The Trees are Dewy

Von allen Zweigen

Ricarda Huch (1864-1947)

Von allen Zweigen
Von allen Zweigen perlt der goldne Schaum, Auf allen Bäumen flammen Blütenbrände, Unzählbar lacht der Kuckuck durch den Raum, Frag ich ihn bang nach meines Lebens Ende. Es blüht und lebt bis an der Erde Saum, Wird blühn und leben, singt er, ohne Wende – Als wäre Frühling nicht ein kurzer Traum. Auch du bist ewig! Spare nicht, verschwende! In 'Herbstfeuer', Insel Verlag, 1944.
The Trees are Dewy
The trees are dewy with the golden stream, The branches all with flaming blossoms bend, In airy vaults the cuckoo’s paeans teem. Fearful, I ask him how my life shall end. It blooms and lives to earth's most distant seam, Shall bloom and live, he sings, and onward wend, As if the spring were not a passing dream. Thou too shalt live! Then spare not, freely spend! In 'Autumn Fire', Poetry Salzburg, 2024.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Knight Schaumburg

Ritter Schaumburg

Ricarda Huch (1864-1947)

Ritter Schaumburg
Dunkelt der Abschied des Lebens, Ritter, dein edles Gesicht Oder die Sehnsucht zum Tod? Schien, was das Glück dir bot, Schal, die verhaßte Pflicht Und all Kämpfe vergebens? Du entsagtest dem Sieg, Du warst andern ein Hort, Glühend in gläubigem Feuer. Aber der Himmel schwieg, Und es verlosch, was dir teuer: Einsamkeit hier und dort. Löste das Rätsel auch Schuldlos ertragener Pein, Sinnloser Erdentage Drüben ein göttlicher Hauch, Hier erstarrte zu Stein Deine verhaltene Klage.
The Knight Schaumburg
Is it the leaving of life, Knight, or the yearning to die, Darkens that notable brow? Did fortune offer you dross? Did you endure, to your loss, Odious duty and strife? Victory’s palm you abjured, Offered to many a shield; Faith set your fervour aglow. Heaven said never a word, All you held dear was laid low, Friendless in forest and field. You from the dull round of days Fled to the balm of the blest: Freed from the pain and the maze, Blameless, yet always alone; Leaving the cry you suppressed Frozen, and hardened to stone.
Gravestone by Riemenschneider, at Würzburg.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Nis Randers

Nis Randers

Otto Ernst (1862-1928)

Nis Randers
Krachen und Heulen und berstende Nacht, Dunkel und Flammen in rasender Jagd - Ein Schrei durch die Brandung! Und brennt der Himmel, so sieht man’s gut: Ein Wrack auf der Sandbank! Noch wiegt es die Flut; Gleich holt sich’s der Abgrund. Nis Randers lugt - und ohne Hast Spricht er: «Da hängt noch ein Mann im Mast; Wir müssen ihn holen.» Da fasst ihn die Mutter: «Du steigst mir nicht ein! Dich will ich behalten, du bleibst mir allein, Ich will’s, deine Mutter! Dein Vater ging unter und Momme, mein Sohn, Drei Jahre verschollen ist Uwe schon, Mein Uwe, mein Uwe!» Nis tritt auf die Brücke. Die Mutter ihm nach! Er weist nach dem Wrack und spricht gemach: «Und seine Mutter?» Nun springt er ins Boot und mit ihm noch sechs: Hohes, hartes Friesengewächs; Schon sausen die Ruder. Boot oben, Boot unten, ein Höllentanz! Nun muss es zerschmettern...! Nein, es blieb ganz!... Wie lange, wie lange?   Mit feurigen Geißeln peitscht das Meer Die menschenfressenden Rosse daher; Sie schnauben und schäumen. Wie hechelnde Hast sie zusammenzwingt! Eins auf den Nacken des andern springt Mit stampfenden Hufen! Drei Wetter zusammen! Nun brennt die Welt! Was da? - Ein Boot, das landwärts hält. - Sie sind es! Sie kommen! – Und Auge und Ohr ins Dunkel gespannt... Still - ruft da nicht einer? - Er schreit’s durch die Hand: «Sagt Mutter, 's ist Uwe!»
Nis Randers
Crashing and howling and thunder-scarred night, Racing and chasing of darkness and light – A cry through the lightning! When heaven is blazing the sighting is good: A wreck on the sandbar! still tossed by the flood: The sea-trench is gaping. Nis Randers he gazes, and speaks out at last: ‘One man is still there, hanging on to the mast; We must hasten to save him.’ His mother has seized him. ‘You’ll not brave the squall: I’ll hold you and keep you, my last one of all. ’Tis the wish of your mother. ‘Your father has perished, and Marty, my son, And my Hughie three years has been missing and gone, My Hughie, my Hughie.’ Nis hastes to the jetty. She follows behind. He points to the wreck and speaks gently his mind: ‘He too has a mother.’ Now he leaps in the boat and six more spring aboard: The brave men of Friesland are stalwart and hard. The oars are soon straining. Boat up and boat down, it’s a caper from hell. Look now, she must shatter! No, all is yet well. How long, O how long?   The sea cracks its whip, flaring onward it forces The fearsome assault of its man-eating horses: They snort and they foam. With curses and urgency herded together, They bound on the backs and the necks of each other: Hooves trample and swarm. Triple lightning! The world is a burning brand! What’s that? It’s a boat – it is heading to land! They are coming, they come! Intent on the darkness, all ears and all eyes… Did somebody call? Through cupped hands he cries: ‘Tell Mother it’s Hughie!’

