Highland
(From the German of Julius Berstl)
Early light reflexes climb with rose fingers up the cliffs.
The chilly valley slumbers and cowers in its white fog bed,
But nude and cool, unearthly fine and clear,
Glitter the glacier chains.
The morning wind faint-heartedly plays a lyre,
No bird strikes screaming through the distance;
It is as if the sound of a timid harp
Spreads with bird-like wings
Along the stone cliffs and over the valley.
And now, as if breathed by the fragrance and dew,
Out of fog blossoms a wreath of meadows;
Behind them blooms a crystal glacier blue,
And a dream-laden delicate purple grey
Plays all around the giant mountains.