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
More poems by Rainer Maria Rilke...
Folk Tune
Volksweise
Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)
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
More poems by Rainer Maria Rilke...
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.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
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That Road, I Trod It Not
The Road Not Taken
Robert Frost (1874-1963)
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!
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Robert Frost (1874-1963)...
Dust of Snow
Dust of Snow
Robert Frost (1874-1963)
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
More poems by Robert Frost (1874-1963)...
Who was that? By Wally d l M.
Some One
Walter de la Mare (1873-1956)
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
More poems by Walter de la Mare...
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
More poems by Christian Morgenstern...