We present this work in honor of the poet’s 280th birthday.

 

I was sleeping on a high hill,
nightingale, I heard you calling,
my soul itself could hear it,
in the very depths of sleep:
now sounding, now re-sounding,
now sorrowing, now laughing,
floating, from the distance, to my ear:
while I lay there with Callisto,
songs, sighs, cries, and trilling,
thrilled me in the very depths of sleep.

If, after death, I lie there
in a sleep that’s dull, unending,
and, ah, these songs no longer
travel to my ear:
if I cannot hear the sound then
of that happiness or laughter,
of dancing, or of glory, or of joy —
then it’s life on earth I’ll cling to,
kiss my darling one, and kiss her,
as I listen to the distant nightingale.

Translation by A.S. Kline