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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For a Menu

Para un menú

Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera (1859-95)

Para un menú
Las novias pasadas son copas vacías; en ellas pusimos un poco de amor; el néctar tomamos... huyeron los días... ¡Traed otras copas con nuevo licor! Champán son las rubias de cutis de azalia; Borgoña los labios de vivo carmín; los ojos obscuros son vino de Italia, los verdes y claros son vino del Rhin. Las bocas de grana son húmedas fresas; las negras pupilas escancian café; son ojos azules las llamas traviesas, que trémulas corren como almas del té. La copa se apura, la dicha se agota; de un sorbo tomamos mujer y licor... Dejemos las copas... ¡Si queda una gota, que beba el lacayo las heces de amor!
For a Menu
Each lass in our past is one more empty glass: We poured in a measure of love; We drain down the nectar, we let the days pass... Bring on others! New savours we’ll prove. Champagne are the blondes of azalea sheen, Red lips are a Burgundy wine; Dark eyes are Italian, grand Hippocrene, Pale green are the taste of the Rhine. Red lips are fresh strawberries; coffee conspires From eyes black as night to flow free; Blue eyes are the wayward, the frolicsome fires, The shimmering spirit of tea. The goblet runs dry and good fortune runs down. Wine and women! One draught is enough. Farewell to our cups! Should a droplet remain, Leave to lackeys the leavings of love!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0n0jEhp4JI https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EIW_2Oe6m0Y

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Bean

La fève

Maurice Donnay (1859-1945)

On Twelfth Night, the French enjoy 'la galette des Rois', a flat cake of almond paste (frangipane) containing a 'bean'. The person who gets the bean wears the crown.
La fève
Tu nous dindonneras encor plus d'une fois, Chère âme, et près des tiens nos moyens sont infimes. Je me souviens toujours d'un dîner que nous fîmes, Un beau soir, dans Auteuil, à la porte du Bois Et tu faisais de l'œil à ton voisin de face, Et tu faisais du pied à tes deux amoureux A gauche, à droite, et ton amant était heureux, Car tu lui souriais tout de même avec grâce. Ah ! tu n'es pas la femme aux sentiments étroits Qu'une fidélité trop exclusive gêne. Entre tous, Pierre, Jean, Jacques, Alphonse, Eugène, Tu partages ton cœur comme un gâteau des Rois. Et, si grand est ton art, aimable fille d’Ève, Que chacun se croit seul à posséder la fève.
The Bean
You’ll stitch us up again, and more than once, Dear soul: compared to you, we haven’t got the means. I can’t forget that dinner one fine night: we were Out in Auteuil, just where you get into the Bois. To the sitting-opposite guy, you gave the eye, Played footy-foot with the two who fancied you, To left and right; your lover was in clover, As you anyway gave him a smile with lovely style. You’re not a woman prone to narrow sentiments, Whom high fidelity might inconvenience. Between all these, John, Peter, James, Eugene, Alphonse, You share your heart out like a Twelfth Night frangipane. And so great is your art, delightful feminine, That each one thinks himself sole owner of the bean.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Green

Green

Paul Verlaine (1844-96)

After deserting his wife for Rimbaud, wounding Rimbaud, released from prison: he writes to his wife...
Green
Voici des fruits, des fleurs, des feuilles et des branches Et puis voici mon coeur qui ne bat que pour vous. Ne le déchirez pas avec vos deux mains blanches Et qu'à vos yeux si beaux l'humble présent soit doux. J'arrive tout couvert encore de rosée Que le vent du matin vient glacer à mon front. Souffrez que ma fatigue à vos pieds reposée Rêve des chers instants qui la délasseront. Sur votre jeune sein laissez rouler ma tête Toute sonore encore de vos derniers baisers ; Laissez-la s'apaiser de la bonne tempête, Et que je dorme un peu puisque vous reposez.
Green
Here are fruits and flowers, here are leaves and fronds And here is my heart, only you can make it beat. Don’t tear it to pieces with your two white hands! To your beautiful eyes may this humble gift be sweet. I come before you still all covered with dew That was frozen on my brow by the morning breeze. I lay my fatigue at your feet, in the hope that you Will permit it to dream of imminent remedies. Allow my head to loll on your youthful breast, Still ringing with your kisses when they are strewn; Let it find peace when the pleasant storm is done, Let me sleep awhile, for you will be taking your rest.
Copyright © Timothy Adès Debussy, Hahn, Fauré : Teresa Stich-Randall, soprane: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CqFhD9vuZQA Fauré : Gérard Souzay : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZDzdzjIFiqg Léo Ferré : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=biy9NwOzz64 Julos Beaucarne : http://mimiclectik.canalblog.com/archives/2018/02/14/36117763.html

