Learned essays on this or that poetry make little red devils dance in my brain and my right hand reach for a Japanese sword. They are invariably inferior to the spirit, and occupy only a small section of the horizon of their subject. I have translated these three poems because I felt that they were as good or better than the best things published in this country, and because so little is known of this kind of German poetry here. The first is by Julius Berstl and the second two are by Fritz Schnack. I know of many more, but I am unable to get their work just now. As you perhaps know, they are engaged at present in a different direction.
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;