To the Fates

An die Parzen

Friedrich Hölderlin (1770-1843)

An die Parzen
Nur Einen Sommer gönnt, ihr Gewaltigen! Und einen Herbst zu reifem Gesange mir, Daß williger mein Herz, vom süßen Spiele gesättiget, dann mir sterbe. Die Seele, der im Leben ihr göttlich Recht Nicht ward, sie ruht auch drunten im Orkus nicht; Doch ist mir einst das Heil’ge, das am Herzen mir liegt, das Gedicht, gelungen, Willkommen dann, o Stille der Schattenwelt! Zufrieden bin ich, wenn auch mein Saitenspiel Mich nicht hinab geleitet; Einmal Lebt ich, wie Götter, und mehr bedarfs nicht.
To the Fates
Grant me a single summer, ye mighty ones, Grant me an autumn’s ripeness of melody, That less reluctant, being sated With the sweet playing, my heart may perish. Souls, if denied their sacred inheritance In life, are unquiet too in the underworld; I, though, achieved ere now the holy Poetry, close to my heart, the poem. Then be you welcome, stillness and shadow–world! I’ll be content, no less, should my minstrelsy Not guide me down: time was, when I have Lived like the gods: nothing more is needed.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Friedrich Hölderlin...

Half of Life

Hälfte des Lebens

Friedrich Hölderlin (1770-1843)

Hälfte des Lebens was one of the poems offered on the website of the wonderful magazine Modern Poetry in Translation as a project for translators. I contributed these three versions: one is in Latin elegiac couplets and one is a lipogram, avoiding the letter E.
Hälfte des Lebens
Mit gelben Birnen hänget Und voll mit wilden Rosen Das Land in den See, Ihr holden Schwäne, Und trunken von Küssen Tunkt ihr das Haupt Ins heilignüchterne Wasser. Weh mir, wo nehm’ ich, wenn Es Winter ist, die Blumen, und wo Den Sonnenschein, Und Schatten der Erde? Die Mauern stehn Sprachlos und kalt, im Winde Klirren die Fahnen. DIMIDIUM VITAE flava pirus, rosa silvarum: defertur onusta terra superficie lapsa lacustris aquae. suaviolis olor ebrius it: fas dedere collum: sobrius in sacrum dat caput ire lacum. e nive qua capiam flores, vim solis, et umbram? signa aquilone sonant; moenia muta rigent.
Half of Life
Golden pears, roses wild, slippety–slip, land leaning lakeward; swans’–faces, kissy–drunk, dippety–dip, depth sober–sacred. O how’ll I find, come winter, flowers, sunbeams, earth–shadow? Walls dumb and numb, banners and vanes shake, clack and rattle. A HALF OF LIVING Gold Williams fruit and wild triantaphylls: Land tilts towards Loch Lomond, almost spills: You snazzy swans, half–cut with kissing bills, In pious prosy liquid dunk your skulls! O how’ll I find blossoms among snowfalls, Warm rays of sun, shadows that land on soils? Our flaps and flags clack; dumb and numb our walls.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Friedrich Hölderlin...

On a Major London Crossing

Lines Composed Upon Westminster Bridge

William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

Let's see whether he needed the letter E.
Lines Composed Upon Westminster Bridge
Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning: silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!
On a Major London Crossing
World, you just can’t show anything so fair! What kind of dismal spirit could pass by a sight so touching? Such nobility! This City now has clothing on. Such flair! A matutinal glory, for our Mayor – cupolas, atria, auditoria, high sails, holy halls, ‘twixt rustic sward and sky, shining in post-Bronowski soot-scant air. Nobody’s caught such sunlight grandly soaking in its first warmth, low scarp, or rock, or hill; I don’t know anything so worry-slaking! Our liquid history rolls on at will. O loving God! That housing stock’s not waking, and that prodigious pump is lying still.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by William Wordsworth...

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
World, you just can’t show anything so fair!
What kind of dismal spirit could pass by
a sight so touching? Such nobility!
This City now has clothing on. Such flair!
A matutinal glory, for our Mayor –
cupolas, atria, auditoria, high
sails, holy halls, ‘twixt rustic sward and sky,
shining in post-Bronowski soot-scant air.
Nobody’s caught such sunlight grandly soaking
in its first warmth, low scarp, or rock, or hill;
I don’t know anything so worry-slaking!
Our liquid history rolls on at will.
O loving God! That housing stock’s not waking,
and that prodigious pump is lying still.

The World Is Too Much With Us – Lipogram

Not from Intimations of Immortality Let’s see whether he needed the letter E…

William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

Not from Intimations of Immortality Let’s see whether he needed the letter E…
The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; — Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
The World Is Too Much With Us – Lipogram
This world is too much with us: fairly soon working and shopping drain our capital, and show us almost nothing natural; our soul is thrown away, a sordid boon. That flood which flaunts its bosom, moon to moon, that wind which howls and howls, continual: all’s a sad bloom, shut down and dropsical for our disastrous choirs that flatly croon, lacking all passion. Think of this, good Lord: brought up a pagan in a faith outworn, what might I look at, on this dainty sward! Such sights and sounds, I couldn’t stay forlorn: a zoomorph, that zooms Apollo–ward, a Triton, tooting on his wrack–fraught horn.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by William Wordsworth...

Half of Life

Hälfte des Lebens

Friedrich Hölderlin (1770-1843)

Hälfte des Lebens was one of the poems offered on the website of the wonderful magazine Modern Poetry in Translation as a project for translators. I contributed these three versions: one is in Latin elegiac couplets and one is a lipogram, avoiding the letter E.
Hälfte des Lebens
Mit gelben Birnen hänget Und voll mit wilden Rosen Das Land in den See, Ihr holden Schwäne, Und trunken von Küssen Tunkt ihr das Haupt Ins heilignüchterne Wasser. Weh mir, wo nehm’ ich, wenn Es Winter ist, die Blumen, und wo Den Sonnenschein, Und Schatten der Erde? Die Mauern stehn Sprachlos und kalt, im Winde Klirren die Fahnen. Dimidium Vitae flava pirus, rosa silvarum: defertur onusta ~~terra superficie lapsa lacustris aquae. suaviolis olor ebrius it: fas dedere collum: ~~sobrius in sacrum dat caput ire lacum. e nive qua capiam flores, vim solis, et umbram? ~~signa aquilone sonant; moenia muta rigent.
Half of Life
Golden pears, roses wild, slippety–slip, land leaning lakeward; swans’–faces, kissy–drunk, dippety–dip, depth sober–sacred. O how’ll I find, come winter, flowers, sunbeams, earth–shadow? Walls dumb and numb, banners and vanes shake, clack and rattle. A Half of Living Gold Williams fruit and wild triantaphylls: Land tilts towards Loch Lomond, almost spills: You snazzy swans, half–cut with kissing bills, In pious prosy liquid dunk your skulls! O how’ll I find blossoms among snowfalls, Warm rays of sun, shadows that land on soils? Our flaps and flags clack; dumb and numb our walls.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Friedrich Hölderlin...