You may ask me for a manually cleaned version. Arranger Johannes N. Rauch Otto Standke Braunschweig: Henry Litolff's Verlag , No. This file is part of the Sibley Mirroring Project. Editor August Linder. Deutsche Weisen , No. Plate A. Mendelssohn, Felix. Oxford University Press. The Musical Times. The Musical Times Publications Ltd. II pp. Gustav Mahler. Piano Quartet. Mahler film Bride of the Wind film Mahler on the Couch film.
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Download as PDF Printable version. Wikimedia Commons. Piano Quartet in A minor first movement. The Song of Lament , Cantata. Symphony No. Sinfonie c-Moll "Auferstehungssinfonie". Gib acht!
Now the world is dismal, the path veiled in snow. For my journey I cannot choose my own time; I must pick the way myself through this darkness.
Why should I stay longer until they drive me away? Love loves to rove— God made it so— from one to the next.
Sweetheart, goodnight! I will not disturb your dreams: that would spoil your rest. You must not hear my footsteps— soft, softly shut the doors! Die Wetterfahne. Der Wind spielt drinnen mit den Herzen wie auf dem Dach, nur nicht so laut. Was fragen sie nach meinen Schmerzen? Ihr Kind ist eine reiche Braut.
In my confusion I thought its whistling mocked this wretched fugitive. He should have noticed sooner the emblem set upon the house; then he would never have tried to look for faithful womanhood within.
Indoors the wind plays with hearts as on the roof, but not so loudly. What do they care for my sorrows? Their child is a rich bride. Drops of ice are falling from off my cheeks: did I not notice, then, that I have been crying? O tears, my tears, are you so tepid then that you turn to ice like cold morning dew? Soll denn kein Angedenken ich nehmen mit von hier? Wenn meine Schmerzen schweigen, wer sagt mir dann von ihr? Vainly I search in the snow for the footprint she left when arm in arm with me she rambled over the green meadow.
I want to kiss the ground, pierce through ice and snow with my hot tears until I see the soil beneath. Where shall I find a blossom, where find green grass? The flowers are dead, the grass looks so wan. Can there be no keepsake, then, to carry away with me?
When my sorrows fall silent, what shall tell me of her? My heart is as good as frozen; within it her image gazes coldly. If ever my heart thaws again, her image too will melt away. Der Lindenbaum. Die kalten Winde bliesen mir grad ins Angesicht; der Hut flog mir vom Kopfe, ich wendete mich nicht. By the well at the town gate there stands a lime tree; in its shadow I have dreamed full many a sweet dream. On its bark I have carved full many a loving word.
In joy and sorrow it drew me to it again and again. Just now my journey took me past it at dead of night, and even in the darkness I had to close my eyes. The chill winds blew straight in my face: my hat flew off my head.
I did not turn back. Many a tear from my eyes has dropped into the snow. Its chilly flakes suck thirstily up my burning woe. When the grass begins to shoot, a warm breeze will blow there, and the ice will melt in torrents and the snow will dissolve. Snow, you know of my longing: say, which way will you flow? Just follow my tears: their stream will soon carry you away.
You will course the town with them, in and out of cheerful streets. Auf dem Flusse. Mein Herz, in diesem Bache erkennst du nun dein Bild? You who so merrily babbled, clear, wild stream, how silent you have become: you give no greeting as we part.
With hard, stiff hoar you have covered yourself; you lie cold and motionless, stretched out in the sand. On your crust I carve with a sharp stone the name of my beloved and the hour and the day.
The day I first met her, the day I went away; round name and figures winds a broken ring. In this brook, my heart, do you now recognize your likeness? Under its crust is there a roaring torrent too? It is burning hot under both my feet, though I am walking on ice and snow; I would rather not draw breath again until the towers are out of sight.
I bruised myself on every stone, so did I hurry out of the town. The crows threw snowballs and hailstones onto my hat from every roof. How otherwise did you welcome me, you town of inconstancy! At your bright windows sang the lark vying with the nightingale. The plump lime trees were in bloom, the clear streams babbled brightly, and alas, two girlish eyes were glowing! Whenever that day comes to mind, I long to look back once more, long to stumble back again and stand in silence outside her house.
How I shall find my way out does not weigh heavily on my mind. I am used to going astray: every path leads to its destination. Every stream will reach the sea; every sorrow too its grave. I only notice now how tired I am, as I lie down to rest.
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