Alexander Muth: Lyrics and Translations

April 2, 2025

Job’s Curse

Let the night perish; cursed be the morn
Wherein 'twas said: there is a man-child born!
Let not the Lord regard that day, but shroud
Its fatal glory in some sullen cloud.
May the dark shades of an eternal night
Exclude the least kind beam of dawning light;
Let unborn babes, as in the womb they lie,
If it be mentioned, give a groan, and die.
No sounds of joy therein shall charm the ear,
No sun, no moon, no twilight stars appear
But a thick veil of gloomy darkness wear.
Why did I not, when first my mother's womb
Discharg'd me thence, drop down into my tomb?
Then had I been as quiet, and mine eyes
Had slept, and seen no sorrow; there the wise
And subtle counsellor, the potentate,
Who for themselves built palaces of state,
Lie hush'd in silence; there's no midnight cry
Caus'd by oppression and the tyranny
Of wicked rulers; there the weary cease
From labour, there the pris'ner sleeps in peace;
The rich, the poor, the monarch and the slave
Rest undisturb'd and no distinction have
Within the silent chambers of the grave.

Paraphrase of Job 3:3-19 by Jeremy Taylor (1613-1667)

Amore traditore, BWV 203

III. Chi in amore ha nemica la sorte

Chi in amore ha nemica la sorte
è follia, se non lascia d'amar,
sprezzi l'alma le crude ritorte,
se non trova mercede al penar.

Translation: Traitorous love

III. Whoever has fate as his enemy in love

Whoever has fate as his enemy in love
Is a fool if he does not give up loving,
Break the soul free of these cruel constrictions
If it does not find mercy from its suffering.

Librettist unknown
Translation: Alexander Muth

Der Genesene an die Hoffnung, Mörike-Lieder, No. 1

Tödlich graute mir der Morgen:
Doch schon lag mein Haupt, wie süss!
Hoffnung, dir im Schoss verborgen,
Bis der Sieg gewonnen hiess.
Opfer bracht ich allen Göttern,
Doch vergessen warest du;
Seitwärts von den ewgen Rettern
Sahest du dem Feste zu.

O vergib, du Vielgetreue!
Tritt aus deinem Dämmerlicht,
Dass ich dir ins ewig neue,
Mondenhelle Angesicht
Einmal schaue, recht von Herzen,
Wie ein Kind und sonder Harm;
Ach, nur einmal ohne Schmerzen
Schliesse mich in deinen Arm!

Translation: The Convalescent Addresses Hope

The Morning met me deathly
But still my Heart lay, how sweetly!
Hidden in your Breast, Hope,
Until the Victory was certain.
I brought Offerings to all Gods,
But you were forgotten;
Off to the Side of the eternal Saviours,
You looked on at the Feast.

Oh, forgive me, you Most Faithful One!
Step out of your Half-Light,
So that into your eternally new,
Moon-bright Face
I can gaze for once, right from the Heart,
Like a Child and without Sorrow;
Oh, just this once, free from Pain
Lock me up in your Arms!

Eduard Mörike (1804-1875)
Translation: Alexander Muth

An eine Äolsharfe, Op. 19, No. 5

Angelehnt an die Efeuwand
Dieser alten Terrasse,
Du, einer luftgebornen Muse
Geheimnisvolles Saitenspiel,
Fang an,
Fange wieder an
Deine melodische Klage!

Ihr kommet, Winde, fern herüber,
Ach! Von des Knaben,
Der mir so lieb war,
Frisch grünendem Hügel.
Und Frühlingsblüten unterweges streifend,
Übersättigt mit Wohlgerüchen,
Wie süss bedrängt ihr dies Herz!
Und säuselt her in die Saiten,
Angezogen von wohllautender Wehmut,
Wachsend im Zug meiner Sehnsucht,
Und hinsterbend wieder.

Aber auf einmal,
Wie der Wind heftiger herstösst,
Ein holder Schrei der Harfe
Wiederholt, mir zu süssem Erschrecken
Meiner Seele plötzliche Regung,
Und hier – die volle Rose streut, geschüttelt,
All ihre Blätter vor meine Füsse!

Translation: To an Aeolian Harp

Leaning on the Ivy-covered wall
Of this old Terrace,
You, a breeze-born Muse’s
Secretive Playing-strings,
Begin,
Begin again,
Your melodious Lament!

You come, Winds, from far away,
Ah! From the Child
Who was so dear to me,
From his newly green Grave.
And along the Way caressing Spring Flowers,
Overladen with Fragrance,
How sweetly do you pull at this Heart!
And now you murmur in the Strings,
Pulled in by rich-resonating Sorrow,
Waxing in the Wake of my Yearning,
And dying away again.

But all at once,
As the Wind pushes more violently,
A tender Cry of the Harp
Echoes, to my sweet Terror
The sudden Stirring of my Soul,
And here – the full Rose strews, all scattered,
All its Petals at my Feet!

