Lines Written on a Young Lady’s Album
Vers écrits sur l'album d'une jeune dame
Alphonse de Lamartine (1790-1869)
Vers écrits sur l'album d'une jeune dame
Sur cette page blanche où mes vers vont éclore,
qu'un souvenir parfois ramène votre coeur!
De votre vie aussi la page est blanche encore;
je voudrais la remplir d'un seul mot: le Bonheur.
Le livre de la vie est un livre suprême,
que l'on ne peut fermer ni rouvrir à son choix,
Où le feuillet fatal se tourne de lui-même;
le passage attachant ne s'y lit qu'une fois:
on voudrait s'arrêter à la page où on l'aime,
et la page où l'on meurt est déjà sous les doigts.
Lines Written on a Young Lady’s Album
To this blank page, which now my verses fill,
haply shall memory bid your heart regress.
Your own life’s page is blank and empty still:
there would I write the sole word ‘Happiness’.
The book of life’s a great and final book;
you cannot take it to and from the shelf.
At a choice passage there’s no second look:
the leaf of fate turns over by itself.
We’d gladly linger on the page, ‘A Lover’;
under our hands, behold! we read: ‘All Over!’
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Alphonse de Lamartine...
Moonlit Night
Mondnacht
Joseph von Eichendorff (1788-1857)
Mondnacht
Es war, als hätt’ der Himmel
Die Erde still geküßt,
Daß sie im Blütenschimmer
Von ihm nur träumen müßt'.
Die Luft ging durch die Felder,
Die Ähren wogten sacht,
Es rauschten leis’ die Wälder,
So sternklar war die Nacht.
Und meine Seele spannte
Weit ihre Flügel aus,
Flog durch die stillen Lande,
Als flöge sie nach Haus.
Moonlit Night
It seemed the gallant heaven
Gave earth a silent kiss,
That she so bright with flowers
Must only dream of this.
The breeze amid the harvest
Caressed the waving corn.
The woodland whispered softly,
The starry midnight shone.
My soul spread wide her pinions,
No longer fain to roam,
Flew through the silent landscape
As one who heads for home.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Joseph von Eichendorff...
I dreamed...
Mir träumt’...
Joseph von Eichendorff (1788-1857)
Mir träumt’...
Mir träumt’, ich ruhte wieder
Vor meines Vaters Haus
Und schaute fröhlich nieder
Ins alte Tal hinaus,
Die Luft mit lindem Spielen
Ging durch das Frühlingslaub,
Und Blütenflocken fielen
Mir über Brust und Haupt.
Als ich erwacht, da schimmert
Der Mond vom Waldesrand,
Im falben Scheine flimmert
Um mich ein fremdes Land,
Und wie ich ringsher sehe:
Die Flocken waren Eis,
Die Gegend war vom Schnee,
Mein Haar vom Alter weiß.
I dreamed...
I dreamed again I rested
Outside my father’s home
And, joyful, down the valley
Allowed my eyes to roam.
The breeze in vernal bowers
Sported with gentle jest
And blossoms shed their petals
About my head and breast.
I saw the moon that shimmered
From where the tall trees stand:
In the pale light there glimmered,
All round, a foreign land:
And as I looked about me,
The petals were ice-cold,
All snowy was the country,
And I was grey and old.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Joseph von Eichendorff...
Lost
Verloren
Joseph von Eichendorff (1788-1857)
Verloren
Still bei Nacht fährt manches Schiff,
Meerfey kämmt ihr Haar am Riff,
Hebt von Inseln an zu singen,
Die im Meer dort untergingen.
Wann die Morgenwinde wehn,
Ist nicht Riff noch Fey zu sehn,
Und das Schifflein ist versunken,
Und der Schiffer ist ertrunken.
Lost
Quiet night, and boats are roaming,
Mermaid on an islet combing,
From the reef she starts to sing,
Which is sinking, vanishing.
Come the gentle winds of dawn,
Reef and mermaid both are gone,
Boat has shattered on the reef,
Boat and sailor come to grief.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Joseph von Eichendorff...
Words in the Wood
Waldesgespräch
Joseph von Eichendorff (1788-1857)
Waldesgespräch
Es ist schon spät, es ist schon kalt,
Was reit’st du einsam durch den Wald?
