Sea-sickness
Die grauen Nachmittagswolken
The gray clouds of late afternoon
Sag and hang heavily over the sea
Which heaves darkly against them;
And the ship drives on between them.
Sea-sick, I keep on sitting by the mainmast,
And give myself up to a host of reflections;
Reflections that are ash-gray and very old,
That were already made by Father Lot
After he had been enjoying good things too freely,
And found himself in a bad way.
With this I think of other old stories:
How the cross-bearing pilgrims, in the days of their stormy sea-journeys,
Would be soothed by kissing the picture
Of the blessèd Virgin.
How sea-sick knights, in similar distress,
Would press the precious glove of their adored
Against their lips—and straightway would be cured . . .
But here I sit, and keep on chewing
An old dried herring, that salty consoler
When one's sick as a cat or down as a dog.
All this time the ship is battling
With the wild, tossing tide.
Like a rearing war-horse, she poises herself
On her trembling stern, till the rudder cracks.
Then down she plunges, headlong
Into the howling watery chasm once more.
Then again, like one reckless and weak with love,
She seems about to rest herself
On the black bosom of a giant wave,
That, with a huge roaring, comes toward her.
And suddenly, a furious sea-cataract,
Seething and foaming, rushes upon us,
And souses me with foam.
This tumbling and tossing and rocking
Is beyond bearing!
In vain my eyes strain to seek
The German coast. Alas! only water—
Nothing but water; endless, treacherous water.
As the winter-wanderer longs at evening
For a warm and comforting cup of tea,
So my heart longs for thee,
My German fatherland!
Though forever thy sweet soil is encumbered
With madness, hussars and poor verses,
And thin and tepid pamphlets!
Though forever thy donkeys
Feed upon roses, instead of on thistles!
Though forever thy high-born monkeys
Prink and preen themselves in idle splendor,
And think themselves better than all the other
Dull, heavy-footed, stupid and common cattle!
Though thy feeble old snail-council
Think they will live forever
Since they move forward so slowly;
Daily clearing their throats to argue
“Does not the cheese belong to the cheese-mites?”
Or consuming long hours discussing
“Methods of improving Egyptian sheep”
So that the shepherd may shear them like others,
Without a difference—
Though forever folly and wrong and injustice
May cover thee, oh Germany,
Still am I yearning for thee now:
For thou, at least, art good, dry, solid land.
The gray clouds of late afternoon
Sag and hang heavily over the sea
Which heaves darkly against them;
And the ship drives on between them.
Sea-sick, I keep on sitting by the mainmast,
And give myself up to a host of reflections;
Reflections that are ash-gray and very old,
That were already made by Father Lot
After he had been enjoying good things too freely,
And found himself in a bad way.
With this I think of other old stories:
How the cross-bearing pilgrims, in the days of their stormy sea-journeys,
Would be soothed by kissing the picture
Of the blessèd Virgin.
How sea-sick knights, in similar distress,
Would press the precious glove of their adored
Against their lips—and straightway would be cured . . .
But here I sit, and keep on chewing
An old dried herring, that salty consoler
When one's sick as a cat or down as a dog.
All this time the ship is battling
With the wild, tossing tide.
Like a rearing war-horse, she poises herself
On her trembling stern, till the rudder cracks.
Then down she plunges, headlong
Into the howling watery chasm once more.
Then again, like one reckless and weak with love,
She seems about to rest herself
On the black bosom of a giant wave,
That, with a huge roaring, comes toward her.
And suddenly, a furious sea-cataract,
Seething and foaming, rushes upon us,
And souses me with foam.
This tumbling and tossing and rocking
Is beyond bearing!
In vain my eyes strain to seek
The German coast. Alas! only water—
Nothing but water; endless, treacherous water.
As the winter-wanderer longs at evening
For a warm and comforting cup of tea,
So my heart longs for thee,
My German fatherland!
Though forever thy sweet soil is encumbered
With madness, hussars and poor verses,
And thin and tepid pamphlets!
Though forever thy donkeys
Feed upon roses, instead of on thistles!
Though forever thy high-born monkeys
Prink and preen themselves in idle splendor,
And think themselves better than all the other
Dull, heavy-footed, stupid and common cattle!
Though thy feeble old snail-council
Think they will live forever
Since they move forward so slowly;
Daily clearing their throats to argue
“Does not the cheese belong to the cheese-mites?”
Or consuming long hours discussing
“Methods of improving Egyptian sheep”
So that the shepherd may shear them like others,
Without a difference—
Though forever folly and wrong and injustice
May cover thee, oh Germany,
Still am I yearning for thee now:
For thou, at least, art good, dry, solid land.
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