Ludwig Uhland (1787–1862)

Translated by Matilda Dickson

HOW is it with the dying, who can say?

Yet wondrously it seized me yesternight,

My limbs already sank in death’s cold might,

Within my breast the last pulse ebbed away:

Upon my spirit fell a strange dismay;

The mind, that ever felt securely bright,

Now flickering low, now fanned again to light,

Its feeble flame to every wind a prey!

Say, was it but an evil dream to prove me?

The lark sings loud, the rosy morn is glowing,

And new desire to stirring life doth move me;—

Or passed indeed the pale Death-angel here?

These flowers that yesternight were freshly blowing

Now from their stalks hang withered, dead, and sere.