The HyperTexts
David B. Gosselin
David Gosselin is a poet, researcher, and translator based in Montreal, Canada.
He is the founding editor of New Lyre
Magazine and The Chained Muse.
He also writes on Substack at Age of
Muses.
Hector's Farewell
by Friedrich Schiller
translation by David B. Gosselin
Andromache
Hector, are you now forever leaving
Me to venture where Achilles, weeping,
Piles dire hecatombs for Patroclus?
Who will teach your dear child how to hurl pikes,
Or to honor gods amid Troy’s great fights,
When you’re swallowed by shady Orcus?
Hector
Please, hold back your tears, Andromache dearest;
Battlefields now call out with fiery shrieks—
To prevent the spill of Pergamus’ blood.
Braving all for the gods of our homeland
And to save fair Ilium’s heroic band,
Gladly will I enter the Stygian flood.
Andromache
Never will I hear your clashing arms,
Your glaive will stand idly in our halls,
Priam’s race of heroes will be dust.
To the land of permanent eclipses,
Where in deserts flows weeping Cocytus,
There, in Lethe will our love be lost.
Hector
Although all my dreams and hopes must perish
In the quiet floods of Lethe’s waters—
Our love, dear, can never die.
Hear the savage raging under our spires:
Gird my sword, hold back your tears—remember:
Hector’s love in Lethe cannot die.
Translation © David B. Gosselin
The Waterfall
“So noisy are the towns and villages,” remarked
The sage as he and his young pupil made
Their way across the bustling thoroughfares,
Heading toward the mountains and the mist.
The boy, only accustomed to the sound
Of rustling towns and city happenings,
Half-listened as he looked ahead toward
The snowy mountains, so near, yet so far.
Rising from earthly surface to the sky,
Piercing the sprawling cloudscapes up above,
The glistening peaks arrested his young eyes,
Their crests adorned with all the elements:
The pristine snow and careless alpine winds,
A gentle frost and pines that fear no cold.
But back below and far from busy towns,
After trekking for many quiet hours,
They heard a faint and playful murmuring
Beckoning them toward the leaf-dimmed light:
Soon, deep amid the forest’s evergreens,
Solacing caves and gnarled untrodden paths,
They found themselves before a waterfall
Whose rushing cataracts and foaming floods
Somehow inspired in them the calmest thoughts.
“The truth, though men forget, is never lost,”
Said the sage as he and the boy sat down;
They watched the foaming floods rush on for hours.
Mastery
They walked across the rickety old bridge,
And made it, at last, to the other side.
Surmounting gaping chasms far below,
They crossed the fear-fed gorges and abysms.
Alas, the gnawing fear and ravenous dread
Had only just begun to rear its head.
“Master, the end seems but the beginning,
The beginning the end, there’s never here,
Here’s never there; yet we’ve already climbed
So many mountainsides and trekked along
So many paths—should one not choose to live,
Instead of seeking what may never be?”
“The danger’s only going half the way,”
Said the sage as he watched the dim-lit stars.
“How to become a real master, then?”
Questioned the student as he trailed behind.
“There are no masters,” answered the old sage,
“Just students of the sacred Word and Way.
For, those who fail at being masters have
Not failed to reach their long-awaited goal.
They’ve failed at being students,”—the sage smiled,
Then disappeared into the bamboo groves.
Details
The sage and boy sat on a path which lay
Atop one of the highest mountain crests.
Yet, neither sage nor boy looked down upon
The star-like speckles they knew as their towns.
Rather, they looked above, gazing upon
The star-strewn skies that blushed with unknown fires.
“So many stars and mountains, crests and sky,
Are we not fools to think that we can know
What underlies such intricate designs?”
Asked the boy as he eyed the twinkling schemes.
“The Truth is simple,” answered the old sage,
“The details infinite.” And then he paused,
“Pity the ones who can’t distinguish them,
The captives of their own clever designs.”
Turning his gaze towards the nameless skies,
A glint of starlight shining in his eyes,
The ancient sage looked on, “The wise remove
All that which blinds them to the simple Truth.”
He gazed upon the distant starscapes high
Above, musing upon their twinkling fires.
