Dark days of spring,
unyielding murk in the leaves;
drooping lilacs, barely looking up
narcissus color, and smelling strongly of death,
loss of content,
untriumphant sadness of the unfulfilled.
And in the rain
falling on the leaves,
I hear an old forest song,
from forests I crossed
and saw again, but I didn’t return
to the hall where they were singing,
the keys were silent,
the hands were resting somewhere
apart from the arms that held me,
moved me to tears,
hands from the eastern steppes,
long since trampled and bloody—
only the forest song
in the rain
dark days of spring
the everlasting steppes.
- Gottfried Benn
Torment’s curl leaps above his brow,
In which winds and many voices whispering
Swim by like waters flowing.
Yet he runs by his side just like a dog.
And in the mire he picks up everything saying said.
And he weighs it heavily. And it is dead.
Ah gently in the swaying eventide
The Lord walked down over the white fields.
It was him the corn-ears glorified.
His feet were small as flies
In the shrill gleam of golden skies.
- Georg Heym