flecks just

Gently swims in as far as

To the September bay.

Up there to rest

In the house of scattershot flowers,

Over the fields down below

Sings and shivers the wind.

Yet from the poplar,

That soars in unending blueness,

Falls now a turning leaf,

There at your neckline to rest.

Heavenly sorrow,

Silence for unending love.

Raise up the jug to it now,

Drink a good sleep.

Georg Heym