Eduard Mörike (1804-1875)
Translation: Alexander Muth

Le bestiaire, ou Cortège d'Orphée, FP 15a

The Bestiary, or Procession of Orpheus

Le dromedaire

Avec ses quatre dromadaires
Don Pedro d’Alfaroubeira
Courut le monde et l’admira.
Il fit ce que je voudrais faire
Si j’avais quatre dromadaires.

Translation: The Dromedary

With his four dromedaries
Dom Pedro of Alfarrobeira
Roamed the world and liked it.
He did what I’d do
If I had four dromedaries.

II. La chèvre du Thibet

Les poils de cette chèvre et même
Ceux d’or pour qui prit tant de peine
Jason, ne valent rien au prix
Des cheveux dont je suis épris.

Translation: II. The Tibetan Goat

The fleece of this goat and even
The golden one that Jason labored for
Are worth nothing when compared
To the hair that I’m in love with.

III. La sauterelle

Voici la fine sauterelle,
La nourriture de saint Jean.
Puissent mes vers être comme elle,
Le régal des meilleures gens.

Translation: III. The Grasshopper

Here’s the fine grasshopper,
John the Baptist’s food.
May my poetry be like it,
A treat for the best people.

V. L’écrevisse

Incertitude, ô mes délices
Vous et moi nous nous en allons
Comme s’en vont les écrevisses,
À reculons, à reculons.

Translation: V. The Crayfish

Uncertainly, o my delight,
You and I we get away
As crayfish do,
Backwards, backwards.

VI. La carpe

Dans vos viviers, dans vos étangs,
Carpes, que vous vivez longtemps !
Est-ce que la mort vous oublie,
Poissons de la mélancolie.

Translation: VI. The Carp

In your pools, in your ponds,
Carp, you live such a long time!
Does death pass over you,
Fish of despondency?

Guillaume Apollinaire (1880-1918)
Translation: Lauren Shakely

Le bestiaire, ou Cortège d'Orphée, Op. 17a

XIII. La mouche

Nos mouches savent des chansons
Que leur apprirent en Norvège
Les mouches ganiques qui sont
Les divinités de la neige.

Translation: XIII. The Fly

Our flies know songs
Taught to them in Norway
By ganique flies which are
Deities of the snow.

XXV. Ibis

Oui, j’irai dans l’ombre terreuse.
O mort certaine, ainsi soit-il!
Latin mortel, parole affreuse,
Ibis, oiseau des bords du Nil.

Translation: XXV. Ibis

Yes, I’ll go into the shadowy earth.
Oh certain death, so let it be!
Deadly Latin, frightful words,
Ibis, bird of the banks of the Nile.

XXVI. Le boeuf

Ce chérubin dit la louange
Du paradis, où, près des anges,
Nous revivrons, mes chers amis
Quand le bon Dieu l’aura permis.

Translation: XXVI. The Bull

This cherubim recites the praise
Of paradise, where, close to the angels,
We’ll live again, my dear friends,
When the good Lord allows.

Guillaume Apollinaire (1880-1918)
Translation: Lauren Shakely

Involuntary Love Songs

I. Thaw

Where was I?

There was, I think, a graffiti cloud on a rusted gate.
A guide dog narrowed his eyes,
plaintive, patient in the sun.
A young woman glowed like a bride,
glowed like a peach.

Weathered knuckles wrapped around a handkerchief,
slipped around a chrome bar.
Commuters danced a tarantella to the pitch and sway of traffic,
and steam curled skyward from the street.

Now, I read secret cursive scripts under my skin.
I was about to say something,
how I miss you from the inside out.

Now, where was I?

While you were away,
the thaw made dark rivulets under the ice
and the fog retreated from the shore.

II. Matches

Oh I remember I recall
I tell myself I keep telling me
That I'm not I am not but
I keep telling myself I'm not
And the more I do
The more I tell myself I'm not
The more that part of my self
The part that I deny
I deny my self
The part that I tell myself that I am not
That part there
The more I deny the more that part runs
free and wild like a spreading fire
the fire that I deny
For I am not no not on fire
And I run free and I'm trailing smoke
And I run and run and I run
trailing smoke and flame in the dark
In the darkest night I've never seen
In tighter circles sending signals to a sky
That I can not see
I deny the sky the fire
with an eye to the part that I deny
the inner part
I circle a child cold and shy
lighting matches
Oh I recall the inner dark that I deny
the tighter circles cold and shy
I am not no I tell myself I'm not
I tell myself
I deny
I'm trailing smoke
But I am not
no not on fire

III. Script

Hold out your palms
I will fill them with licks
and nibbles and kisses.
I will spell out cryptic riddles
with the tip of my tongue.

Let your skin be a canvas,
a journal to fill with schemes,
with words that your ears are not ready to hear
and my voice fails to form.
Shivers and tremors.
Soundless syllables.

With less than a whisper,
let me reveal
that I have been cracked open by truth.
Truth strong like hunger.
Severe as a sudden summer storm,
ferocious and sweet.

Alan Ashton

Mirages, Op. 113

I. Cygne sur l’eau

Ma pensée est un cygne harmonieux et sage
Qui glisse lentement aux rivages d’ennui
Sur les ondes sans fond du rêve, du mirage,
De l’écho, du brouillard, de l’ombre, de la nuit.

