Uncle Don's Poesies
(Don't expect anything profound in mine)
1. From My Front Porch
2. Books for Sale
3. Blackbirds
4. Oh Woe is Me
5. Snow is Good!?
6. A Cow Tale
7. Miriah
8. Travails of a Cyber-Junkie 
Poems by others:
A. Mateo Falcone the Corisican
B. Sunrise and Sunset.
C. Das Morgen- und das Abendrot (original version in German of the
above).
D. Liebes Bräutchen (written in 1904 in German).
E. Dear Little Bride (English translation of the above).
- From My Front Porch
A favorite spot is my front porch;
Invest there lots of time.
And so today I thought I'd put
Some thoughts from it to rhyme.
A pond through which flows Seaman's Crick
Lies jest two spits away.
Ten strides its side and half as wide
And where my muskrats play.
It's home to fish (well now and then),
They come and go at will.
Four years ago there were five score
Their number now is nil. (:-{
But I digress, the reason why
I'm putting thoughts to ink
Is to describe my normal day;
Now simply click on link.;-)
The lawns got cut, the weeds I sprayed,
Put down some Weed-n-Feed.
The bare spots where the mare had leaked,
I raked then sowed some seed.
Some shrubs got trimmed and sprinklers set,
Transplanted baby tree,
Which growing 'neath its mother there
On lawn, no place to be!
The siding 'bove the logs was bad;
Replaced that all with new.
And chinked the spots where rain blew in.
I'm glad that job is through!
The driveway had a lot of ruts.
I filled them all with rocks.
A Christmas turkey five years stale,
I thawed and placed for fox.
Now all these jobs I did today!
Impressive you this find?
This all was done from my front porch,
But only in my mind.
PS. I'm pooped. Don Schwenk
7 July 1997
BOOKS FOR SALE
Yo Ric, I loved your verse in rhyme,
Surpassed the silly one of mine.
The rhyme is good, the cadence rough,
But otherwise contains good stuff.
Consistent cadence, "There's the rub",
To plagiarize a Shakespeare's pub.
And that is why free verse arose
Which put to bed the cadence woes.
The rhyming task takes much less time
If word at end of cadenced line
Is chosen quite judiciously,
A sound which can rhyme easily.
Don't choose an oddball word like rub,
For then you're left with cub, flub, pub
Or dub or nub or tub. You see?
You mind my words, a bard you'll be.
I have some books on poetry;
Alas, unread, tis plain to see.
I'll sell them cheap; They're just like new.
One buck and they'll belong to you.
BLACKBIRDS
Of all the birds which hang out here
The blackbird is to me least dear.
So let me tell in rhyming words
A tale about these weird birds.
In early March they reappear
(along with robins and killdeer)
They all begin to mate with zest,
Pure joy until the blackbirds nest.
That's when the joy that they brought me
Turns suddenly to enmity.
Too harsh is hate; annoyed is best,
My feelings when I near their nest.
To frighten off their would-be foes,
Like stalking cats, marauding crows.
And me? Just working 'round my yard,
Oblivious to nest they guard,
They swoop and dive and screech and scream,
They swarm and swear and cry and stream
Above my head with threats they dive.
They hope to see me run and hide.
But no, I search for right-sized rock
To hurl at this obnoxious flock.
But I'd feel sick if one I hit.
In truth admire I their grit.
Why can't they more like robins be?
Polite and shy before me flee
As I pass near their mouth-filled nest,
They quietly on near fence rest.
A silent protest. Perch and wait
Till threats abate. Then fly they straight
To nest, worms rife. They lead a life
That brings me joy and never strife.
But blackbirds on the other hand,
Those noisy nasties flock and band
Together and intimidate,
And me they incapacitate
To where I rant and rave then run
Toward the house to fetch my gun.
I now know why in days gone by
A favorite dish was blackbird pie.
July 1, 1993 Donald Earl Schwenk
Revised Dec. 3, 1996
Oh woe is me
Oh woe is me, my modem's down,
I miss my email so.
Akin to losing sight and speech,
Off-line a bitter blow!
The lines that lead to Packard Bell
And Hewlett Packard too,
These terminate on just one phone
That's busy all day through.
Computer man is all tied up,
It's Christmas Time you know.
Excuses fill his harddrive full -
Today it's likely snow.
And now to make the matters worse
I can't receive TV,
Cuz snow and sleet have bent the dish,
Oh woe, oh woe is me!
