TEXTE / LYRICS 

         AGAINST THE FEAR OF DEATH

Against the fear of death

 

( John Dryden, 1685 )

 

What has this bugbear death to frighten man,

if souls can die, as well as bodies can?

For, as before our birth we felt no pain

when Punic arms infested land and main

 

when heaven and earth were in confusion hurled

for the debated empire of the world,

which awed with dreadful expectations lay,

sure to be slaves, uncertain who should sway:

 

So, when our mortal frame shall be disjoined,

the lifeless lump uncoupled from the mind,

from sense of grief and pain we shall be free;

we shall not feel, because we shall not be.

 

Though earth in seas, and seas in heaven were lost,

we should not move, we only should be tossed.

Nay, even suppose when we have suffered fate,

the soul could feel in her devided state,

 

What`s that to us? for we are only we

 while souls and bodies in one frame agree.

 Nay, though our atoms should revolve by chance,

 and matter leap into the former dance;

 

Though time our life and motion could restore,

and make our bodies what they were before,

what gain to us would all this bustle bring?

The new- made man would be another thing.

 

 

 

 

A red, red rose

 

( Robert Burns, 1794 )                                                      

 

My love is like a red, red rose 

that`s newly sprung in June:

My love is like the melodie 

that`s sweetly played in tune.

So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,  

So deep in love am I :  

And I will love thee still, my dear 

Till a` the seas gang dry

 

Till a´the seas gang dry, my dear, 

and the rocks melt wi` the sun:

And I will love thee still my dear, 

while the sands  o` life shall run.

And fare thee wheel, my only love

And fare thee weel awhile!

And I will come again, my love,

Tho`it were ten thousand mile.

 

 

Dirge in woods

 

( George Meredith,  1870 )

 

A wind sways the pines,

And below

Not a breath of wild air;

Still as the mosses that glow

On floooring and over the lines

Of the roots here and there.

The pine tree drops its dead;

They are quiet, as under the sea.

 

Overhead, overhead

Rushes life in a race,

As the clouds the clouds chase;

And we go,

And we drop like the fruits of the tree,

Even we, 

Even so.

Even we,

Even so.

 

 

 

 

 

November fog- the beginning

 

(lyrics:  Sonja Darmstädter- Lehwald; translation: Mark Beers)

 

Cold November fog rises toward you,

bids you welcome, winter death.

Into November fog you were born,

bids you welcome, winter death.

 

You are the end and the beginning, you are the end, and the beginning.

 

Colorful leaves alit by a sunray,

steaming the lake releases,

as if in a final exhalation,

its life-giving warmth.

 

You are the end …

 

Naked and black the claw-like branches stretch into the damp darkness

devoid of all life.

From the ground a boggy mist climbs

You sweep it icily away in true stillness.

 

You are the end …

 

The heaped earth of the fields, depleted of its fruit,

awaits the first frost.

Swaying in a rhythm never heard,in a rhythm never heard.

Swaying in a rhythm never heard,

the pine forest stands proudly at the mountain.

Yet part of it will break, yet part of it will break,

yet part of it will break, 

under your burden.

 

You are the end ...

 

Cold November fog rises toward you,

bids you welcome, winter death.

Into November fog you were born,

bids you welcome, winter death.

 

You are the end ...

 

 

 

 

 

Life is a poet´s fable

                                                       

( Anonymous  1600 )

 

 

Life is a poet`s fable, 

And all her days are lies

Stolen from Death`s reckoning table;

For I die, for I die; as I speak,

Death times the notes that I do  break .

 

Childhood doth die in youth,  

And youth in old age dies.  

I thought  I lived in truth,   

But I die , but I die, now  I  see,  

Each age of  Death makes one degree.

 

Farewell the doting score 

Of  worlds arithimetic.

Life, I`ll trust thee no more;

Till I die, till I die, for the sake

I`ll go by Death`s new almanac.

 

This instant of  my song  

A thousand men lie sick,  

A thousand knells are rung;   

And I, and I die as they  sing;  

They are but dead and I dying.

 

Death is but Life`s decay,

Lifetime Time wastes away.   

Then reason bids me say    

That I die that I die, though my breath  

Prolongs this space of lingering death.

 

                                                        

                                                                  

 

 

 

 

                                    

 

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