Song: They Toil Not, Neither Do They Spin
They toil not, neither do they spin (Mathew 6:28)
They toil not, neither
Do they spin, these soulful sprites—
These sweet birds of song.
They toil not, neither
Do they spin, these brave songsters—
These faithful soldiers.
Like wraiths in the day,
Hiding among trembling leaves,
Whispering like wind.
They sing in shadows,
Beneath the delicate blue,
Then flutter away.
They toil not, neither
Do they spin—but freely sing
With cheer and delight.
Their hymns give us pause:
After toiling and spinning,
The silence sweeps in.
What lies in the heart
When the spinning and toiling
Suddenly ceases?
What lies in the heart
When the toiling and spinning
Arrives at its end?
When the silence comes
—the source of all song—what was
Once mute will be heard.
The fear and the joy,
The anger and the sorrow
Take flight like sweet songs.
They toil not, neither
Do they spin, these brave songsters—
These faithful soldiers.
They toil not, neither
Do they spin, these soulful sprites—
These sweet birds of song.
Lay Down Your Armor
Lay down your armor
And play for me your precious lyre,
And let me hear
Your deepest dreams and frail desires.
Lay down your armor
And let me hear your dulcet strains,
And share with me
The story of your precious pains.
Lay down your armor
And share your sweetest dreams with me,
And tell me who
You saw inside those deepest dreams.
Lay down your armor
And play for me your thespian lay,
And let me hear
What only golden lyres can say.
Lay down your armor
And pluck those dainty strings, singing
Your lovely pains—
The endless nights you spent in dreams.
Lay down your armor
And play a little more for me,
And show me why
The world can fade, but not our dreams.
Lay down your armor
And let us dream a little while
—Dreams without end—
I’ll walk with you through every dream.
What If I Told You?
The last will be first and the first will be last. (Mathew 20:16)
What if I told you
The world might be saved by
A couple of fools?
What if I told you
I love the sound of shrieks
Breaking the silence?
What if I told you
The world looks lovely
When flooded with rain?
What if I told you
The forests look splendid
When stricken with fire?
What if I told you
I survey the heavens
For their falling stars.
That I love when
The clouds become somber,
Hoary, and gray?
What if I told you
The broken is beautiful,
The tragic sublime?
And what if I said
The wrenching truth, instead
Of beautiful lies?
What if I told you
That God is a jokester—
He likes a good laugh?
And what if I shared
Stories more real than all
The things of this world?
What if I told you
The lost may unearth what
The saved ones forgot?
What if I told you
The world might be saved by
A couple of fools?
Sonnet on a Shore
Cling to your shores timorous denizens!
Bold divers hunt for pearls, but tempered souls
Prefer the quiet shores and shallow shoals
To darkened depths and krakens’ midnight dens.
The diver takes one breath, then disappears;
He seeks for treasures lost and found,
And lost again amid the coral-bound
Currents and briny waves and rotten piers.
Oh, how I wish I'd crossed these seas and swam
Before I knew what now I can’t unknow:
But now I dread to swim in depths so dim;
I curse the magic reefs where life began;
I listen to the siren’s song, yet know
I’m safe: I cannot drown—nor can I swim.
Fresh-Picked Roses
A rose is lying in the summer mud—
The dew still fresh from when it fell last night.
A phoenix sinks into a sea of sands—
See how the midnight sky outshines the day?
It’s true—a comet burns one moment then
It fades and scatters on the cosmic surf.
But Hector too had breathed his final breath,
Then like a comet vanished in the depths.
A boy is dreaming on a backyard swing;
He smells the lilacs, but he picks a rose.
He has his dreams, some dark, some bright, some light
And pure like laurel sprigs or mountain streams.
He picked the rose—its beauty unsurpassed;
He picked her though he feared her thorns—he had
A fear of fear itself, a love of love—
The love of other and the love of self.
The rose we place inside our lover’s hands
Is like the dreams we place in our own hands.
When fresh-picked roses fall into their hands,
Our dearest hopes and dreams are placed there too.
Dreams too—like roses and like love have thorns,
But oh the joy of picking our own rose.
