Und so ist unser erstes Schweigen ...
wir schenken uns dem Wind zu eigen,
und zitternd werden wir zu Zweigen
und horchen in den Mai hinein.
Da ist ein Schatten auf den Wegen,
wir lauschen, - und es rauscht ein Regen:
ihm wächst die ganze Welt entgegen,
um seiner Gnade nah zu sein.
First of all our silences
First of all our silences…
we surrender to the breeze,
quiver, now we’re tips of trees,
hark attentively to May.
Shadows fall across the lane,
we give ear… we hear the rain:
all the world with might and main
seeks the mercies, finds its way.
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.
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
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."
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.
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.
Ich fürchte mich so vor der Menschen Wort.
Sie sprechen alles so deutlich aus:
Und dieses heißt Hund und jenes heißt Haus,
und hier ist Beginn und das Ende ist dort.
Mich bangt auch ihr Sinn, ihr Spiel mit dem Spott,
sie wissen alles, was wird und war;
kein Berg ist ihnen mehr wunderbar,
ihr Garten und Gut grenzt grade an Gott.
Ich will immer warnen und wehren: Bleibt fern.
Die Dinge singen hör ich so gern.
Ihr rührt sie an: sie sind starr und stumm.
Ihr bringt mir alle die Dinge um.
The words of humanity scare me no end
The words of humanity scare me no end.
Each one has a definite meaningful sound,
And this is a house and that is a hound,
And here’s a beginning, and there is an end.
And I don’t like their taunting, their quiddity-quod,
They know what is coming and what came before,
No mountain is magical, not any more,
Having high homes and gardens, good neighbours to God.
I want to warn always and ward them away:
‘To be hearing things singing, I’m happy that way.
You annoy, you dismay! Things are numb, they are dumb!
You go on bringing things to their ultimate doom.’
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.
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.
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.
