Last Poems of Georg Trakl

All of the last poems of the great German poet Georg Trakl, translated by Bob Herz.  
 
To The Boy Elis
 
When the blackbird calls in the black wood, 
Elis, this is your descent. 
You drink the coolness of the blue rock-spring. 
 
When your forehead gently bleeds 
Give up the ancient legends 
And the dark interpretations of the bird’s flight. 
 
But you walk softly into the night, 
Where the grapes hang full and purple, 
And you move your arms more beautifully in the blue. 
 
The thorn-bush sounds 
Where your moonlike eyes are. 
How long, Elis, you have been dead. 
 
Your body is a hyacinth, 
The monk dips his waxen fingers into it. 
Our silence is a black cave, 
 
Sometimes a gentle animal steps out of it 
And slowly lowers his heavy lids. 
A black dew gathers at your temples, 
 
It is the final gold of the ruined stars.
 
In Spring
 
Quietly snow fell from the dark steps,
In the shadow of the tree
Lovers lift their rosy eyelids.
 
Always star and night
Follow the mariners’ dark calls; 
And the oars beat quietly in time.
 
Soon violets will bloom 
On the decayed wall 
And green become the silent temple of the lonely.
 
Autumn of the Lonely
 
Dark autumn returns full of fruit and plenty,
The yellow sheen of beautiful summer days.
A pure blue flows from the dull ruined shells;
The flight of birds carries sounds from old legends.
The wine is pressed, the mild stillness
Is filled with quiet answers to dark questions.
 
Here and there, a cross on barren hills;
In the red forest a herd has wandered off.
Clouds mirrored in the surface of the pond;
There is a calmness in the gestures of the farmer.
Very quietly the blue wing of evening stirs
Over the roof of dried straw, the black earth.
 
Soon the stars will nest in the brows of the weary one;
In cool rooms a silent modesty enters
And angels step quietly from the blue eyes 
Of the lovers, whose suffering grows gentle.
The reed rustles; there is a bony horror that comes 
When the black dew drips from barren pastures.