The Man Who Never Cries
The man who never cries is like the ship
That never sailed or left the sleepy shores,
Who’s never felt the waves of peril whip
Against his keel, far off from peaceful shoals.
Fearing the unrelenting ocean’s guile
—The treasures claimed by wet tempestuousness—
A denizen upon Calypso’s isle,
He lies on shores of voluptuousness.
When gazing from his tearless strand, he sees
In twirling clouds the faces he so loves;
He thinks of worlds across the salted seas,
Then looks to the lingering host above:
A prison of his own dry eyes he makes,
As each cloud drifts into the sea and fades.
Chinese Mountain Man I: Dragon Mountain
A master and his pupil stood
Before the foot of Dragon Mount.
They readied themselves for the trek
Across its dark and snowy grots.
Tilting their heads, they watched the fog
Winding around the ancient spires.
Like a slumbering dragon’s breath,
It wrapped around each silent peak.
“The legend says that many tried
And lost their lives,” declared the boy.
Squinting their eyes, they raised their heads
And gazed upon the darkling heights.
The master turned to him, "But have
They crossed its cliffs and scaled its crags?
“And have they dared to make the trek
Up Dragon Mountain’s emerald crests?”
“The people said that only fools
Would dare such things,” replied the boy.
The sage looked up and calmly gazed
Upon the snowy mountaintops.
“True knowledge will always be far
For those afraid to climb its peaks.”
The master spoke and then began
To make the long and winding trek.
Through the fields of solitude
by Hermann Allmers
translation by David B. Gosselin with Michael R. Burch
Peacefully, I rest in the tall green grass
For a long time only gazing as I lie,
Caught in the endless hymn of crickets,
And encircled by a wonderful blue sky.
And the lovely white clouds floating across
The depths of the heavens are like silky lace;
I feel as though I have long been dead,
Softly drifting with them through eternal space.
Translation © David B. Gosselin
The Foggy Peaks
The peaks were barely seen that night—they hid
Among a sea of aster-painted clouds.
The skies were filled with stars that shone like pearls
Strewn on the shoals of treasure-laden isles.
The sage and pupil journeyed on, although
Beholding neither earthly fields below
Nor mountains rearing with their jagged crests
Into the time-exempted floods above.
“But how are we to make our way, or know
In which directions we should choose to go?”
Questioned the student as he waded through
The unshorn clouds that whirled about their waists.
“How can we find our way out of this world
Master—it seems a tenfold mystery?”
The sage continued through the cloudy flood,
Though he could neither see his feet below
Nor catch sight of the craggy trails that formed
The stair on which they made their slow ascent.
The sage paused solemnly before the clouds—
“We'll never know unless we carry on.”
“Besides, all that we know are mysteries.”
Like clouds, the sage and pupil drifted on.
The Mountain Wood
By David Gosselin
A sage and pupil made their way
Into a deep and darkened wood.
They searched and wandered places
Where, for years, no traveler would.
The underbrush, the damp-cool swamps
And thorny vines delayed their climb;
And countless unknown fruits hung from
The alpine trees of mountain climes.
“One must be cautious when he treads
The mountain wood,” the master said,
“This place is seldom journeyed through—
It fills the city folk with dread.”
Time after time the frightened boy
Had asked him, “Master, are we there?”
“The climb is bitter but the fruits
Are sweet,” was all the sage declared.
The trek went on for many days,
Without a destination reached.
The student’s eyes filled with despair—
The forest had been barely breached.
But after many haunted moons,
And after many darkened trails
The student’s eyes filled with sheer dread,
Like those of men whose courage fails.
Though unfazed by the boy’s laments,
The master stopped and calmly stood
Amid the forest mists and said,
“There is no shortcut through this wood.”
Wanderer’s Night Song II
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
translation by David B. Gosselin
Over the hilltops
Is quietness,
And in the treetops
Emptiness,
There's hardly a sigh;
The birds are soundless in the forest.
With patience abide―
You too will rest.
Translation © David B. Gosselin
Through the fields of solitude
by Hermann Allmers
translation by David B. Gosselin with Michael R. Burch
Peacefully, I rest in the tall green grass
For a long time only gazing as I lie,
Caught in the endless hymn of crickets,
And encircled by a wonderful blue sky.
