Austrian writer Hugo von Hofmannsthal established his reputation with lyric poems and a number of plays, including Yesterday (1891) and Death and the Fool (1893).
This Austrian novelist, librettist, poet, dramatist, narrator, and essayist flourished.
On peacock, lamb and eagle His youthful lordship brave May waste the ointment regal An old dead woman gave. The dead, whose flight upstreameth And o'er the tree-tops gleameth, — Naught more are these, he deemeth, Than dancers' robes that wave.
He goes as if no justling Behind e'er threateneth. He smiles whene'er the rustling Of Life's robe whispers: Death! For every place delights him And every door invites him, Each passion-wave incites him As lone he wandereth.
When wild-bee swarms are winging, His soul pursues in play; The dolphins with their singing Upbear him on his way. All countries are his dwelling, But soon with hand compelling A dark stream, ever swelling. Will bound his shepherd's-day.
On peacock, lamb and eagle My lord with laughter brave Life-Song May waste the ointment regal An old dead woman gave, On friends a smile bestowing, Through Life's fair garden going Toward dim gulfs, all unknowing, From which no skill can save.
3.5 stars. I’m surprised I wasn’t more drawn to Hofmannstahl’s poetry, since I enjoy what I’ve read of his prose and dramatic verse. But these early poems lack the psychological insight of the former and the narrative tension of the latter. Not surprisingly, my favorite poem was the Dramatic Idyll, which seems to be a transition into his early verse dramas. (Those dramas are included in the Bollingen Series volume edited by Michael Hamburger. I preferred the translations of the lyrical poems in this volume to those by Charles Wharton Stork in the volume I am reviewing, although I read both books since the number of poems is so small. Hamburger’s critical Introduction was also much more comprehensive than Stork’s.) I admire Hofmannstahl’s lyric poetry more for what it represented -- a resistance to the mysticism inherent in the cult of Stefan George and the poetry of Rilke -- than for the verse itself.
kleine Blumen, kleine Lieder, heller Klang und bunte Pracht, Blume, die ich nicht gezogen, Lieder, die ich nicht gedacht: Und ich selber hätte nichts, dir zu bringen, dir zu danken, sollte heute, heute schweigen? Ach, was mein war, die Gedanken, sind ja längst, schon längst dein Eigen.