Gottfried Keller
(1819-1890; Swiss; son of a wood-turner, self-taught; novelist; popular expression; have again tried for some rhyme and meter in the translation)
Winter Night
Not a wing-beat moved through the world,
Still and dazzling lay the white snow.
Not a cloud hung from the tent of stars, no
Wave beat in the rigid lake.
From the deep arose the lake tree’s height
Till its crown froze fast in the ice;
Up its branches climbed a water sprite,
Peered up through that green ice.
I stood there on glass so thin
That lay between the deep and me;
Close by my feet I did see
Her white beauty, limb for limb.
With stifled groan she groped apace
Back and forth at that hard ceiling;
Never shall I forget that dark face,
Ever, ever does it haunt my feeling.
Passing on the Flame 