Il glisse, roi hautain fendant un libre espace,
Poursuit un reflet vain, précieux et changeant,
Et les roseaux nombreux s’inclinent quand il passe,
Sombre et muet, au seuil d’une lune d’argent;

Et des blancs nénuphars chaque corolle ronde
Tour à tour a fleuri de désir ou d’espoir …
Mais plus avant toujours, sur la brume et sur l’onde,
Vers l’inconnu fuyant glisse le cygne noir.

Or j’ai dit: «Renoncez, beau cygne chimérique,
À ce voyage lent vers de troubles destins;
Nul miracle chinois, nulle étrange Amérique
Ne vous accueilleront en des havres certains;

Les golfes embaumés, les îles immortelles
Ont pour vous, cygne noir, des récifs périlleux;
Demeurez sur les lacs où se mirent, fidèles,
Ces nuages, ces fleurs, ces astres, et ces yeux.»

Translation: I. Swan on the Water

My mind is a swan, harmonious and wise,
That glides slowly over the rivers of ennui,
On the bottomless waves of dreams, of mirages,
Of echoes, of fog, of shadows, of the night.
It glides, a haughty king slicing at unoccupied space,
Pursuing a vain reflection, foppish and fickle,
And the numerous reeds bow as it passes,
Sombre and mute as a silver moon rises;

And each round crown of a white water lily
In its turn has blossomed from desire or despair...
But always as before, on the mist and on the wave,
Toward the elusive unknown, the black swan glides.

Now I tell it: "Fair and idealistic swan, give up
Your slow journey toward troubled destinations;
No Chinese miracle, no American oddity
Will accept you in assured harbours;

"The perfumed bays, the immortal isles
Are for you, black swan, dangerous reefs ;
Dwell instead on lakes where mirrored faithfully are
These clouds, these flowers, these stars, and these eyes."

Renée Bonnière, Baronne de Brimont (1880-1943)
Translation copyright © by Emily Ezust,
from the LiederNet Archive -- https://www.lieder.net/

La souris, FP 162, no. 1

Belles journées, souris du temps,
Vous rongez peu à peu ma vie.
Dieu ! je vais avoir vingt-huit ans,
Et mal vécus, à mon envie.

Translation: The Mouse

Beautiful days, mice of time,
You gnaw away my life bit by bit.
My God! I’m going to be twenty-eight—
a wasted life, as I wanted it.

Guillaume Apollinaire (1880-1918)
Translation: Lauren Shakely

Schwanengesang

Swan Song

XIV. Die Taubenpost, D. 965a

Ich hab’ eine Brieftaub in meinem Sold,
Die ist gar ergeben und treu,
Sie nimmt mir nie das Ziel zu kurz,
Und fliegt auch nie vorbei.

Ich sende sie vieltausendmal
Auf Kundschaft täglich hinaus,
Vorbei an manchem lieben Ort,
Bis zu der Liebsten Haus.

Dort schaut sie zum Fenster heimlich hinein,
Belauscht ihren Blick und Schritt,
Gibt meine Grüsse scherzend ab
Und nimmt die ihren mit.

Kein Briefchen brauch’ ich zu schreiben mehr,
Die Träne selbst geb’ ich ihr:
O sie verträgt sie sicher nicht,
Gar eifrig dient sie mir.

Bei Tag, bei Nacht, im Wachen, im Traum,
Ihr gilt das alles gleich:
Wenn sie nur wandern, wandern kann,
Dann ist sie überreich!

Sie wird nicht müd’, sie wird nicht matt,
Der Weg ist stets ihr neu;
Sie braucht nicht Lockung, braucht nicht Lohn,
Die Taub’ ist so mir treu!

Drum heg’ ich sie auch so treu an der Brust,
Versichert des schönsten Gewinns;
Sie heisst – die Sehnsucht! Kennt ihr sie?
Die Botin treuen Sinns.

Translation: XIV. Pigeon Post

In my pay I have a carrier-pigeon
Who is utterly loyal and true.
She never stops too short of her goal,
Nor ever flies too far.

A thousand times I send her out
To gather everyday information,
Past many of my favorite places
To my beloved's house.

There she peeps in secretly at the window,
Eavesdropping on every look and step;
Banteringly she conveys my greetings
And brings my beloved's back to me.

I don't even need to write a note any longer;
Tears alone I give her.
Oh, she hardly tolerates those,
So fervently does she serve me.

By day, by night, awake or in a dream,
It is all the same to her:
Only when she is in flight, and can be in flight,
Then she is happy!

She never grows tired, she never feels dull,
The way always feels new to her;
She needs no enticement, needs no reward,
So true to me is this pigeon!

And so I cherish her so truly in my heart,
Assured of the fairest prize;
Her name is -- Longing! Do you know her? --
The messenger of a devoted heart.

Johann Gabriel Seidl (1804-1875)
Translation copyright © by Emily Ezust,
from the LiederNet Archive -- https://www.lieder.net/