Now does the sun caress with shining air
And curling locks of castle stream smooth down,
It climbs, reddish - brown, th´ arsenal o´er
Up cathedral hill and into town.
A little birch there dapples the lane
And gives a leafy coloured show;
It looks upon the terrace of the inn
And, graceful, back to earth doth bow.
Come then the birds, flying thither,
And drum on it an autumn tatoo.
Bot in a Gothic arch itself it curves
And even more embeds its roots.
And shelters him, with fingerlike twigs outthrown,
Whom the tumult of the street confounds,
As if, boon upon boon, it wished to show
Ere it sank entirely to the ground.
In order to climb to the roof - turret, see,
The sun must away to the old townhall,
But first it gleams through the leaves of the tree,
So they ´re aglow in a golden thrall.
(Englische Nachdichtung: Derek Donaldson)