SCHNE

MLLERIN

DIE

A version of Wilhelm Mller

for I. M. M. R

I.
The water breaks over the wheels,
they never stop turning;
in the stream the stones seem weightless,
rootless, impatient to move:
Nothing I see is standing still,
everything wanders, day and night;
day and night I'll wander too.

II.
First I heard the brook, then saw it
how it splashes free of the rocks,
how it rushes headlong and down
whitening the way to the mill.
From the mountainside the valley
looks dark. O brook, is this my path?
Why is it so easy to tread?

III.
Over there among the alders
glimmers a mill, dear brook,
whose wheels roar over your song.
Its windows beckon and shine.
Is this why you cleared the sky
and sang my footsteps down the way?
Is this why the sun's so bright?

IV.
Who was it? Did she tune your voice?
Clear stream, who made your murmurings
and what do they mean? Who sent you?
Now that I've found her I can see
what I sought: work for a miller,
fate, love, an idol, enchantments,
a heart as full as my hands.

V.
If I shut up all the sluices,
if I turned the wheel, rolled the stone
myself, then she'd know how I love.
But I carry. I hammer. Here
I'm an apprentice, nothing more.
At dusk I'm weary, like the others.
She says good night to the lot of us.

VI.
The wildflowers won't answer me
and the stars are too far to hear.
You led me this way, dear brook,
so why now do you hold your breath?
Does she want me? will she be mine?
All I need to hear is one word.
One short word is everything that is.

VII.
Four words written on scattered leaves,
sewn in seed, scratched on bark, on stones,
tripping from a starling's tender throat,
wafting through her window in scent:
'I belong to you.' It's written
in my eyes. My cheeks burn.
But she's so blind. She sees nothing.

VIII.
Show yourselves, blue morning stars,
open your gates and feel the sun!
How can you cling to the cold night?
Eyes, little blonde head, show yourselves!
The lark is high but your windows
are locked, like that time I bid you
good morning and you looked away.

IX.
Right beneath her window, dear brook,
I'll set these flowers, and when she sleeps
you can whisper to her, tell her,
speak in the voice she hears in dreams.
I want it to be my name on her lips
when she sees what I've left,
when she opens the shutters and sings.

X.
The alders overhead, the stars,
the moon, the blue flowers on the bank
all sat with us watching the water
swap its cool silver, beckoning.
Then 'Goodbye,' she said, 'I have to go,'
and tore her face from the brook.
'I better get home before the rain.'

XI.
How can the brook keep babbling on,
and the water roar on the wheels?
Birds, be still! Stop your throats!
I have a new word to teach you: mine.
The girl with flaxen hair's all mine!
The woods should be speechless, except
for one word, the only word: mine.

XII.
And now my lute hangs on the wall,
idle, my heart's too full to sing;
around its neck, a green ribbon,
further down, fingers of the air.
If a bee should flutter on the strings
notes will play and I'll shudder.
I'll start and be afraid.

XIII.
'Such a shame,' you said, 'for the green
of that ribbon to fade away'
So I plucked it straight from the wall
and sent it to you like a flag.
Plait it in your hair, my love, green
is the colour of hopeful blooms.
Let it be rewarded too.

XIV.
The squirrels keep out of the pond
and the fish spurn leafy branches.
So why do you blow your horn here,
Huntsman, and scare my fawn with hounds?
Leave the woods to maids and lovers.
(Or if you must come with your guns shoot
the boar that tramples her cabbages.)

XV.
She stood by the gate on tiptoe
gazing after our huntsman friend
swinging his game bag, walking home.
Didn't you see it too, dear brook?
Lie. She mustn't know we've seen her.
Say I went to your banks and cut
a reed pipe to make the children dance.

XVI.
Willows trailing their leaves, cypress
groves and rosemary all know the green,
the right green, the colour she loves,
colour, too, of my stoneless grave.
Feel the joy of the hunt! Charge, leap
over hedges! I'll dig a hole.
What I hunt's down under the grass.

XVII.
So much green, green filling the fields,
all the green leaves of the forest;
how can I stand to see the way
it gloats at me in my whiteness,
smiling as she opens her window
to the huntsman's horn
the ribbon still green at her neck?

XVIII.
Fading petals, loosening sheets
you look at me, knowing, and wilt;
you speak of love, of endings,
of the grave where I will take you.
Don't bloom, you're right to hide yourself.
Wait till she sees where I am buried
and burst into flower with her tears.

XIX.
'One day the sea will swallow
all brooks; but until that time, rest.
Sleep. I'll ward off her faithless shadow.
You can still find peace. Lie with me.
'When the huntsman cheers and blows his horn
you'll hear nothing over the noise
of surging waters. Close your eyes.'

XX.
You sing of new-born stars, roses
on thorny stems everlasting,
angels losing the power of flight ...
Keep to your song, beloved book;
how well you understand what love
can do. Sing to me of the moon,
of lilies, cool pillows, rest.