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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De virgine perdita

The Ruined Maid

Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

His English, my Latin
The Ruined Maid
"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown! Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town? And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?" — "O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she. — "You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks, Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks; And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!" — "Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she. — "At home in the barton you said thee' and thou,' And thik oon,' and theäs oon,' and t'other'; but now Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!" — "Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she. — "Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek, And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!" — "We never do work when we're ruined," said she. — "You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream, And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!" — "True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she. — "I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown, And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!" — "My dear — a raw country girl, such as you be, Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she.
De virgine perdita
‘hoc superat certe, cara o mea Melia, totum: ~~res inopina, ego iens obvia in urbe tibi. unde hae divitiae quot habes et pulcher amictus?’ ~~‘num nescis? quia sum perdita: damnor ego.’ ‘squalebant panni, nudo pede pauper abisti: ~~plus lolia et betas lassa fodire nequis. nunc nitet armillis necnon tribus instita plumis.’ ~~‘tale quidem splendens perdita tegmen habet.’ ‘rure domi tute, en! tibimetque in chorte solebas, ~~hice ollumque et alid, rustica verba loqui. nunc tamen apta bonis tua vox, proceresque iuvabis.’ ~~‘perdita pro damno lautior esse potest.’ ‘dura rudisque manus, pigrum os et pullius: at nunc ~~pellicit et tamquam fascinat ista gena. sunt manicae tenerae, bona quas matrona sitiret!’ ~~‘nulla laborem urget perdita nympha manu.’ ‘ante domi te questa magas vinxisse sopore, ~~ miscebas gemitu murmura. nunc mihi ades expers tristitiae, caput haud cruciata dolore.’ ~~‘vera refers: hilaris perdita nympha viget.’ ‘o si magnificam chlamydem plumasque tenerem, ~~os purum, forti pulchra et in urbe gradu!’ ‘rustica et inconcinna manes. quid? non tibi talis, ~~non tibi, quae non es perdita, vita datur.’

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Let's watch, as on the silver lake

Allons voir sur le lac d'argent

Armand Silvestre (1837-1901)

Allons voir sur le lac d'argent
ENSEMBLE Allons voir sur le lac d’argent Descendre la lune endormie. LUI Le miroir des eaux est changeant Moins que votre âme, mon amie. ELLE Rayon de lune est moins furtif Que peine d’amant n’est légère. LUI Ainsi mon chant doux et plaintif Ne te saurait toucher, bergère ? ELLE Amour d’homme est trop exigeant. LUI Pitié de femme est toujours brève. ENSEMBLE Allons voir sur le lac d’argent Descendre la lune en son rêve.
Let's watch, as on the silver lake
BOTH Let’s watch, as on the silver lake The sleeping moon descends. HE The mirror of the waters changes Less than your heart, my love. SHE The moonbeam is less furtive Than lover’s pain is light. HE Could my song, soft and plaintive, Not touch you, shepherdess? SHE Man’s love is too demanding. HE Brief always, woman’s pity. BOTH Let’s watch, as on the silver lake The dreaming moon descends.
Duet: music by Nadia Boulanger: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6mVjwFSexKQ .

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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My Hound

Mein Hund

Friederike Kempner (1836-1904)

Mein Hund
In den Augen meines Hundes liegt mein ganzes Glück, all mein Inneres, Krankes, Wundes heilt in seinem Blick.
My Hound
In the eyes of my hound are my joy and romance: deep sickness and wound are healed by her glance.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Happiness

Glück

Richard Leander (Richard von Volkmann) (1830-89)

Glück
Ich lieg' im Gras, denke mir dies und das; sehe hinauf zu den Wolkenlämmern, fang' an zu dämmern. Da überkommt mich was. Ach! hab' ich dich? Küssest du mich? Ist es ein Traum? Ein Gedicht? Ich weiß es nicht. – Ich seufze tief: Wie schön, wie wunderschön ich schlief!
Happiness
Lazing in grass Thoughts pass, Cloud-lambs above, I’m drifting off. Something – it’s this: Are you by me? Is that your kiss? Dream? Poem? Could be... Don’t ask me… My sigh is deep: How lovely my sleep!
He was a prominent surgeon.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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