Poems by Deutsch Babette

I have erected a monument to myself
Not built by hands; the track of it, though trodden
By the people, shall not become overgrown,
And it stands higher than Alexander's column.
I shall not wholly die. In my sacred lyre
My soul shall outlive my dust and escape corruption...

When, lost in thought, I roam beyond the city's bounds
And find myself within the public burial grounds,
The fashionable tombs behind the railing squatting,
Where the great capital's uncounted dead are rotting,
All huddled in a swamp, a crowding, teeming horde,
Like greedy guests that swarm about a beggar's board...

The eremites of old, all of the world unspotted,
That they might reach the heights to holy saints allotted,
That they might fortify the heart against life's stress,
Composed such prayers as still comfort us and bless.
But none has ever stirred in me such deep emotions
As that the priest recites at Lententide devotions...

In vain I seek to flee to Zion's lofty height:
Rapacious sin pursues, alert to watch my flight;
'Tis thus, with nostrils thrust in yielding sandy hollows,
The shy deer's pungent spoor the hungry lion follows

When the supreme event had come to pass, and He,
Our God, upon the cross had died in agony,
On either side the tree two looked on one another:
One, Mary Magdalene, and one, the Virgin Mother —
In grief two women stood.
But now whom do we see beneath the holy rood...

...I visited again
That corner of the earth where once I spent,
In placid exile, two unheeded years.
A decade's gone since then — and in my life
There have been many changes — in myself,
Who from the general law am not exempt...

My friend, it’s time! The heart demands a break —
Day after day flies by, and every hour takes
A bit of being from us, while you and I
Make plans to live together — we may die.
There is no happiness, but there is peace of heart.
So many years I’ve dreamt about this part...

For one last time my thought embraces
Your image, all but lost to me;
The heart with wistful longing traces
A dream that hour on hour effaces,
And dwells upon love's memory.
Our years roll onward, swiftly changing...

Poet, be deaf to popular acclaim;
The tumult of ecstatic praise will die;
The crowd's chill laughter and the dullard's blame
Thou with austere, calm firmness shalt put by.
Thou art a king. Live then alone, on high.
Take the free road thy spirit bids thee tread...

Here is the long-bided hour: the labor of years is accom⁠plished.
Why should this sadness unplumbed secretly weigh on ⁠my heart?
Is it, my work being done, I stand like a laborer, useless,
One who has taken his pay, alien to unwonted tasks?
Is it the work I regret, the silent companion of midnight,
Friend of the golden-haired Dawn, friend of the gods ⁠of the hearth

When in my arms your slender beauty
Is locked, O you whom I adore,
And from my lips in gusts of rapture
Love's tender murmurs stintless pour,
In silence from my tight embraces
Your supple form you gently free...

Sleep I cannot find, nor light:
Everywhere is dark and slumber,
Only weary tickings number
The slow hours of the night.
Parca, jabbering, woman-fashion,
Sleeping night, without compassion...

No, never think, my dear, that in my heart I treasure
The tumult of the blood, the frenzied gusts of pleasure,
Those groans of hers, those shrieks : a young Bacchante's cries,
When writhing like a snake in my embrace she lies,
And wounding kiss and touch, urgent and hot, engender
The final shudderings that consummate surrender...

«My critic, rosy-gilled, as quick as thought to offer
Our gloomy Muse affront, you plump, pot-bellied scoffer,
Come here, I beg, sit down, and have a little nip;
Together we may get the better of the hyp.
Behold those wretched huts: a view to feast your eyes on,
Black earth beyond, the plain that slopes toward the horizon...

Not by old masters, rich on crowded walls,
My house I ever sought to ornament,
That gaping guests might marvel while they bent
To connoisseurs with condescending drawls.
Amidst slow labors, far from garish halls,
Before one picture I would fain have spent...

Abandoning an alien country,
You sought your distant native land;
How could I stop the tears at parting
When sorrow was beyond command?
With hands that momently grew colder
I tried to hold you, wordlessly...

The mirth, now dead, that once was madly bubbling,
Like fumes of last night's cups, is vaguely troubling;
Not so the griefs that to those years belong:
Like wine, I find, with age they grow more strong.
My path is bleak — before me stretch my morrows:
A tossing sea, foreboding toil and sorrows...

The clouds are scurrying and spinning;
The moon, in hiding, casts her light
Upon the flying snow; the heavens
Are troubled, troubled is the night
I drive across the naked country,
The bells go ding! and ding, again...

Along the noisy streets I wander,
A church invites me, it may be,
Or with mad youths my time I squander,
And still these thoughts are haunting me:
This year will fly, the next will follow
As fast, and all whom you see here...

Lovely youth, when war drums rattie
Be not ravished: seal your ears;
Do not leap into the battle
With the crowd of mountaineers.
Well I know that death will shun you.
And that where the sabers fly...