I'm here at home. It's day or dream

Ich bin zu Hause zwischen Tag und Traum

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Ich bin zu Hause zwischen Tag und Traum
Ich bin zu Hause zwischen Tag und Traum. Dort wo die Kinder schläfern, heiss vom Hetzen, dort wo die Alten sich zu Abend setzen, und Herde glühn und hellen ihren Raum. Ich bin zu Hause zwischen Tag und Traum. Dort wo die Abendglocken klar verlangen und Mädchen, vom Verhallenden befangen, sich müde stützen auf den Brunnensaum. Und eine Linde ist mein Lieblingsbaum; und alle Sommer, welche in ihr schweigen, rühren sich wieder in den tausend Zweigen und wachen wieder zwischen Tag und Traum.
I'm here at home. It's day or dream
I'm here at home. It's day or dream. The children slumber, hot from play. The old ones sit at close of day And glowing hearths light up the room. I'm here at home. It's day or dream. As clear the bells of evening call, Girls, pensive at the dying fall, Lean weary on the fountain's rim. I love a tree, a linden lime, And all its summers, hushed within, Surge in its thousand twigs again, And grow and grow, in day or dream.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Folk Tune

Volksweise

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Born in Prague
Volksweise
Mich rührt so sehr böhmischen Volkes Weise, schleicht sie ins Herz sich leise, macht sie es schwer. Wenn ein Kind sacht singt beim Kartoffeljäten, klingt dir sein Lied im späten Traum noch der Nacht. Magst du auch sein weit über Land gefahren, fällt es dir doch nach Jahren stets wieder ein.
Folk Tune
I am so stirred when childhood’s tune tiptoes aboard, weighs the heart down. What a mild child sings at spud-weeding rings in your dreaming, nightly re-told. Go as you may far and away, yet that refrain after long years still re-appears, finds you again.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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I love forgotten Hallway Madonnas

Ich liebe vergessene Flurmadonnen

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Ich liebe vergessene Flurmadonnen
Ich liebe vergessene Flurmadonnen, die ratlos warten auf irgendwen, und Mädchen, die an einsame Bronnen, Blumen im Blondhaar, träumen gehn. Und Kinder, die in die Sonne singen und staunend groß zu den Sternen sehn, und die Tage, wenn sie mir Lieder bringen, und die Nächte, wenn sie in Blüten stehn.
I love forgotten Hallway Madonnas
I love forgotten Hallway Madonnas, cluelessly waiting for who-knows-whom, and girls with blooms in their blond coronas, going to lonely brooks to dream. And children, into the sunshine singing, and gazing on stars and marvelling, and days, with songs they are kindly bringing, and nights, when flowers are clustering.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Dreaming I Knew

Ich weiß es im Traum

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Ich weiß es im Traum
Ich weiß es im Traum, und der Traum hat recht: Ich brauche Raum wie ein ganzes Geschlecht. Mich hat nicht Eine Mutter geboren. Tausend Mütter haben an den kränklichen Knaben die tausend Leben verloren, die sie ihm gaben.
Dreaming I Knew
Dreaming I knew this, and it’s true: I need the space of a breed, of a race. Not of one mother I’m born: a thousand mothers gave a thousand lives forlorn to the sickly knave.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Snug beside you here

Bei dir ist es traut

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Bei dir ist es traut
Bei dir ist es traut: Zage Uhren schlagen wie aus weiten Tagen. Komm mir ein Liebes sagen – aber nur nicht laut. Ein Tor geht irgendwo draußen im Blütentreiben. Der Abend horcht an den Scheiben. Laß uns leise bleiben: Keiner weiß uns so.
Snug beside you here
Snug beside you here: chime that faintly plays as from distant days. Speak of love, come near, softly, let me hear. Gateway somewhere goes out among the flowers. At the panes, dusk hovers. Let us in repose stay here, no-one knows.
A selection of sopranos singing the music of Alma Mahler.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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That Road, I Trod It Not

