(after Friedrich Hölderlin)

In the lake the land hangs
thick with yellow pears
and wild roses.
Blessed swans,
you are drunk with kisses;
clear your heads
in the temperate, purging water.

When grief of winter comes,
where should I take
the flowers, the sunshine
and shadows of the earth?
The walls still stand
and banners flutter their
cold and speechless comment in the wind.

Subscribe for the latest from the UK’s oldest literary magazine.

Sign up to our newsletter for the latest poetry and prose, news and competition updates, as well as 10% off our shop. 

You can unsubscribe any time by clicking the link in the footer of any email you receive from us, or directly on info@thelondonmagazine.org. Find our privacy policies and terms of use at the bottom of our website.
SUBSCRIBE