And the lovely white clouds floating across
The depths of the heavens are like silky lace;
I feel as though I have long been dead,
Softly drifting with them through eternal space.
Translation © David B. Gosselin
In the beautiful month of May
by Heinrich Heine
translation by David B. Gosselin
In the beautiful month of May
When the flowers began springing
Within my youthful heart
Love suddenly bloomed.
In the beautiful month of May
When all the birds were singing
I confessed to her
My yearning and my longing.
Translation © David B. Gosselin
Death is the cooling night
by Heinrich Heine
translation by David B. Gosselin
Death is the cooling night,
Life is the sultry day.
But now darkness settles
And I long for respite.
Outside my bedroom window looms a tree;
In it sings the young Nightingale.
She sings only of Love―
Even in dreams, it reaches me.
Translation © David B. Gosselin
Stanchen (Serenade)
by Ludwig Rellstab
set to music by Frans Schubert
translation by David B. Gosselin
My songs drift through the dark night,
Searching for you.
Find me in the tranquil grove, love—
I'll wait for you.
The gentle fronds of rustling trees
Whirl in the moonlight.
Here, there will be no more betrayals—
We'll be free tonight.
Do you hear the sad nightingales,
Singing where they hide?
Hear their melancholy music—
Let them be your guide.
Knowing what the human heart needs,
They comfort each breast
With the soothing sound of silv'ry streams—
Peace for the oppressed.
Let the love in your heart be free,
Darling—listen to me!
I await you here, trembling!
Come, enrapture me.
Translation © David B. Gosselin
Modern Dreams III
I dreamt an endless dream;
I dreamt my dreams had ceased.
I dreamt the darkest dream;
I dreamt of blinding light.
I dreamt I was a fool;
I dreamt that I was wise.
I dreamt I spoke in tongues;
I dreamt I found the Words.
I dreamt I lost it all;
I dreamt of victory.
I dreamt all was forgot;
I dreamt I knew it all.
I dreamt my life away;
I dreamt my dreams were true.
I dreamt I met life’s end;
I dreamt it just began.
I dreamt that I was lost;
I dreamt of being found.
Modern Dreams VI
The opposite of dark is light;
The opposite of light is dark.
The opposite of day is night;
The opposite of night is day.
The opposite of strong is weak;
The opposite of weak is strong.
The opposite of life is death;
The opposite of death is life.
The opposite of dreams is sleep;
The opposite of sleep is dreams.
The opposite of love is fear;
The opposite of fear is love.
Modern Dreams V
The dreams I dreamt have been forgotten now;
A vision has replaced my nascent dreams.
The fears I had, have long since vanished now;
A sea of sighs now drowns my mortal dreams.
This mortal tongue—this oracle—its curse
Casts blackened veils upon my sweetest dreams.
The sweetest
vices sin could ever conceive
Were not as sweet as my forgotten dreams.
And sweeter still than any vice conceived,
Than Nero dancing on his cloud of dreams
Or Dido weeping under Afric’s skies—
Too sad — too precious for her Tyrian dreams.
Apollo scared the flesh from Daphne’s form,
But when she breathed — her breath was light as dreams.
Once, young Adonis told fair Venus lies—
Their love was fresh and fled like mortal dreams.
Oh how I wish sin could conceive of vice
Far sweeter
than these nights' forgotten dreams.
Modern Dreams XVII: Fresh-Picked Roses
A rose is lying in the summer mud—
Its dew still fresh from when it fell last night.
A phoenix sinks into a sea of sands—
The midnight's skies shine brighter still than day.
It’s true, a comet burns just once and then
It fades and scatters over cosmic seas.
So Hector too once breathed a final breath
Then like a comet vanished in the depths.
A boy is dreaming on a backyard swing;
He smells the lilacs but he picks a rose;
The boy has dreams, some dark, some bright, some light
And pure like laurel sprigs or mountain streams.
He picked the rose—its beauty unsurpassed;
He picked her though he feared her thorns—he had
A fear of fear itself, a love of love—
The love of other and the love of self.
