Hyperion's Song Of Destiny

Holy spirits, you walk up there
in the light, on soft earth.
Shining god-like breezes
touch upon you gently,
as a woman's fingers
play music on holy strings.


Like sleeping infants the gods
breathe without any plan;
the spirit flourishes continually
in them, chastely kept,
as in a small bud,
and their holy eyes
look out in still
eternal clearness.


A place to rest
isn't given to us.
Suffering humans
decline and blindly fall
from one hour to the next,
like water thrown
from cliff to cliff,
year after year,
down into the Unknown.

by Friedrich Holderlin

Other poems of HOLDERLIN (26)

Comments (4)

This is what people don’t want to hear. They want to read sentences ”Awesome is always awesome, dude”.
this poem really hits a cord here.
This poem really hits a cord...
check out the setting by Brahms. It doesn't get any better.