Stefan George (1868–1933)

THE FLOCKS were trudging from their winter haunts.

Their youthful shepherd once again went forth

Upon the plain illumined by the stream.

The gaily wakened fields waved greetings gay

And singing lands were hailing him with joy.

He smiled unto himself and walked along

With wakening heart upon the spring-touched ways.

Upon his crook he leaped across the ford,

And, as he halted at the other shore,

Rejoiced to see the gold that waves had washed

From underneath the stones, and fragile shells

Of many shapes and tints that promised luck.

The bleating of his lambs he heard no more,

And wandered to the woods, the cool ravine.

There brooks are rushing headlong down the rocks—

The rocks where mosses drip and naked roots

Of sombre beeches darkly intertwine.

In silent contemplation of the leaves

He fell asleep, although the sun was high

And silver scales were glistening in the stream.

He woke and climbing reached the mountain peak

To celebrate the passing of the light.

With sacred leaves he crowned his head and prayed;

And through the mild and gently stirring shadows

Of darkening clouds soared forth his hearty lay.