The porch in back may soon collapse,
for five feet snow there rests.
The metal roof allows the whoosh
In case you think Don jests.
The catalytic thing in stove
Is plugged with soot you see.
More smoke draws into living room
Than up the flue can flee.
About the only thing that works
Is water through the line.
The pump will ja go soon kaputt,
They do that 'for their time.
The septic line has not yet froze,
The frost is not yet deep.
But way things are around my place
T'will freeze within a week.
The crick is runnin' real strong
And water table's high.
But with my luck the crick and well
Will likely soon go dry.
*******
PS. I wrote this while real blue
When modem on the fritz.
And now the same is true with Ric,
Now ain't that jest the pitts!
1/10/97 DES
SNOW IS GOOD!?
I gaze outside, the ground is white.
That time of year, it has geschneit.
I love it, hate it, feelings mixed.
The work it brings is just the pits.
It's pretty though, so soft and white;
It hides the weeds and that's all right.
The junk out by the barn don't show.
It's possible I like the snow!?
But last year's memories come to mind,
I'll tell you now why snow's not kind.
Garage roof has a wrong-way slope,
T'was my design. Yup, I'm the dope.
A thaw, a whoosh, ten tons slid down.
And I had planned to drive to town!
An icy pile. Was three foot high.
Why can't they make these new fords fly?
No sweat, just hope the tractor starts.
I'd junk her if I had some smarts.
Well, first things first, clean off the seat.
This shed is where the pigeons sleep.
It's such a beat up, tired machine,
T'was Henry Ford's grand agri-dream.
But forty seven years have passed!
Her scars are deep, her problems vast.
Beneath the gunk, turn gas valve. Hope!
Ignition on, then yank the choke.
Press starter button, then a groan,
A wheezing, grinding, tired moan.
The carburetor spews out gas.
"The needle valve is stuck. Alas!"
But then she fired. She heard my plea,
However, limping on just three.
She coughed, then died, and with chagrin
I gave her mouth-to-mouth again.
Through oily lips I muttered, "Shoot!"
My tired pal had gone kaputt.
She sputtered once, then died for good.
With shroud I covered seat and hood.
"Now where's the shovel? Think I know,
It's somewhere under all this snow."
Dec. 3, 1993
A Cow Tale
In '86 I owned five cows,
Four calves, two bulls or so.
The cost of hay was then sky high;
The price of beef real low.
I ran an ad, "Have Beefalo,
will sell below low book."
The phone rang soon; A man up north.
"I'd like to take a look."
Next day the man and wife pulled in;
A full three hour drive.
"I like the four. Are they with calf?"
"Oh yeah!... You don't want five?"
The rancher said, "The four look good,
The black one looks quite bleak."
"Ole Chunk? A uterectomy.
I'll sell her real cheap!"
Some haggling done. The deal struck,
But Chunk would stay with me.
He backed the truck and trailer up,
But scraped his rig a wee.
The buyers and the seller then
Began to load the four.
An hour later three were in,
But not the old red whore.
Old Red, she was a wild one
From calfhood up till now.
A nervous, flighty, wild thing,
A downright mean old cow.
She'd charge and snort, her calf would run
And view her from afar.
I put her in a stanchion once;
Still bear the long white scar.
The Challis rancher got his rope
And finally looped her snout.
We drug her to the trailer's gate
And then all hell broke out.
The rancher's wife got kicked and fell
Into some fresh cow stuff.
She screamed at him and yelled, "Let's go!
I've had more than enough!"
Hot tempers flared, but in a while
We roped ole Red again.
With sweat and cursing, rope-burned hands
We finally got her in.
The Challis man then followed me
Into the house and then
Downstairs to where the records were,
Down in my office-den.
He wrote a check and then he asked,
"They're vaccinated, right?"
"For what?, I asked. "For bangs of course!"
"The black two? No not quite."
His brow shot up, his jaw dropped down,
Stayed calm, but clearly smit.
"Must talk with wife," (but left the check)
And mumbled soft, "Oh schitt."
I sat there dumb, my body numb.
He left, I sensed his scorn.
My mind went back to '84
When those two blacks were born.
I knew full well all heifer calves
Require bangs vaccine.
"I'll call the vet next week," I'd say.
That week was never seen!
Awoke from gloomy reverie
Through her profanity,
Which emanated from the truck
An earshot 'way from me.
I went upstairs, peeked out the door
And heard the engine start.
The question was would they unload
Or north with cows depart.
