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Poem of William HermannsP017 Autumn Ballad
A woman with gray hair and rags around her bones runs through the hallowed woods; strikes with a shabby broom each tree - bark, branch and bloom; scuffs ferns and moss, kicks stones. She chuckles to herself: "Go, wither in your tomb." The tree-cathedral shakes. There breaks the verdant nave; all feathery preachers flee. Soon raucous cawing cleaves the air. The black-winged thieves dart from their foggy cave. Gray threads grow from 'each twig: The spider spins and weaves. The leaves fly through the mist, their glowing wings soon fade. The woman with gray hair drags now her barren womb to younder woods. Her broom strikes branch and bloom and blade. She chuckles to herself: "Go, wither in your tomb." William Hermanns [P017] Note: Translation from G013 Herbstballade composed in 1922 |
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