The rose we place inside our lover’s hands
Is like the dreams we place in our own hands.
When fresh-picked roses are placed in one’s hands;
Our dearest hopes and dreams are placed there too.
Dreams too—like roses and like love have thorns,
But oh, the joy of picking our own rose.
Modern Dreams XVIII: Lay Down Your Armor
Lay down your armor
And play for me your precious lyre;
And let me hear
Your deepest dreams and frail desires.
Lay down your armor
And play for me your gentle lyre;
And share with me
The story of your precious pains.
Lay down your armor
And share your sweetest dreams with me;
And tell me who
You saw within those deepest dreams.
Lay down your armor
And play for me your thespian lay;
And show me why
A mortal tongue is sweeter than a lyre.
Lay down your armor
And play for me a song and share
Your lovely griefs—
The dolorous nights you spent in dreams.
Lay down your armor
And play for me your little lyre;
And show me why
The world’s less real than our desire.
Lay down your armor
And pluck for me your dainty strings;
And tell me why
A dream’s more real than is the world.
Lay down your armor
And play once more your precious lyre;
And show me why
The world can fade, but not our dreams.
Lay down your armor
And let us dream a little while
—Dreams without end—
I’ll walk with you through every dream.
Lilacs in the Rain
by David B. Gosselin
I find myself once again in the garden
Where I used to play as a child
When a thousand flowery faces would greet me,
All of them lovely and wild.
The lavender would serenely sway,
Bequeathing her fragrance to the air,
Until gentle winds swept it away
Like a child laughing, free of care.
Dew would star the rose’s delicate calyx,
Staining its crown of verdant sepals,
Till May arrived with her brilliant rains
And spring appeared in a thousand petals.
But of all the flowery faces there
These stood out more than any others:
The spring Lilacs – dancing in a gentle breeze
Like a host of frolicking lovers.
Their fragrant offerings tempted me
As I’ve never been tempted again,
And I felt something I'd never felt before
Amid those Lilacs in the rain.
For the soft spring-time showers distilled
To an understanding that left me cold:
How even the sweetest things must die
As we grow old.
And so I wept on that beautiful morning,
My tears falling through the perfumed air,
At the faces of friends who welcomed me
With the larks' songs ringing everywhere.
May the beauties of May greet me again!
May they flood my soul with a precious pain—
May the briefness of their beauty haunt me
Like those Lilacs in the rain.
Modern Dreams
by David B. Gosselin
The dreams I had have been forgotten now—
The dreams I once believed I knew were true—
The dreams I know will haunt me every day—
The dreams I dreamt about just yesterday—
The dreams that I will not forget this day—
These dreams have changed my every way—
These dreams I dream will shape the future’s day—
The dreams I hope to tell someone someday—
The dreams I won’t forget to dream each day—
The dreams I’ll always be afraid to say—
The dreams I know I’ll pray for everyday—
The dreams I wish could somehow find their way—
The dreams I know I’ll dream of night and day—
The dreams so deep that I can never hope
To see the day when I would know just how to tell
How much our dreams soar high above all things
That we small specs of dust can see or say.
Chinese Mountain Man: The Night Sky
by David B. Gosselin
Trekking among the steep defiles,
Trailed by the sage, a young boy tried
To use the stars, in hopes
Of finding some path or some guide
To help him climb the rocky slopes.
They walked among a sea of fog
Which stalked them now for many nights
And left them wandering like ghosts
Amid the unfamiliar heights—
Without a guide or friendly hosts.
The sage walked slowly, patiently,
He held his head low, and seldom raised
His gaze to watch the stars or moon.
Hidden beneath his hood, lonesome,
The boy asked, “Will we be there soon?”
Who knows how long those travellers
Had wandered through that craggy world;
How many caves and grots and chasms
Crossed as the haunting shadows whirled—
How many unearthly phantasms?
“Let’s keep the pace,” the master said
While looking down and walking straight
Ahead without making a sound.
Although the master kept his pace,
The weary pupil soon slowed down.
He stopped and turned towards the sky,
Hoping to find some lucky star.