I heard the gears; reverse or low?
The sale hung on fate.
I watched chagrined the rig back up
Toward the pasture gate.
13 July 1997 Don Schwenk, former cowman.
MIRIAH
Rare summer eve in Muldoon Canyon,
The God of Wind she finally sleeps.
A moment fleeting, breeze retreating,
The stillness through this canyon sweeps.
Slumber on Miriah.
My parched brown friend before me looms,
His sagebrush coat now gild with gold,
Now red now pink. Long shadows sink,
To sleep until a sunrise bold.
Sleep on Miriah.
Behind the Smokey Mountain craigs
The sun has settled down for rest.
She's with her child Miriah wild.
Sun and wind they sleep abreast.
Awaken not Miriah.
The night sounds drift to my porch down
From mountain sides and ranch nearby;
Cricket herds and sagebrush birds,
A calf has strayed, I hear its cry.
Rouse not Miriah.
A soft down-canyon breeze awakens,
Wafting sounds and smells of stock
and through pole fences to my senses
Tranquil feelings 'round me flock.
Hush Miriah.
Enchanted through this evening's charm,
Lost track of time, my body creeps
In bed with sun and wind companion
I like her only when she sleeps.
Miriah, wake me in the dawn.
6-22-93
Travails of a Cyber-Junkie
Please logon now, I'll tell a tale
As best I can in rhyme.
It's something which is worse than drugs,
But not considered crime.
It all began three years ago.
I bought a Packard Bell.
A geek came out, got me online,
I shouted, "Ain't this swell!"
I slowly learned the things required
To surf and send email.
In time a lots of kin and friends
Hopped on this cybertrail.
I soon acquired Paint Shop Pro
And learned to make cartoons.
And highly graphic email too,
With backgrounds of balloons.
The Address List soon took on wings,
Now nearly digits three.
Connecting to so many folks
Through one small monthly fee.
Eventually the postage stamps
And pen were hard to find.
And sending of a snailmail
Became a real grind.
I found myself then sorting friends,
Those online and those not.
The online folks got scads of mail,
The offlines hardly squat.
Then something happened just last week
Which drove a message home.
It first began when Windows crashed
And I was left alone.
I booted up, it worked a while.
Then poof, a darkened screen,
With weird cryptic messages
Which I had never seen.
I phoned a geek, then brought it there.
He said, "The RAM's too small."
He added more, I brought it home.
More RAM helped not at all!
I took it back, he did more tests
And then he said to me,
"The motherboard is acting strange,
I'll phone you after three."
To make a long, long story short,
It's four days now offline.
I need an email fix real bad
To feed this habit mine.
The first two days were really tough.
I paced the floors and whined.
Withdrawal pains had me in knots,
Like drinking iodine.
To pass the time, I went outside,
Pruned trees, spread Weed-n-Feed.
The brown spots where the mare had leaked
I filled with bluegrass seed.
I cleaned the house and swept the porch,
My place was looking neat.
I said, "Hey Don I think you've got
This wicked habit beat!"
But like the man who tried the Patch
And then began to brag.
Then bummed the neighbor's MacIntosh
For just one long deep drag.
And so until my PC's back,
I'll do this just for kicks:
I'll go to Tom's and check for mail
To get my daily fix.
June 10, 1999 Don Schwenk
A Poem by Adelbert Von Chamisso
1781-1838,
Translated by Donald E. Schwenk July, 1993.
Preface: This is my feeble attempt to translate this strange and
tragic poem from German in which it was originally written,
into English. Some of the meaning has been lost through my
inadequate translation and because I have not attempted to
carry over the rhyme. I am including this strange poem or ballad
because it is so very unusual. DES 17 Jan 1998
Mateo Falcone the Corsican
Whose shouts hears one echoing
To this high place from the canyon
Of Porto-Vechio? Flintlock shots fall.
It's from the Gelben,* the gamekeepers, and
They attempt to reach a seriously wounded,
Who through a brushwood thicket flees.
Out of the farm buildings a child sneaks
To observe the meaning of these sounds;
He sees before him standing a bloody and pale man.
"You are, I know you, Falcone's son.
I am Sampiero; help me dear child,
Hide me, the Gelben approach."
"I am alone. Both parents have gone out."
"Quick and slyly! In what place may I crawl? Tell me quickly!"
"But what will Father say about this?"
"Your father would say you did right;
And for gratitude you shall carry these coins."
The boy took the coins willingly.
