Said the Rose
Die Rose sprach
Wilhelm Busch (1832-1908)
Die Rose sprach
Die Rose sprach zum Mägdelein:
Ich muß dir ewig dankbar sein,
daß du mich an den Busen drückst
und mich mit deiner Huld beglückst.
Das Mägdlein sprach: O Röslein mein,
bild' dir nur nicht zuviel drauf ein,
daß du mir Aug und Herz entzückst.
Ich liebe dich, weil du mich schmückst!
Said the Rose
Said the rose to Miss May,
‘I must thank you each day:
To your bosom you press me,
With your favour you bless me.’
Said Miss May to the rose,
‘You wrongly suppose
You charm or entrance me:
You’re there to enhance me.’
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Wilhelm Busch...
Once Again
IMMER WIEDER
Wilhelm Busch (1832-1908)
IMMER WIEDER
Der Winter ging, der Sommer kam.
Er bringt aufs neue wieder
Den vielgeliebten Wunderkram,
Der Blumen und der Lieder.
Wie das so wechselt Jahr um Jahr,
Betracht ich fast mit Sorgen.
Was lebte, starb, was ist, es war,
Und heute wird zu morgen.
Stets muß die Bildnerin Natur
Den alten Ton benützen
In Haus und Garten, Wald und Flur
Zu ihren neuen Skizzen.
Once Again
Winter had gone, and summer came
New once again, came bringing
The little wonders we acclaim,
The flowers and the singing.
The way it changes year on year
I note as if with sorrow:
What lived, what died, what are, what were…
Today becomes tomorrow.
Nature the artist has to wield
The same old blues and blushes
In house and garden, wood and field
To make her new gouaches.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
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Romance of the Three Knights and the Fair Noble Maid
Romanze von den drei Rittern und dem schönen Edelfräulein
Wilhelm Busch (1832-1908)
Romanze von den drei Rittern und dem schönen Edelfräulein
Es waren einmal drei Ritter gut,
Die setzten ihren Sinn und Mut
Zugleich und zu derselben Zeit
Auf eine wunderschöne Maid.
Die drei, die saßen und tranken ihr Bier,
Sie tranken der Gläser drei oder vier,
Sie tranken und schwadronierten gar viel,
Und jeder meinte, er käme zum Ziel.
Es stritten die drei bis spät bei Nacht -
An einen vierten hat keiner gedacht.
Herr Kurzbein war der vierte genannt,
Dem schenkte das Fräulein Herz und Hand.
Romance of the Three Knights and the Fair Noble Maid
Three knights there were, right bold and good,
Intent all three in mind and mood
On one same goal of their desire,
A certain maid, most wondrous fair.
The three, they sat and drank their beer,
Three steins, nay four, they emptied clear.
And deep they drank, and loud they ranted:
Each thought his wish would soon be granted.
Past bedtime strove the knightly three:
None thought a fourth could ever be.
The fourth was a Mr Littlepart,
To whom the maid gave hand and heart.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
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Linnet In A Gilded Cage
Christina Rossetti (1830-94)
Pardillo en la jaula dorada,
pardillo sentado en ramada,
cuál ave es la más fortunada
se puede en invierno dudar.
Mas hagan los frondes brotada,
con nidos en cada ramada,
cuál ave es la más fortunada,
ahora, quién puede dudar?
Linnet In A Gilded Cage
A linnet in a gilded cage, -
A linnet on a bough, -
In frosty winter one might doubt
Which bird is luckier now.
But let the trees burst out in leaf,
And nests be on the bough,
Which linnet is the luckier bird,
Oh who could doubt it now?
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
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The Scholar Gypsy (end)
Matthew Arnold (1822-88)
Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles!
