Page:Tyrolean Elegies (c 1932).pdf/18



Now, dear moon, the elegy forgetting, Let us pass to a heroic vein For the story I will now narrate you Has a very diabolic strain.

There’s a road from Reichenhall to Weidring, You know well the road I mean, perchance, This cannot be passed through simple passage Of a legal form of ordinance.

Cliffs and mountains reaching even higher Than the quarrels that 'twixt nations soar, And along the road a baseless abyss, Gaping as when army cannons roar.

Through the night as dark as church, our mother, Down the hill we ride, a wink-like feat; Vainly Dedera shouts: “Hold the horses!” No one’s in the seat.

Our carriage creaks; wild are the horses; Devil drives them over hill and plain, While the driver somewhere round the hillside Lights his pipe again.

Steep the road, inclined as a church steeple, As an arrow, glides our coach o’er this, Perphaps planning to intern us yonder In the deep abyss.

Ah, for me it was a pleasant moment, For in life I know no such delight Than to see our glorified policemen Trembling with fright.