Lyrik Shuttle 2001 Preisverleihung des Übersetzerwettbewerbs

During a Thunder-Storm
 

It thunders! Sons of dust, in reverence bow!

Ancient of days! Thou speakest from above:

Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now;

That hand which scatters peace and joy and love.

Almighty! trembling like a timid child,

I hear Thy awful voice - alarmed - afraid -

I see the flashes of Thy lightning wild,

And in the very grave would hide my head.
 

Lord! what is man? Up to the sun he flies -

Or feebly wanders through earth's vale of dust:

There is he lost midst heaven's high mysteries,

And here in error and in darkness lost:

Beneath the storm-clouds, on life's raging sea,

Like a poor sailor - by the tempest tost

In a frail bark - the sport of destiny,

He sleeps - and dashes on the rocky coast.
 

Thou breathest; - and th' obedient storm is still:

Thou speakest; - silent the submissive wave:

Man's shatter'd ship the rushing waters fill,

And the husht billows roll across his grave.

Sourceless and endless God! compared with Thee,

Life is a shadowy momentary dream:

And Time, when view'd through Thy eternity,

Less than the mote of morning's golden beam.
                                                                            (1821)