In a pile of hay that lay in the barnyard
Hid the bloody, tattered man.
Then walked the child, treading on the bloody
Tracks in the sand, toward the outer gate
Before which already and noisily the pursuer stood.
It was cousin Gamba.--"To where escaped,
Speak cousin Fortunato!, the wretch
Whose tracks here lead, after a struggle?"
"I was asleep."
"A liar who from sleep speaks!
The sound of my gun would have you awakened."
"Its sound is not like that of my father's rifle."
"Answer boy, like the question sounds!
And if your talk leads me to scorn
I'll drag you off to Corte with force."
"Just try it! My father is called Falcone!"
"I will, however, tell your father
That he pay your lies with a beating."
"Whether he does that, one might still ask."
"Where is your father? Speak!"
"I am alone;
He would be in the beech forest hunting game."
And Gamba to his subordinate: "Here leads -
I hit him good - the track of blood;
Search throughout the house. He will be found!"
The hunter thereupon: "So as you want, so will it be.
However you should consider, Adjutant
Falcone's hostility will bring us nevermore any good."
However, he stood, turned away, irresolute,
And stabbed into the hay, carelessly, in thoughts
Like one who justice does not know.
Meanwhile, the boy played with the shiny
Chain of Gambia's watch, and pushed him gently
Back from the hiding place of the poor wounded.
And he spoke again, in a friendly way, to the child:
"You play with my watch, and still have none;
I had determined this to be your birthday present."
"In my twelfth year I'll receive one."
"You are just ten. Just look at this!"
And glittering, he held it in the sunshine.
Of a wicked gleam, sparkled the watch,
The ornamental housing so shiny and clear,
The hands gold, the watch face of color azure.
"Where hides Sampiero? Will your word also be true?"
The boy swore to him an oath
Which was the vile price of blood.
The boy's right arm raised toward the trinket
Slowly and quiveringly; bending downwards
He touched it. His gut burned within.
Then he raised his left arm, pointing to the rear,
And merely gave the protected to the pursuer.
The sale was made, vile and silent.
Then the Adjutant let loose the chain;
The child, with his valuable property, embarrassed and shy,
Forgot himself and the lot of the betrayed.
And Gamba reached for the fugitive,
Who gazed silently and with suspicion at the boy,
And to the hunter, gave himself up willingly.
"You must, friend Gamba, have the kindness,
Get a stretcher here. I cannot walk.
I have bled much buried there in the hay.
Your sharpshooter failed to notice that Gamba was pulling out with
troops.
He stared at the boy, deaf and dumb.
The child quiveringly wanted to kneel before him.
He screamed at the child: "Your first piece was good!
Get away from me!"
The child had no strength with which to flee.
Falcone turned to his wife: "Is he my blood?"
"I am your wife." --and her pale cheeks
glowed quickly from an amazing heat within.
"And a betrayer!" Her gaze hanging on
Her child, she spied the watch:
"From whom did you receive this treasure?"
"From Cousin Gamba."
Violently on the fob
Falcone tears it loose, hurls and shatters it
On a rock, this trace of a hated deed.
Then he stares before him and stands as without
Thoughts with the gun's butt in the sand,
Then finally snatches himself up and calls to his son:
"Follow me!"
The child obeys. He with his
Trusted firearm in hand takes the judgement path
Toward the next woods' edge.
Frightened, held the mother onto his coat:
"Your son, your only son, whom God gave to you,
Whom with vows we both flee!"
And he: "I am his father, therefore leave off!"
Then kisses she the small one, full of despair
And gazes after him until far into the woods.
Then she walks before the holy statue of
The pure blessed Virgin Mother alone to
Throw herself, to pray and to cry.
Falcone stops in the woods at the black stone,
Tests the soil and chooses the abode;
Here is the ground soft, here will it be.
"Kneel down, Fortunato, kneel and pray!"
The boy kneels and whimpers, "Father, Father!
You want to kill me?!" And the father: "Pray!"
Crying and sobbing he stammers the
Pater. With a firm voice speaks the father: "Amen!"
And further he stammers the Ave Mater.
"Are you now done?"
"From the monastery nuns
I even learned the Litany."
"That is very long; However in God's name!"
He prayed.--"Father let me live,
Oh kill me not!" "Are you near the end?"
"Forgive me" --
"God may He forgive you!"
He stretches out his hands. Then falls the shot.
From the body, the father turns away.
And striding homeward, his foot does not waver.
