Hofmannsthal's evening ballad

Sunday, I discovered a gem laying in wait in my paper tray (yes, I am a student with a paper tray; it allows me to collect all my mess and junk in a specific, neat corner only to (ironically) make space for more book clutter on the desk). It was a poem by Hugo Von Hofsmannthal titled Ballade Des Ausseren Lebens (translated: Ballad of Outer Life), followed by a translation and a paragraph on the poetic use of the word "evening", written by A.O. Jaszi . The book is called "The Poem Itself," edited by Burnshaw, in the Penguin collection (1960).

(1) And the children grow up with deep eyes (2) Who know of nothing, grow up and die, (3) And all people go their ways. (4) And the bitter fruits become sweet (5) And fall down at night like dead birds (6) And lie a few days and spoil. (7) And always the wind blows, and again and again (8) We hear and speak many words (9) And feel [the] pleasure and weariness of our limbs. (10) And streets run through the grass, and places (11) Are here and there, full of torches, trees, ponds, (12) And menacing ones and death-like withered ones... (13) Why are these raised up? and resemble (14) Each other never? and are countlessly many? (15) Why do laughing, crying, and turning pale alternate? (16) Of what use is all this to us and all these games (17) Who are (after all) great and eternally lonely (18) And, wandering, never seek any goals? (19) Of what use is it to have seen so many such things? (20) And nevertheless he says much who says "evening", (21) A word from which deep meaning and sadness run (22) Like heavy honey from the hollow comb.

Jaszi continues below on the poet's use of the word "evening", the use of which brings beauty and unity to the poem.

The word "evening" is a container-word - not of denotation but of emotion, of emotion composed of all the feelings, of depth and sadness and sweetness; of the emotion transcendent. To say "evening" therefore means to write poetry...Hofmannsthal's ballad can be called dreary and decadent only if the words that compose it are understood as being carriers of a life content. But when the words are understood poetically, they convey quite a different meaning. Every word here, every and, every dead bird, every tiredness of limb, must be read as a poetic word...As such it is a bearer of poetic delight - of depth, sadness, sweetness. Every word in this ballad is poetry, for every word says "evening", or, to quote St. John of the Cross, is full of "the knowledge of the evening."

Whether our knowledge of the poetic evening contributes to this or vice versa is hard to say.. perhaps it is a constant exchange that bears no fruit in either. Like a juicy peach that must be consumed immediately without thinking of its passage into your hands even while subconsciously appreciating (and thanking) the journey without which consumption would not have been possible. I read this poem and the exposition on the use of "evening" at night (as it were, most of my studying takes place post-sundown), and it turned out to be a very apt time for it seemed my senses were heightened and my appreciation for the poem came not intellectually but emotionally.