Möwe - seagull
Möwenlied
Die Möwen sehen alle aus,als ob sie Emma hießen.
Sie tragen einen weißen Flaus
und sind mit Schrott zu schießen.
Ich schieße keine Möwe tot,
ich laß sie lieber leben -
und füttre sie mit Roggenbrot
und rötlichen Zibeben.
O Mensch, du wirst nie nebenbei
der Möwe Flug erreichen.
Wofern du Emma heißest, sei
zufrieden, ihr zu gleichen.
Christian Morgenstern
The Seagull
A ceaseless rover, waif of many climes,
He scorns the tempest, greets the lifting sun
With wings that fling the light and sinks at times
To ride in triumph where the tall waves run.
The rocks tide-worn, the high cliff brown and bare
And crags of bleak, strange shores he rests upon;
He floats above, a moment hangs in air
Clean-etched against the broad, gold breast of dawn.
Bold hunter of the deep! Of thy swift flights
What of them all brings keenest joy to thee—
To drive sharp pinions through storm-beaten nights,
Or shriek amid black hollows of the sea?
He scorns the tempest, greets the lifting sun
With wings that fling the light and sinks at times
To ride in triumph where the tall waves run.
The rocks tide-worn, the high cliff brown and bare
And crags of bleak, strange shores he rests upon;
He floats above, a moment hangs in air
Clean-etched against the broad, gold breast of dawn.
Bold hunter of the deep! Of thy swift flights
What of them all brings keenest joy to thee—
To drive sharp pinions through storm-beaten nights,
Or shriek amid black hollows of the sea?
Herbert Bashford
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