Theodor Storm (1817–1888)

IT is so quiet here. There lies

The heath in noon’s warm sunshine gold.

A gleam of light, all rosy, flies

And hovers round the tombstones old.

The herbs are blooming; fragrance fair

Now fills the bluish summer air.

The beetles rush through bush and trees,

In little golden coats of mail;

And on the heather-bells the bees

Alight, on all the branches frail.

From out the grass there starts a throng

Of larks and fills the air with song.

A lonely house, half-crumbled, low:

The farmer, in the doorway bent,

Stands watching in the sunlight’s glow

The busy bees in sweet content.

And on a stone near by his boy

Is carving pipes from reeds with joy.

Scarce trembling through the peace of noon,

The town-clock strikes—from far, it seems.

The old man’s lids are drooping soon,

And of his honey crops he dreams.—

The sounds that fill our time of stress

Have not yet reached this loneliness.