His eye is dry, with the staff of age
His heart broken. Thereupon the man gets
The spade with which to dig the grave.
With the shot, the mother falls in horror.
She storms toward him with hands wringing.
"My child, my blood! What have you now done!"
"Justice. He lies at the black stone.
I let him read mass who as Christ, died
And therefore it had to be.
As soon as you have composed yourself,
Inform our daughter's husband, Renzone,
That my well-weighed opinion is that
He henceforth will reside with us in my house ."
*colloquial term meaning member of a non-affiliated trade union (guild).
*****
This poem was written in 1918 by Christian Riek, weaver from Laichingen
and maternal grandfather of Heinrich C. Schwenk. He wrote this about
his son
who had died that year on the battlefields of France. It was written
in rhyme.
No attempt was made by me in the translation of it to carry over
the rhyme.
See the original following the English version.
SUNRISE and SUNSET.
A warrior hero lies by an oak at sunrise,
awaits his Savior and death, he losing blood fast.
The face pale, the eyes still, the mouth slack and dry.
"Is there no one who will help me in my last hour?
I sacrificed everything; I helped glady. Now that I've been struck
mortally, no one is there. Oh Savior above the firmaments,
come
before the eyes close forever."
Then suddenly the path is lit by a wonderous light. A brave warrior
comes this way. "Where are you from comrade?"
He says his home is in Laichingen, on the Alb.
"Oh dear fellow countryman. That too is my home. I'll help
you as best I can if I can hold out in this rain of bullets."
Quickly he stemmed the flow of blood with bandages. But woe,
the Frenchman is close and his aim is good.
"Oh countryman, give me something to drink. I thirst so!
This fate of mine will be hard to overcome. Oh dear countryman,
carry me forth from here. I fear the Frenchman will
take me prisoner."
The brave warrior ran quickly and brought back a comrade to help
carry the wounded to a first aid post.
The brave warriors carried the wounded soldier away when suddenly
a bullet bore through the shoulder.
"Be grateful brave warriors. I think it is all over with for
me.
I go to the eternal joy of victory, to God in the House of
the Fathers."
His Savior, to whom he sent prayers in the final moments of life,
He lead him home to the Eternal Homeland in the Sunset.
********
For our German readers, here is the same poem in the original
Das Morgen- und das Abendrot
Ein Kriegerheld im Morgenrot an einer Eiche ruht,
Er harrt auf den Erlöser Tod, zu rasch entflieht sein Blut.
Die Stirne bleich, das Auge still, u. welk der trockne Mund.
"Ist keiner, der mir helfen will in meiner letzten Stund?
Wie vielen gab ich alles hin, ich half von Herzen gern,
Da ich nun tot getroffen bin, sind alle, alle fern.
O Heiland überm Sternenzelt, komm du, eh's Auge bricht."
Da plötzlich wird der Pfad erhellt von wunderbarem Licht.
Ein tapfrer Krieger kommt herbei, "woher denn Kamerad?"
Er sagt, daß er zu Hause sei zu Laichingen auf der Alb.
"Ach lieber, guter Landsmann, da bin auch ich zu Haus.
Ich helfe dir, so gut ich kann, ich halt im Kugelregen aus."
Schnell nahm er das Verbandzeug u. stillte ihm sein Blut.
Aber ach! der Franzmann ist nicht weit, die Kugeln treffen gut.
"Oh Landsmann, gib mir doch zu trinken; ach, ach der Durst ist groß.
's ist kaum zu überwinden das harte schwere Los.
Ach, lieber guter Landsmann, ach trag mich fort von hier;
Ich ahn', es kommt der Franzmann, nimmt mich gefangen hier."
Der mut'ge Krieger lief schnell fort, holt einen Kamerad,
Zu tragen seinen Landsmann fort zu dem Verbandsplatz.
Die tapfern Krieger tragen just den wunden Krieger fort.
Da plötzlich hatte noch ein Schuß die Schulter ihm durchbohrt.
"Habt Dank, ihr tapfern Krieger beide, ich fühl, bei mir ists aus.
Ich geh zur ewigen Siegesfreude zu Gott ins Vaterhaus."
Sein Heiland, den er betend fand in letzter Todesnot,
Der führt zum ew'gen Heimatland ihn heim im Abendrot.
*************
This poem was written by Barbara Schwenk, daughter of Friedrich, brother
of our
John Schwenk. She was then age 26, unmarried and living somewhere in
America,
apparently in St. Louis, MO. The date was Jan. 11, 1904; the place,
St. Ludwig, (St.
