Swan-song
(Poet's title: Schwangesang)
Set by Schubert:
D 318
[October 19, 1815]
Part of Kosegarten (putative cycle)
Endlich stehn die Pforten offen,
Endlich winkt das kühle Grab,
Und nach langem Fürchten, Hoffen,
Neig ich mich die Nacht hinab.
Durchgewacht sind nun die Tage
Meines Lebens, süße Ruh
Drückt nach ausgeweinter Klage
Mir die müden Wimpern zu.
Auge, schleuß dich. Strahl der Sonnen,
Wecke nicht den Schläfer mehr.
Seine Sanduhr ist verreronnen;
Seine Kräfte Sprudel leer.
Durchgerannt sind seine Schranken,
Durchgekämpfet ist sein Kampf.
Seht, der Erde Pfeiler wanken.
Seht, die Welt verwallt wie Dampf.
Dunkel wird mein Blick und trübe,
Taub das Ohr, und starr das Herz.
In ihm klopft nicht mehr die Liebe;
In ihm bebt nicht mehr der Schmerz.
Ausgeliebet, ausgelitten
Hab ich, und die Leidenschaft
Tobt nicht mehr und abgeschnitten
Dorrt mein Reben, eist mein Saft.
Öffne deine Schattenpforten,
Öffne, Engel Tod, sie nun.
Lange will ich, lange dorten
Bei dir in der Kammer ruhn.
Süß, geräuschlos, kühl und stille
Soll´s in deiner Kammer sein.
O so eile, Trauter, hülle
In dein Schlafgewand mich ein.
Die mich gern und liebend schauten,
Mond und Sonne, lebet wohl!
Die mir süße Wehmut tauten,
Früh- und Spatrot, lebet wohl!
Lebet wohl, ihr grünen Felder,
Du mein Tausendschönchental!
Düstre, feierliche Wälder,
Bäch´ und Hügel allzumal!
Die ihr zärtlich mich umschlanget,
Mit mir teiltet Weh und Wohl,
Mit mir kämpftet, mit mir ranget,
Lebet Freunde, lebet wohl!
Die du meinen Staub erschufest
Und ihn heut in deinen Schoß,
Mutter Erde, wieder rufest,
Hüll´ ihn sanft und störungslos.
Ewig wird die Nacht nicht dauern,
Ewig dieser Schlummer nicht.
Hinter jenen Gräberschauern
Dämmert unauslöschlich Licht.
Aber bis das Licht mir funkle,
Bis ein schönrer Tag mir lacht,
Sink ich ruhig in die dunkle,
Stille, kühle Schlummernacht.
At last the gates are open,
At last the cool grave is beckoning,
And after long fears and hope
Night is now bending me down.
I have now stayed awake through the days
Of my life. Sweet rest,
After complaints that have cried themselves out, rest is pressing
Onto my tired eyelids.
Eyes, close! Ray of sunlight,
Do not wake up the sleeper again.
His timer has run down.
The source of his strength has dried up.
His cupboards have now been emptied out,
His battle has been fought.
Look, the Earth’s pillars are shaking.
Look, the world is boiling up like steam.
My eyesight is becoming dark and clouded
My ear is deaf, and my heart is rigid;
Love no longer beats within it,
Pain no longer stirs within it.
Loved out, suffered out,
That is what I have done, and suffering
Rages around no longer, and cut off,
My grapes dry up, my juice is frozen.
Open up your shadowy gates,
Open them up now, angel of death.
I want to spend a long time, a long time there
With you resting in that chamber.
Sweet, noiseless, cool and calm
Is how it will be in your chamber.
Oh, so hurry up, devoted one, cover
Me up in your sleeping garment.
You who have looked at me so eagerly and lovingly,
Moon and sun, farewell!
You who bedewed me with sweet melancholy,
Red skies of morning and evening, farewell!
Farewell, you green fields,
You valley of a thousand beauties,
Gloomy, solemn forests,
Rivers and hills, all of you!
Those of you who embraced me tenderly,
Who shared good and bad times with me,
Who battled with me, who struggled with me,
Farewell, friends, farewell!
You who created my dust
And who is today taking it back into your womb,
Mother Earth, calling it back,
Cover it gently and without disturbance.
The night is not going to last for ever,
This sleep is not going to last for ever.
Behind each terrifying grave
An inextinguishable light will dawn.
But until that light shines on me,
Until a more beautiful day laughs on me,
I shall sink peacefully into the dark,
Calm, cool night of sleep.
All translations into English that appear on this website, unless otherwise stated, are by Malcolm Wren. You are free to use them on condition that you acknowledge Malcolm Wren as the translator and schubertsong.uk as the source. Unless otherwise stated, the comments and essays that appear after the texts and translations are by Malcolm Wren and are © Copyright.
☙
Themes and images in this text:
Angels Bending Buildings and architecture Clocks Clothes Covers and covering Day Doors and gates Dust The earth Emptiness and fullness Eternity Evening and the setting sun Eyes Farewell and leave taking Fields and meadows Friends Frost and ice Graves and burials Hearts Heat Hills and mountains Inns and guest houses Laments, elegies and mourning Lap, womb (Schoß) Laughing Light Melancholy Morning and morning songs Night and the moon Noise and silence Open and closed Pain Red and purple Rest Rivers (Bach) Shrouds Sleep Springs, sources and fountains The sun Sweetness Swans Swan songs Under the water, sinking and drowning Valleys War, battles and fighting Wine and vines Woods – large woods and forests (Wald)
It must have been a welcome sight for 18th century travellers (by coach, on horseback or on foot): the gates into the courtyard of the inn standing open, with the knowledge that a room has been reserved. Journeys were eventful and tiring, and the prospect of rest was something to look forward to eagerly. So it is for Kosegarten’s exhausted traveller, approaching the end of today’s stage. The gates of the inn / grave are opening up to receive him, as he comes to the end of his journey / life.
