(Fragment)

What was it then you still had left to say

to me? And for my soul, then, what was there,

when with your downcast eyes you looked away

from never-to-be said things, close and dear?

Man, look! The saying of those things would lift

us into glory. When I think! — if I

had gone to you — sweet maidenhood my gift —

how miserably I would have seen that die

which we — both I, who know, and those who know

along with me — had borne (as God attended)

untouched, while Mytilene grew as though

an apple orchard in the night; grew scented —

perfumed from the ripening of my breasts.

Yes, these — these very breasts you did not choose

to thread into a wreath of flowers or fruit;

your shamefaced, downcast eyes inspect your shoes.

Go. Leave me, so my lyre may have, my suitor,

all that you've held back. Now, all stands waiting.

Assist a couple? This god will not do it.

But if he goes through one soul, penetrating …

Grabmal eines jungen Mädchens

Wir gedenkens noch. Das ist, als müßte

alles dieses einmal wieder sein.

Wie ein Baum an der Limonenküste

trugst du deine kleinen leichten Brüste

in das Rauschen seines Bluts hinein:

— jenes Gottes.

Und es war der schlanke

Flüchtling, der Verwöhnende der Fraun.

Süß und glühend, warm wie dein Gedanke,

überschattend deine frühe Flanke

und geneigt wie deine Augenbraun.