Louis). She wrote this and sent it with a blanket as wedding gifts
for her first cousin, Anna Maria Gerster, who would marry G. Theodor Straub
on 8 Feb. 1904 in Mundingen. A copy of this poem was given
to Dr. Rudolf Kiess by a Frau Straub of Mundingen, the wife of the grandson
of Anna Maria and Theodor, who then sent it on to me.
Don Schwenk Sept. 27, 1995.
St. Ludwig, d. 1/11/04
Liebes Bräutchen
Liebes Bräutchen, viele Gaben, strömen heut zu Dir ins Haus.
Jedes will Dich hoch erfreuen, sucht für Dich das schönste aus;
Für Beleuchtung, Schmuck der Tafel, für die Küche, welche Zier
Etwas neues noch zu finden war fast schwer, o glaub es mir.
Doch weil ich so gut Dich kenne Deinen einfach, schlichten Sinn
Wollt ich nützliches nur spenden, und sann lange her u. hin
Da hat endlich ichs gefunden niemand kommt auf die Idee
Dabei lag sie doch so nahe wenn ich mein Geschenk hier seh
Strekt Ihr abends weich u. wohlig Eure müde Glieder aus.
Tat das Zimmer nicht recht vollig in dem Heimatlichen Haus
Dann nehmt Ihr, Euch zu erwärmen diese Deken noch dazu,
Und nach einer kurzen Weile schlummert Ihr in süsser Ruh.
Denn die lieblichen Gedanken die ich heg für Euer Glück
Euch im Traume noch umranken auf Euch ruht ein Segensblick.
Und am Tage schmückt die Deke friedlich Euer Lagerstatt
Mahnt Euch an die Lieb und Treue die sie einst gespendet hat.
Und nun zum nahen Hochzeitsfeste wünsch ich Euch Glück und Wohlergehen
Zufriedenheit, das aller beste möge man stehts bei Euch nur sehen.
Wie gerne würde ich auch teilen mit Euch die Freud an diesem Tag,
Doch trennen mich gar viele Meilen schon deshalb Euch mit Sehnsucht
nach.
Geliebte Braut die Zeit ist nahe wo Ihr einander reicht die Hand
Und feierlich am Traualtere gelobet Euer Liebesband.
Beihah 2 Jahre sind verschwunden seitdem die Mutter sie verlor
Nun als Ersatz hat sie gefunden ihren Gel. Theodor.
Der Herr woll Euren Eingang segnen und auch behüten Euer Haus;
Wo Lieb u. Treue sich begegnen da geht auch er mit ein u. aus.
Und nun Adje, Ihr lieben alle denn zu Euch kommen kann ich nicht,
So lebt denn wohl u. denkt im Glück auch an Babette Schwenk zurück.
*****
The following is my translation of that poem to her cousin Maria
Gerster in
Mundingen. No attempt was made to carry over the lovely rhyme and
meter
of the original. D.E.S
Dear Little Bride
Dear little bride, today many gifts flow to your home.
Everyone wishes to please you and seeks for you the loveliest;
For lamps, for table adornments, for the kitchen, such embellishments.
To find something new was difficult, but because I know you so well,
your plain and simple taste, I wanted only to give you something
useful.
Thought about this a long while. Finally I found it.
No one would have come across this idea.
And there my gift lay so close at hand.
In the evenings when you both stretch out your tired limbs,
If the room there in your homeland house is not real cozy,
Then take this blanket to warm yourselves and shortly
You will slumber in peace.
For the dear thoughts I harbor for your happiness,
May they entwine you in your dreams.
And by day the blanket will decorate your abode and
Will remind you of the love and fidelity it once gave
And now to the approaching wedding day,
I wish you happiness and well-being.
May one always see in you both, contentment and the very best.
Oh how I would love to share with you this joy on that day.
But many miles separate us.
Because of that the yearning for you is great.
Beloved bride, the time is near where you each extend the hand,
And at the wedding alter pledge your bond of love.
Nearly two years have passed since she lost her mother.
And now as replacement, she has found her beloved Theodor.
The Lord will bless your doorway and protect your home;
Where love and fidelity meet, there He will also pass in and out.
And now adieu you dear ones, for I cannot come to you.
And so good luck and also think back happily on Babette Schwenk.
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- Last update on 30 Jan 2000