—As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea,
Descried at sunrise an emerging prow
Lifting the cool-hair'd creepers stealthily,
The fringes of a southward-facing brow
Among the Ægæan Isles;
And saw the merry Grecian coaster come,
Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine,
Green, bursting figs, and tunnies steep'd in brine—
And knew the intruders on his ancient home,
The young light-hearted masters of the waves—
And snatch'd his rudder, and shook out more sail;
And day and night held on indignantly
O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale,
Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily,
To where the Atlantic raves
Outside the western straits; and unbent sails
There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam,
Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come;
And on the beach undid his corded bales.
The Scholar Gypsy (end)
at fuge, verba pavens hominum blandamque salutem!
ceu vidit Tyrius gravis emptor in aequore vectus
luce nova procul elapsam per vimina proram
tollere clam gelidas frondes, qua cincta corona
Australem Aegaeo solem excipit insula ponto :
namque hilaris Chioque mero fulvoque racemo
et sale perfusis thunnis adfertur onustus
Graecorum linter: necnon viret ubera ficus:
ipse autem insolitos sentit regnare per undas
corde hilari iuvenes, sentitque tenere vetustos
et penetrasse lares: raptim moderamine prenso
vela movet panditque, dies noctesque secutus
indignans cursum: maris aequora caerula nostri
transit per terras: quem provehit Eurus euntem.
laeva Syrtis erat, dulcis Trinacria dextra;
Hesperiumque fretum subit Oceanumque furentem.
hic rupe et nebula et spuma delapsus opaca
vix audens tentat commercia fuscus Hiberus.
hic demum exonerat malum: nodisque solutis
extemplo in media merces ostendit harena.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Matthew Arnold...
Charles Baudelaire (1821-67)
Recueillement
without using “e”
Sois sage, ô ma Douleur, et tiens-toi plus tranquille.
Tu réclamais le Soir; il descend; le voici;
Une atmosphère obscure enveloppe la ville,
Aux uns portant la paix, aux autres le souci.
Pendant que des mortels la multitude vile,
Sous le fouet du Plaisir, ce bourreau sans merci,
Va cueillir des remords dans la fête servile,
Ma Douleur, donne-moi la main; viens par ici,
Loin d’eux. Vois se pencher les défuntes Années,
Sur les balcons du ciel, en robes surannées;
Surgir du fond des eaux le Regret souriant;
Le Soleil moribond s’endormir sous une arche,
Et, comme un long linceul trainant à l’Orient,
Entends, ma chère, entends la douce Nuit qui marche.
Chill out, my sorrow: play it cool: calm down:
You said night ought to fall; you got your way.
Twilight cuts in: dusk sinks upon our town,
Doling out consolation or dismay.
Lust cracks his whip, that hangman void of pity;
Most of humanity, a vulgar throng,
Will wallow, and will blush for doing wrong.
My sorrow, hold my hand: now, quit this city:
Stand by. A rack of gowns that could not last,
Lining an upstairs rail: that is our past:
Smiling contrition in salt surf is born;
Sunlight is fading, dying in an arch.
Think of a long shroud trailing off to dawn:
Hark, darling! Night kicks into forward march.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Charles Baudelaire...
Charles Baudelaire (1821-67)
Les Chats
without using “e”
Les amoureux fervents et les savants austères
Aiment également, dans leur mûre saison,
Les chats puissants et doux, orgueil de la maison,
Qui comme eux sont frileux et comme eux sédentaires.
Amis de la science et de la volupté,
Ils cherchent le silence et l’horreur des ténèbres;
L’Erèbe les eût pris pour ses coursiers funèbres,
S’ils pouvaient au servage incliner leur fierté.
Ils prennent en songeant les nobles attitudes
Des grands sphinx allongés au fond des solitudes,
Qui semblent s’endormir dans un rêve sans fin;
Leurs reins féconds sont pleins d’étincelles magiques,
Et des parcelles d’or, ainsi qu’un sable fin,
Étoilent vaguement leurs prunelles mystiques.
Passion may burn, and scholarship may chill:
But, swains and savants, jointly doff your hats!
