Listen, And Wonder

Vor lauter Lauschen

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Vor lauter Lauschen
Vor lauter Lauschen und Staunen sei still, du mein tieftiefes Leben; daß du weißt, was der Wind dir will, eh noch die Birken beben. Und wenn dir einmal das Schweigen sprach, laß deine Sinne besiegen. Jedem Hauche gib dich, gib nach, er wird dich lieben und wiegen. Und dann meine Seele sei weit, sei weit, daß dir das Leben gelinge, breite dich wie ein Feierkleid über die sinnenden Dinge.
Listen, And Wonder
Listen, and wonder, and only stay silent, my life deep down: before the wind makes the birches sway, what it bodes for you shall be known. When once the silence has spoken to you, let your own senses prevail. Give to each breath, make a gift of you, each breath shall love you and lull. And then O my soul, be broad, be broad, till your life fulfilment brings: like a festive garment, be glad to spread over all sentient things.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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White Chrysanthemums

Weiße Chrysanthemen

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Weiße Chrysanthemen
Das war der Tag der weißen Chrysanthemen, mir bangte fast vor seiner schweren Pracht. Und dann, dann kamst du mir die Seele nehmen, tief in der Nacht. Mir war so bang, und du kamst lieb und leise, - ich hatte grad im Traum an dich gedacht. Du kamst, und leis wie eine Märchenweise erklang die Nacht.
White Chrysanthemums
All those chrysanthemums that day were white: their heavy splendour brought me close to grief. And then you came and took my soul, a thief at dead of night. So close… Softly you came then, my delight: My thoughts had dwelt upon you, as I dreamed. Softly you came, and fairy music seemed to fill the night.
Music: Alban Berg / Jessye Norman and Hans von Bülow / Petra Lang

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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[Epitaph]

[Epitafio]

Antonio Machado (1875-1939)

The last verse of his poem RETRATO. On a stone at his grave in Collioure.
[Epitafio]
At the grave of Antonio Machado in Collioure Epitafio Y cuando llegue el día del último viaje, Y esté al partir el nave que nunca ha de tornar, Me encontraréis a bordo ligero de equipaje, Casí desnudo, como los hijos de la mar.
[Epitaph]
And when the day comes for the final voyage, The ship of no return shall leave the quay, You’ll find me gone aboard with not much baggage, Near naked, as the sons of the sea.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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In dubiis

In dubiis

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

From Larenopfer, 1895
In dubiis
Es dringt kein Laut bis her zu mir von der Nationen wildem Streite, ich stehe ja auf keiner Seite; denn Recht ist weder dort noch hier. Und weil ich nie Horaz vergaß bleib gut ich aller Welt und halte mich unverbrüchlich an die alte aurea mediocritas. Der erscheint mir als der Größte, der zu keiner Fahne schwört, und, weil er vom Teil sich löste, nun der ganzen Welt gehört. Ist sein Heim die Welt; es misst ihm doch nicht klein der Heimat Hort; denn das Vaterland, es ist ihm dann sein Haus im Heimatsort.
In dubiis
No sound till now assails my ear Of nations’ gruesome homicide. I do not stand on either side; Justice is neither there nor here. Mindful of Q. Horatius, I’m friends with all the world, and hold Irrevocably to the old Aurea Mediocritas. He stands out as most great-hearted, Loyal to no flag unfurled, Who, from one small fragment parted, Now belongs to all the world. If his home’s the world, his homeland Measures to no little space: For his fatherland’s his cottage, In his own familiar place.

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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The Aesthetic Weasel

Das ästhetische Wiesel

Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)

Das ästhetische Wiesel
Ein Wiesel saß auf einem Kiesel inmitten Bachgeriesel. Wißt ihr weshalb? Das Mondkalb verriet es mir im Stillen: Das raffinier- te Tier tat’s um des Reimes willen.
The Aesthetic Weasel
A weasel sat on an easel no, a pebble in the Ribble. Are you aware, for why, and wherefore? The mooncalf blew the gaff in a quiet time: The tiny mammal, a refined animal, loved the laugh and the rhyme.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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