He is so tired that he cannot face the prospect of the alarm going off in the morning or being woken by the light of the rising sun. Indeed he sees himself as an egg-timer that has now emptied all of its sand, or, in some early editions of the poem, a clock that has run down and that does not need winding up (today we would more probably think of our batteries having gone flat and them not being re-charged). This image precipitates a whole series of metaphors to do with using up our resources: my well has run dry; my cupboards are bare; my battles have now been fought. He can no longer run on empty, but instead of deciding to re-stock he interprets the situation as critical. Indeed it has cosmic significance. There is an earthquake followed quickly by a tsunami (Seht, der Erde Pfeiler wanken, / Seht, die Welt verwallt wie Dampf). That is how tired he is.
The third stanza centres around the experience of ageing and withering. The long journey has not just tired the traveller out but it has also affected his senses and sensitivities. His eyesight and hearing are failing and his emotions have faded similarly. He no longer sees into the cares and concerns of others and nor does he feel any stirrings within himself. He is a grape that has shrivelled up or juice that has had the zest frozen out of it.
So, he is keen to enter the room (coffin? grave?) reserved for him in the inn (grave? graveyard?); he is ready to put on his nightgown (shroud). He can now say goodnight to his friends and thus the tone changes (becoming more nostalgic and giving the lie to his previous assertion that he has lost all feeling and sensitivity) as he says his final farewells. He addresses nature first before turning to his friends (presumably those gathered around his deathbed as he sings this, his swansong). He ends with a request to Mother Earth to take his body back into her calm womb, that haven of security and protection which we all once experienced before the trauma of birth.
If the grave is a bedroom in a coaching inn, the traveller will be woken in the morning. If the grave is a womb, we will be reborn. No night lasts for ever, and sleep is a temporary state. Another day will dawn and for 18th century Europeans it was very difficult to envisage death not giving way to resurrection in some form. However, this traveller is so exhausted that he can barely bring himself to think about tomorrow / the world to come (though he knows he probably should). He just wants to be allowed to get to bed and get some sleep: a quiet night’s rest.
☙
Original Spelling Schwangesang Endlich steh'n die Pforten offen, Endlich winkt das kühle Grab, Und nach langem Fürchten, Hoffen, Neig' ich mich die Nacht hinab. Durchgewacht sind nun die Tage Meines Lebens. Süße Ruh Drückt nach ausgeweinter Klage Mir die müden Wimpern zu. Auge, schleuß dich. Strahl der Sonnen, Wecke nicht den Schläfer mehr. Seine Sanduhr ist verreronnen; Seine Kräfte Sprudel leer. Durchgerannt sind seine Schranken, Durchgekämpfet ist sein Kampf. Seht, der Erde Pfeiler wanken. Seht, die Welt verwallt wie Dampf. Dunkel wird mein Blick und trübe, Taub das Ohr, und starr das Herz. In ihm klopft nicht mehr die Liebe; In ihm bebt nicht mehr der Schmerz. Ausgeliebet, ausgelitten Hab' ich, und die Leidenschaft Tobt nicht mehr, und abgeschnitten Dorrt mein Reben, eis´t mein Saft. Oeffne deine Schattenpforten, Oeffne, Engel Tod sie nun. Lange will ich, lange dorten Bey dir in der Kammer ruhn. Süß, geräuschlos, kühl und stille Soll´s in deiner Kammer seyn. O so eile, Trauter, hülle In dein Schlafgewand mich ein. Die mich gern und liebend schauten, Mond und Sonne, lebet wohl! Die mir süße Wehmuth thauten, Früh- und Spatroth, lebet wohl! Lebet wohl, ihr grünen Felder, Du mein Tausendschönchenthal! Düstre, feyerliche Wälder, Bäch´ und Hügel allzumal! Die ihr zärtlich mich umschlanget, Mit mir theiltet Weh und Wohl, Mit mir kämpftet, mit mir ranget, Lebet, Freunde, lebet wohl! Die du meinen Staub erschufest, Und ihn heut in deinen Schooß, Mutter Erde, wiederrufest, Hüll´ ihn sanft und störungslos. Ewig wird die Nacht nicht dauern, Ewig dieser Schlummer nicht. Hinter jenen Gräberschauern Dämmert unauslöschlich Licht. Aber bis das Licht mir funkle, Bis ein schön'rer Tag mir lacht, Sink' ich ruhig in die dunkle, Stille, kühle Schlummernacht.
Confirmed by Peter Rastl with Schubert’s source, L.T.Kosegarten’s Poesieen, Neueste Auflage, Zweyter Band, Berlin 1803, pages 152-154.
To see an early edition of the text, go to page 152 [156 von 298] here: http://digital.onb.ac.at/OnbViewer/viewer.faces?doc=ABO_%2BZ184217005