Lords of our roost, our puissant pussy-cats
Match you for craving warmth and sitting still.
Cats quarry facts and stalk voluptuous bliss,
Finding a dull or downright Stygian spot;
Cats could sign on as four-in-hand of Dis,
If cats could justify a minion’s lot.
A cat that’s sunk in thought looks proud and grand,
Grand as a big old sphinx, aloof and sprawling,
Down chasms of hypnotic fancy falling.
From loins prolific, sparks of magic flow;
And grains of gold-dust, smooth and small as sand,
In dark and mystic iris dimly glow.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Charles Baudelaire...
Charles Baudelaire (1821-67)
Correspondances
without using “e”
La Nature est un temple où de vivants piliers
Laissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles;
L’homme y passe à travers des forêts de symboles
Qui l’observent avec des regards familiers.
Comme de longs échos qui de loin se confondent
Dans une ténébreuse et profonde unité,
Vaste comme la nuit et comme la clarté,
Les parfums, les couleurs et les sons se répondent.
Il est des parfums frais comme des chairs d’enfants,
Doux comme les hautbois, verts comme les prairies,
– Et d’autres, corrompus, riches et triomphants,
Ayant l’expansion des choses infinies,
Comme l’ambre, le musc, le benjoin et l’encens,
Qui chantent les transports de l’esprit et des sens.
This world’s a worship-hall: its columnry
Half-murmurs, on and off, a word or two;
Symbols grow thick and tall, as man walks through,
And watch him with familiarity.
A distant, long cacophony confounds
Its clangour in dark gulfs of harmony,
Monstrous as night, and vast as clarity:
A caucus of aromas, colours, sounds!
Fragrant as baby-limbs, mild odours waft
From rolling grasslands, ocarina-soft;
Or arrogant, triumphant, rich and high,
Far out, and growing to infinity,
Musk and patchouli, cinnamon, copal:
Transport and song of spirit, mind and soul.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Charles Baudelaire...
The hoard of honour in the world
Es kann die Ehre dieser Welt
Theodor Fontane (1819-98)
Es kann die Ehre dieser Welt
Es kann die Ehre dieser Welt
Dir keine Ehre geben,
Was dich in Wahrheit hebt und hält,
Muß in dir selber leben.
Wenn's deinem Innersten gebricht
An echten Stolzes Stütze,
Ob dann die Welt dir Beifall spricht,
Ist all dir wenig nütze.
Das flücht’ge Lob, des Tages Ruhm
Magst du dem Eitlen gönnen;
Das aber sei dein Heiligtum:
Vor dir bestehen können.
The hoard of honour in the world
The hoard of honour in the world
Cannot to thee be giving:
The cause, if thou to truth be held,
Must in thyself be living.
Hast thou in thee no spark of thee
Nor proper pride sustaining,
Though all may warmly speak of thee,
It’s little to thy gaining.
The fame of days, the fleeting praise,
Are braggart folly’s failing:
Be blest in this, to win thy bays
By thine own strength prevailing.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Theodor Fontane...
In the garden
Im Garten
Theodor Fontane (1819-98)
Im Garten
Die hohen Himbeerwände
Trennten dich und mich,
Doch im Laubwerk unsre Hände
Fanden von selber sich.
Die Hecke konnt es nicht wehren,
wie hoch sie immer stund:
Ich reichte dir die Beeren
Und du reichtest mir deinen Mund.
Ach, schrittest du durch den Garten
Noch einmal in raschem Gang,
Wie gerne wollt ich warten,
Warten stundenlang.
In the garden
Tall were the raspberry bushes
That parted you from me:
But our hands in the foliage
Connected easily.
The hedge stood high between us,
Yet we were not divided.
Your mouth reached out, wide open;
Who passed the berries? I did.
If you should grace the garden
Once more with busy stride,
How many hours a-waiting
I gladly there would bide!
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Theodor Fontane...