The Road Not Taken

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

He never needed the letter E !
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I — I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
That Road, I Trod It Not
Two roads! At a fork in an autumn wood I was sorry I could not go down both Without bifurcating. Long I stood looking down road X as far as I could till it slank out of sight in that sylvan growth. And I took road Y, which could turn a trick, Alluring, and angling for priority, That is, it was grassy and in good nick, Though I must say footfall and walking-stick Had worn both roads with comparability. And both that morning similarly lay Intact, no taint of any trampling black. I put off Road X for a distant day, Though, knowing how way links up with way, I hardly thought that I would go back. I shall spout this story and I shall sigh, Who knows how soon, or in what locality: Two roads at a fork in a wood, and I – Shunning busy road X, I took road Y! – With what upshot? A thoroughgoing dissimilarity!
The story behind this poem: 'Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" is both humorous and ironic, reflecting the poet's playful side. In the early 20th century, Frost became close friends with the English writer Edward Thomas. They often took long walks together through the countryside, where Thomas would frequently express regret over not choosing a different path once they had gone a certain way. Frost, amused by Thomas's indecision and tendency to second-guess himself, decided to write a poem as a gentle parody of his friend. 'In 1915, Frost penned "The Road Not Taken," intending it as a playful mockery of Thomas’s indecisiveness. The poem's narrator stands at a fork in the woods, choosing one path over another, only to later claim that the choice made "all the difference," despite the paths being equally worn. Frost sent the poem to Thomas, expecting his friend to catch the humor. However, Thomas did not realize that the poem was meant to be lighthearted and instead interpreted it as a serious reflection on choice and consequence. This misunderstanding disappointed Frost but also deepened the poem’s legacy, as it highlighted how easily people can misconstrue intentions based on their perspectives. 'Interestingly, this poem, which Frost intended as a joke, became one of his most famous and is often quoted as an inspiring message about individualism and the significance of choices in life. Yet, Frost’s original intent was more about poking fun at the human tendency to overthink and attribute deep meaning to decisions that, in hindsight, may not have been as significant as we believe. 'This story not only sheds light on the poem’s true meaning but also adds a layer of irony, as the world continues to interpret the poem in a way that differs from Frost’s original playful intent.'

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Dust of Snow

Dust of Snow

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

Let's see whether he needed the letter E.
Dust of Snow
The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued.
Dust of Snow
I'm glad that a crow shook down just now my dusting of snow from a poison-bough: a try-again start transforming my mood, and saving a part of a day not good.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Who was that? By Wally d l M.

Some One

Walter de la Mare (1873-1956)

Let’s see whether he needed the letter E.
Some One
Some one came knocking At my wee, small door; Someone came knocking; I'm sure-sure-sure; I listened, I opened, I looked to left and right, But nought there was a stirring In the still dark night; Only the busy beetle Tap-tapping in the wall, Only from the forest The screech-owl's call, Only the cricket whistling While the dewdrops fall, So I know not who came knocking, At all, at all, at all.
Who was that? By Wally d l M.
Who was that knocking At my dainty door? That was a knocking That I’m vouching for; Hark, hark, unlatch, unlatch, Look this way and that! But nought was a stirring, All was black as your hat; Only a busy bug Tapping in a wall, Only from woodland A shrill owl’s call, And Jiminy’s whistling As dawndrops fall, So I know not who was knocking, At all, at all, at all.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Wind and Fiddle

Wind und Geige

Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)

Wind und Geige
Drinnen im Saal eine Geige sang, sie sang von Liebe so wild, so lind. Draussen der Wind durch die Zweige sang: Was willst du, Menschenkind? Drinnen im Saale die Geige sang: Ich will das Glück, ich will das Glück! Draussen der Wind durch die Zweige sang: Es ist das alte Stück. Drinnen im Saale die Geige sang: Und ist es alt, für mich ist's neu. Draussen der Wind durch die Zweige sang: Schon mancher starb an Reu. Der letzte Geigenton verklang; die Fenster wurden bleich und blind; aber noch lange sang und sang im dunklen Wald der Wind ... Was willst du, Menschenkind?
Wind and Fiddle
Inside the hall a fiddle sang, It sang of love, so sweet and wild. Outside, the wind in the branches sang: What do you wish for, human child? Inside the hall a fiddle sang: Fortune’s my wish, and happiness. Outside, the wind in the branches sang: Old cant! I’ve heard it to excess. Inside the hall a fiddle sang: Old it may be, for me ’tis new. Outside, the wind in the branches sang: Many have died of bitter rue. At last the fiddle-song was done, The panes no longer gleamed and smiled; And still the wind sang on, sang on, Out in the forest dark and wild. What do you wish for, human child?

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Wind’s a Whistler

Es pfeift der Wind . . .

Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)

Es pfeift der Wind . . .
Es pfeift der Wind. Was pfeift er wohl? Eine tolle, närrische Weise. Er pfeift auf einem Schlüssel hohl, bald gellend und bald leise. Die Nacht weint ihm den Takt dazu mit schweren Regentropfen, die an der Fenster schwarze Ruh ohn End eintönig klopfen. Es pfeift der Wind. Es stöhnt und gellt. Die Hunde heulen im Hofe. Er pfeift auf diese ganze Welt, der große Philosophe.
The Wind’s a Whistler
The wind’s a whistler. His will be a melody mad and mental, all in a single dismal key, now bellowing, now gentle. Night weeps the pulse that he maintains, sends heavy raindrops pounding on the black peaceful window-panes, relentlessly resounding. A roaring, groaning sibilant, In all the world he’ll whistle. Let yard-dogs rant: he’s Newton, Kant, Socrates, Bertrand Russell.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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