after a poem by Goethe ("Finnische Lied"), 1810
How would it be if the dear one
came back exactly as he left me?
I'd kiss those lips so fast he'd stumble,
even if they gleam a wolf-blood red.
He would have to take back, too,
that cold formal handshake, heart-death
to me, that parted us. I'd press
those fingers even if they felt like snakes.
What is wind but words repeated,
tree to tree, from cliffs resounding,
losing meaning over ice floes?
Just so, the whispered promises
fade off when love is too long absent.
What would you have me renounce? Food?
I would shun all cakes and pastries;
I would refuse the monk's poor stew,
Starving to win the beloved!
Whom once I charmed in fulgent June,
let him come, Winter-tamed, to stay.
Lovely!
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