Walking amid the starry chorus,
The cowled sage paused, removed his hood,
Then gazed, “Sometimes the stars find us.”
Follow the Mountain Man series
here.
Nacht und Traume (Night and Dreams)
by Matthäus von Collin (1779-1824)
translation by David B. Gosselin
Holy night, descending softly,
Descending, too, are our dreams,
Like moonlight through a darkened room,
Through the depths of a man's breast.
He listens with elation;
When Night starts to fade, he cries:
Come back, holy night,
Return, sweetest dreams, return!
Translation © David B. Gosselin
Listen to Schubert’s musical setting of this poem
here.
Regenlied (The Rain Song)
by Klaus Groth (1819-1899)
translation by David B. Gosselin
Fall rain, fall upon this old world,
And wake deep inside me the dreams
That I dreamt when I was a child,
When rain would wet the golden sand.
When the sultry summer breezes
Frolicked through the evening coolness
And the morning's dewy leaves thawed,
When the crops shone a darker blue.
What a joy to stand in the rain
With our bare and naked feet,
To reach down into the wet grass
And touch the fresh foam with one's hand.
Or to feel the cool descending
Showers as they greet our warm cheeks;
To bear our youth's bosom once more
As sweet perfume fills the soft air.
Like the rose's calyx trickling
With rain, my soul respires;
Like the flowers drunk with fragrance,
Drowning in the heavenly dew.
I would love to hear it once more—
The sound of the soft rain pattering
As my soul is graciously bedewed
With a holy child-like awe.
Translation © David B. Gosselin
Listen to Brahms’ musical setting of this poem
here.
Immer Leise Wird Mein Schlummer
by Hermann Lingg
My sleep grows ever more gentle,
Only my sorrow, like a veil,
Trembles over me.
I hear you often in my dreams,
Standing at my door, calling me –
But no one answers, it seems.
I wake up and weep bitterly.
Death begins to rear his pale head;
You’ll kiss again when I'm long dead,
And safe in my tomb.
Before the May wind returns,
Before warblers call the moon,
If your heart for my kiss yearns,
Come, oh come soon.
Translation © David B. Gosselin
Listen to Brahms’ musical setting of this poem
here.
Im Fruhling (In Spring)
by Ernst Schulze
translation by David B. Gosselin
I sit here lonely on a hill
Where skies are clear and blue;
The sunset casts a glowing veil
Over the deep and tranquil dale—
I used to love this view.
I walked with my beloved there,
She was so close, so dear.
I saw within the mountain streams,
In sky and clouds, like passing dreams,
Her face so crystal clear.
And see, how spring already shines
From each young bud and bloom!
Though each is not the same to me.
The branch she plucked so gracefully
Would be the one I’d choose.
So all is as it was before,
Each bud and flowery scene.
The sun is just as bright today
And just as peacefully, the sky
Appears within the stream.
Illusions and our will must change,
Our luck can fade tomorrow;
The joy of love will one day fly
But still our true love cannot die—
Our love, alas, and sorrow.
If only I could be a bird,
Perched and sharing my song.
I’d settle there so quietly
And sing for her a melody
That lasts all summer long.
Translation © David B. Gosselin
Listen to Schubert’s musical setting of this poem
here.
Von Ewige Liebe
by August Heinrich Hoffmann von Fallersleben
Set to music by Brahms
translation by David B. Gosselin
So dark, so dark the willow forests loom,
The skies are wintered and the evening hushed.
Now neither shroud nor light nor vapors rise,
The songster neither sings his ode nor flies.
A young man walks the village thoroughfare,
And escorts his fiancé back to her home.
They walk right past the wild willow wood,
Discussing and confessing many things.
“If you feel shame about our love amid
The eyes of other friends or your own kin,
“Then let our love be shorn to shreds,
As swiftly as we first had made our vows.
“Departing through the rain and wind, we’ll part,
As swiftly as we first had made our vows.”
His lovely young fiancé then responds,
“There is no chance our love can be undone”
Steel is strong, iron does not bend or break,
But who shall bend or break our love?
Iron and steel will succumb to the forge –
But not our love, neither to pain nor fire.
Translation © David B. Gosselin
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