So that not one of her tremendous sorrows

might slip down from that visage of denial,

she carries on, through every tragic trial,

her features’ faded, beautiful bouquet,

tied wildly and already half-undone.

Sometimes, almost like a tuberose, one

lost weary smile will drift down from that spray.

And yet she goes on, placid and serene —

weary, with hands both beautiful and blind

that know that smile is what they'll never find.

And she says made-up things so unforeseen

Fate wavers in them, forced, and on its own.

Then with her soul she gives them what they mean,

till they burst forth like nothing ever known —

like the screaming of a stone.

And with her chin held high like some proud queen,

she lets these words come tumbling out once more,

but not to last, since none of all that store

accords with that which is: life, full of pain;

The one thing she has to her name;

a cup without a base, which to maintain,

she must hold high above her lustrous fame,

above the evening as it goes its way.

Venezianischer Morgen

Richard Beer-Hofmann zugeeignet

Fürstlich verwöhnte Fenster sehen immer,

was manchesmal uns zu bemühn geruht:

die Stadt, die immer wieder, wo ein Schimmer

von Himmel trifft auf ein Gefühl von Flut,

sich bildet ohne irgendwann zu sein.

Ein jeder Morgen muß ihr die Opale

erst zeigen, die sie gestern trug, und Reihn

von Spiegelbildern ziehn aus dem Kanale,

und sie erinnern an die andern Male:

dann giebt sie sich erst zu und fällt sich ein

wie eine Nymphe, die den Zeus empfing.

Das Ohrgehäng erklingt an ihrem Ohre;

sie aber hebt San Giorgio Maggiore

und lächelt lässig in das schöne Ding.