Der Wald ist lang, du bist allein,
Du schöne Braut! Ich führ’ dich heim!
„Groß ist der Männer Trug und List,
Vor Schmerz mein Herz gebrochen ist,
Wohl irrt das Waldhorn her und hin,
O flieh! Du weißt nicht, wer ich bin.“
So reich geschmückt ist Roß und Weib,
So wunderschön der junge Leib,
Jetzt kenn’ ich dich—Gott steh’ mir bei!
Du bist die Hexe Loreley.
„Du kennst mich wohl—von hohem Stein
Schaut still mein Schloß tief in den Rhein.
Es ist schon spät, es ist schon kalt,
Kommst nimmermehr aus diesem Wald!“
Words in the Wood
‘The hour is late, the glow is gone,
And through the wood you ride alone.
No friend at hand, the wood is wide,
I’ll bring you home, you lovely bride.’
‘Men have such cunning to deceive.
They broke my heart, I burn, I grieve.
The wood-horn’s echoes come and go.
Flee! I am one you do not know.’
‘Both horse and lady richly dight,
Fair form of youth, a noble sight.
I know you now – pray God be nigh!
You are the demon Lorelei!’
‘You know me well! That hall is mine,
That waits and broods above the Rhine.
The hour is late, the glow is gone,
Here you shall stay, my thrall, my own!’
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Joseph von Eichendorff...
Hibernia nostra
Let Erin Remember
Thomas Moore (1779-1852)
Let Erin Remember
Let Erin remember the days of old,
Ere her faithless sons betray'd her;
When Malachi wore the collar of gold,
Which he won from her proud invader,
When her kings, with standard of green unfurl'd,
Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger!
Ere the emerald gem of the western world
Was set in the crown of a stranger.
On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays,
When the clear cold eve's declining,
He sees the round towers of other days
In the wave beneath him shining:
Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,
Catch a glimpse of the days that are over;
Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time,
For the long-faded glories they cover.
Hibernia nostra
tempora lapsa diu memorentur, Hibernia nostra,
queis te tradiderat nondum tua perfida proles.
supremum regem signaverat aurea torques,
invasore truci victorem in lite superbo:
tempore quo viridi regum vexilla colore
audendis equites rutilos duxere periclis,
Hesperiae necdum Smaragditia gemma iacebat
capta per externos, aliena inserta corona.
est lacus insignis: ripa piscator in alta,
solis ad occasum deerrans per frigus et umbram,
viderit antiquas torres praestare rotundas,
surgere fulgentes et aqua lucere profunda.
sic etiam referent sublimia somnia menti
grandia tempora, lapsorum simulacra dierum:
vanescunt refugis aevis moribunda per undas,
in queis iamdudum se pristina gloria condit.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Thomas Moore...
Venice -The Little Boat
Venezia - La Barcheta
Pietro Burratti (1772-1832)
Venezia - La Barcheta
La note è bela
Fa presto, o Nineta
Andemo in barcheta
I freschi a ciapar!
A Toni g’ho dito
Ch’el felze el ne cave
Per goder sta bava
Che supia dal mar
Ah!
Che gusto contarsela
Soleti in laguna
E al chiaro de luna
Sentirse a vogar!
Ti pol de la ventola
Far senza, o mia cara
Chè zefiri a gara
Te vol sventolar
Ah!
Se gh’è tra de lori
Chi tropo indiscreto
Volesse dal pèto
EI velo strapar
No bada a ste frotole
Soleti za semo
E Toni el so’ remo
Lè a tento a menar
Ah!
Venice -The Little Boat
It’s a beautiful night
Come quickly Ninetta
Let’s go in the boat
To take the fresh air.
I have told Toni
To row to the cave:
We’ll rejoice in the breezes
Blown in from the wave.
Ah!
What joy to describe it!
Alone, the lagoon,
The sound of his rowing,
The light of the moon.
And as for your fan,
No need of it here:
The zephyrs will hasten
To fan you, my dear.
Ah!
If there is among them
One too indiscreet
Who’d wish from your bosom
The cover to tear,
Don’t heed such tall tales,
We’re alone, no-one’s there,
And Toni our oarsman
Shall guide us with care.
