[{"id": 135446, "created": "2020-01-16T04:18:30.987521", "project_id": 379, "task_id": 74777, "user_id": 138, "user_ip": null, "finish_time": "2020-01-16T05:08:47.251506", "timeout": null, "calibration": null, "external_uid": null, "media_url": null, "info": {"other": "If this sounds poetic to weird, the translation reflects the tone of the original. I have translated all the German special terms as good as I could to give an impression of their meaning, including the French one there in the middle. They might be reflected better with the originals in parentheses.\r\nThe term \"elvish\" is, AFAIK a Tolkien invention and therefore does not really fit here. The elves in German tradition are more like fairies, but as an adjective, that does not really reflect the mood.", "translation": "Old Crones' Summer\r\n\r\n\"Once, on this summer's day in autumn,\r\nthe cobwebs bound all stubble,\r\nfrom distant forests gleams blue\r\na fair secret ...\"\r\n\r\nit says in Liliencron's demonic poem about the hare hunt, before death as a slim, maliciously laughing little man steps out of the hound's broken eye. Demonic are also, in this spooky mix-up of seasons, such late summer's days in autumn, and demonic these webs, genuine spirit threads, which unfold an essence and working, which, as the poet therefore expresses with a verb, \"bind\" the bare, dead landscape. They emanate from little, young field spiders, the Crab Spiders, which let their thread well up on nice days into the late autumn, tie them to the ground, and when they are long enough bite them off to drift away with them on the silent, unnoticeable currents in the air.\r\n\r\nA deceiving summer of weeds sprawls and blooms on the harvested fields, seeds of the evil enemy, yellow Charlock, and white Wild Radish, imitating the good Rape Seed and the pious Flax. Above the threads spin and fly pale, they form fluttering slings, they crochet tree and bush, they twist and ball into white flakes, and attach long and sticky to the hunter and spin him in.\r\n\r\nThe people's jargon calls this tissue \"Maiden Summer\", but does not mean the sanguine, vital girlish youth of the human world, but the dwarfish, elvish work at the fabric of the weavers of fate. When the influence of the spirits is forgotten, and the humanization of nature develops, the term \"Old Crones' Summer\" appears, name for the late youth and the late love with white threads in its hair, for deadly, wistfully-longing after-summer, which does not yet want to yield to autumn and winter, but longingly squinting at the other, who first have spring and summer. \"Widow's summerlet\" the Swiss say, and \"forebears' summer\" it is called in Bavaria.\r\n\r\nBut there is a sequence of steps from the elvish over the human to the divine, and on this highest plane, we also find Fleeting Summer, Mary's Thread, Mary's Yarn, and [FRENCH] Thread of the Virgin. There ends the demonic magic, there also the autumn flower becomes beautiful, does no longer envy the summer flower, there also the weed turns good, crop, that nobody planted, and nobody harvests, which without purpose is good enough in itself, harvest for God's barn. Over the field as well as over the sea, the sun runs glittering tracks from each of our steps to the horizon, it sits as a celestial spider in thousandfold webs of light like a Christmas candle in Angels' Hair of glass. Of all this, Eichendorff sings:\r\n\r\n\"Through the fields you can see going\r\na magnificent woman,\r\nand from er long hair she spins\r\ngolden threads on the meadow\r\nand sings walking\r\nEya, my little flower\r\ndon't always look out for the others,\r\neya, sleep, fall asleep.\"\r\n\r\nHans Brandenburg"}}, {"id": 161396, "created": "2022-05-31T12:26:35.171780", "project_id": 379, "task_id": 74777, "user_id": 427, "user_ip": null, "finish_time": "2022-05-31T12:27:00.486041", "timeout": null, "calibration": null, "external_uid": null, "media_url": null, "info": {"other": "\"Altweibersommer\" = in German Old Ladies' summer", "translation": "Indian summer\r\n\r\n\"Once, on that summer day in fall,\r\nthe spiderwebs bound all stubbles,\r\nfrom far-away forests shimmers in blue\r\na lovely secret ...\"\r\n\r\nis what it says in Liliencron's demonic poem about a hare-hunt, before death parts from the broken eye of a greyhound in the shape of a meagre, maliciously laughing little man. Also demonic are such late summer days in the fall in this eerie permutation of seasons, and demonic is this web, real ghost-threads which unfold a being and an action that, as the poet thus puts it with the help of a verb, \"bind\" the bleak dead land. They originate from small, young field spiders, the crab spiders who produce their thread on beautiful days until late fall, fix it to the ground and bite it off when it is long enough  to ship about on it on silent, imperceptible air currents.\r\nA deceiving summer of weeds sprawls and blooms on the harvested fields, seed of the evil enemy, yellow charlock and white runch, imitating the good rapeseed and the docile flax. The threads above them spin and fly palely, they form fluttering loops, they crochet tree and bush, they twine and ravel white flakes, they hang long and clinging to the hunter and ensnare him.\r\n\"Girls' summer\" is the name given to this web in the vernacular, but this does not mean the fresh lively girl youth of the human world, but the dwarf-like, elven work of the distaff of fate's weavers. When the relation to the spirit world os forgotten and an anthropomorphisation of nature occurs, the name \"old ladies' summer\" arises, a name for late youth and late love with white threads in one's hair, for deadly, wistful-beautiful late summer which will not yet yield to fall and winter and yearningly peers to those who have spring and summer still. \"Widows' summer\", the Swiss call it, and \"Grandfathers' summer\" they call it in Bavaria.\r\nHowever, there is a succession of steps from the elvish to the human and the divine, and on this highest scale we find flight summer, Mary's threads, Mary's twine, fils de la Vierge. It is here that demonic magic ends, that fall flowers also become beautiful and are not envious of summer flowers, it is here that weeds also become good, the seed which was not sowed or introduced by anyone, which is useless but enough for itself, harvest for God's barn. In glittering courses, the sun goes across the field like across a lake from each of our steps to the horizon, he sits, as a spider in the sky in thousandfold light nets like the Christmas candle in glass angels' hair. Eichendorff sings about all this:\r\n\r\n\"Through the fields you see drive\r\nA beautiful lady,\r\nAnd from her long hair,\r\nGolden threads on the meadow\r\nShe spins and sings while walking:\r\nAh, my little flowers,\r\nDon't always look after others,\r\nAh, sleep, fall asleep.\"\r\n\r\nHans Brandenburg"}}]