Ah!
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Pietro Burratti...
Half of Life
Hälfte des Lebens
Friedrich Hölderlin (1770-1843)
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...
The Gods of Greece
Die Götter Griechenlands
Friedrich von Schiller (1759-1805)
Die Götter Griechenlands
Schöne Welt, wo bist du? Kehre wieder
Holdes Blütenalter der Natur!
Ach, nur in dem Feenland der Lieder
Lebt noch deine fabelhafte Spur.
Ausgestorben trauert das Gefilde,
Keine Gottheit zeigt sich meinem Blick,
Ach, von jenem lebenwarmen Bilde
Blieb der Schatten nur zurück.
The Gods of Greece
Most beauteous world, where may you be?
Nature’s bright springtime, come again!
Only in fairy minstrelsy
Your storied memories remain.
The field has faded and is keening,
No god reveals to me his form:
Only the shadow still remaining,
The vision once alive and warm.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Friedrich von Schiller...
Birth of Christ, with comment on the Bee.
Nacimiento de Cristo, en que se discurrió la abeja.
Sor Juana de la Cruz (1648-95)
Nacimiento de Cristo, en que se discurrió la abeja.
De la más fragante Rosa
nació la Abeja más bella,
a quien el limpio rocío
dio purísima materia.
Nace, pues, y apenas nace,
cuando en la misma moneda,
lo que en perlas recibió,
empieza a pagar en perlas.
Que llore el Alba, no es mucho,
que es costumbre en su belleza;
mas ¿quién hay que no se admire
de que el Sol lágrimas vierta?
Si es por fecundar la Rosa,
es ociosa diligencia,
pues no es menester rocío
después de nacer la Abeja;
y más, cuando en la clausura
de su virginal pureza,
ni antecedente haber pudo
ni puede haber quien suceda.
Pues a ¿qué fin es el llanto
que dulcemente le riega?
Quien no puede dar más Fruto,
¿qué importa que estéril sea?
Mas ¡ay! que la Abeja tiene
tan íntima dependencia
siempre con la Rosa, que
depende su vida de ella;
pues dándole el néctar puro
que sus fragancias engendran,
no sólo antes la concibe,
pero después la alimenta.
Hijo y madre, en tan divinas
peregrinas competencias,
ninguno queda deudor
y ambos obligados quedan.
La Abeja paga el rocío
de que la Rosa la engendra,
y ella vuelve a retornarle
con lo mismo que la alienta.
Ayudando el uno al otro
con mutua correspondencia,
la Abeja a la Flor fecunda,
y ella a la Abeja sustenta.
Pues si por eso es el llanto,
llore Jesús, norabuena,
que lo que expende en rocío
cobrará después en néctar.
Birth of Christ, with comment on the Bee.
From the sweet-scented Rose
is born the lovely Bee,
to whom the bright dew gave
its essence and purity.
No sooner is he born
than in the same currency
what he received in pearls
in pearls he starts to repay.
If the Dawn weeps, that’s nothing,
just its habit, being beautiful;
but that the Sun sheds tears,
don’t we all find it incredible?
If it’s to water the Rose,
that’s a tender care forlorn,
for there’s no need of dew
after the Bee is born;
he is intact in his purity
like a nun in a cloister:
he had no predecessor
and can have no successor.
Then what good is the weeping
that gently plies him with water?
He can bear no more Fruit
and is barren, but does that matter?
But oh! the Bee relies
for his life on her, the Rose:
his dependence is always
so intimate and close:
for by giving him pure nectar
that her sweet scents deliver,
she gives him life, conceives him,
and feeds him too, thereafter.
Mother and son, in such sacred
and wondrous obligations,
neither is left indebted
and both of them are grateful.
He pays her for the dew,
the Bee whom the Rose conceives:
and she gives him in return
the same food she receives.
Giving aid to one another
in mutual symmetry,
the Bee enriches the Flower
and the Flower sustains the bee.
If that is the cause of weeping,
weep, Jesus, and best of luck!
whatever you spend in dew,
in nectar you’ll reap it back.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Sor Juana de la Cruz...