Tag: Christmas

At Christmastide

In Weihnachtszeiten

In Weihnachtszeiten reis' ich gern Und bin dem Kinderjubel fern Und geh' in Wald und Schnee allein. Und manchmal, doch nicht jedes Jahr, Trifft meine gute Stunde ein, Daß ich von allem, was da war, Auf einen Augenblick gesunde Und irgendwo im Wald für eine Stunde Der Kindheit Duft erfühle tief im Sinn Und wieder Knabe bin…

At Christmastide

At Christmastide I like to go Far from all childish merriment And seek alone the woods and snow. And sometimes, though not every year, I meet my hour of sweet content, And suddenly I'm healed and well, Freed of whatever things there were, And in the woodland for a spell Childhood comes wafting to my brain And I’m a little boy again.

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Christmas Poem

Weihnachtsgedicht

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Weihnachtsgedicht

Es gibt so wunderweisse Nächte, drin alle Dinge silber sind. Da schimmert mancher Stern so lind, als ob er fromme Hirten brächte zu einem neuen Jesuskind. Weit wie mit dichtem Demantstaube bestreut, erscheinen Flur und Flut, und in die Herzen, traumgemut, steigt ein kapellenloser Glaube, der leise seine Wunder tut.

Christmas Poem

Some nights there are so wondrous white that all is touched with silver hue, and many a great star gleams as bright as if it guided shepherds to a Jesus they may find anew. Strewn with a dust of diamonds lie field and flood, a broad expanse; and then in sweetly dreaming hearts an all unchapelled faith ascends, that lightly works its magic arts.

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Advent

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Advent

Es treibt der Wind im Winterwalde die Flockenherde wie ein Hirt, und manche Tanne ahnt, wie balde sie fromm und lichterheilig wird, und lauscht hinaus. Den weißen Wegen streckt sie die Zweige hin - bereit, und wehrt dem Wind und wächst entgegen der einen Nacht der Herrlichkeit.

Advent

Winds drive the flakes in the wintry wood, herding them, as a shepherd would. Fir-trees can tell they soon will stand piously laced with holy light: alert and ready, they withstand the wind, and stretch and seek the white pathways, and swell their boughs toward that night, that single glorious night.

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The quietest day of the year

(für Clara) Der stillste Tag im Jahr

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

(für Clara) Der stillste Tag im Jahr

Weihnachten ist der stillste Tag im Jahr. Da hörst du alle Herzen gehn und schlagen wie Uhren, welche Abendstunden sagen. Weihnachten ist der stillste Tag im Jahr. Da werden alle Kinderaugen groß, als ob die Dinge wüchsen, die sie schauen und mütterlicher werden alle Frauen und alle Kinderaugen werden groß. Da mußt du draußen gehn im weiten Land willst du die Weihnacht sehn, die unversehrte, als ob dein Sinn der Städte nie begehrte, so mußt du draußen gehn im weiten Land. Dort dämmern große Himmel über dir, die auf entfernten, weißen Wäldern ruhn, die Wege wachsen unter deinen Schuhn, und große Himmel dämmern über dir. Und in den großen Himmeln steht ein Stern, ganz aufgeblüht zu selten großer Helle, die Fernen nähern sich wie eine Welle, und in den großen Himmeln steht ein Stern.

The quietest day of the year

Christmas, the quietest day of the year. Of every heart you can hear the pulse, like the evening hours that a timepiece tells: Christmas, the quietest day of the year. The children stare and their eyes are wide as if things grew by a power supernal, and all the mothers are more maternal: the children stare and their eyes are wide. You must go out in the countryside if you want to see Christmas unimpaired: as if for cities you never have cared, you must go out in the countryside. Great skies are twilit above your head, at peace over white and distant woods: the paths grow wider under your boots. Great skies are twilit above your head. And in the great skies there stands a star, with a rare great brightness it has risen. A wave comes in, it’s the far horizon, and in the great skies there stands a star.

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French

(From) Christmas Marching Song

Post author By Website Editor
Post date May 3, 1868

Paul Claudel (1868-1955)

Translated by Timothy Adès

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I saw the Christ-child! Imagine it, though

Denkt Euch, ich habe das Christkind gesehn

Anna Ritter (1865-1921)

Denkt Euch, ich habe das Christkind gesehn

Denkt Euch, ich habe das Christkind gesehn. Es kam aus dem Walde, das Mützchen voll Schnee, mit rotgefrorenem Näschen. Die kleine Hände taten ihm weh, denn es trug einen Sack, der war gar schwer, schleppte und polterte hinter ihm her. Was drin war, möchtet ihr wissen? Ihr Naseweise, ihr Schelmenpack - denkt ihr, er wäre offen, der Sack? Zugebunden bis oben hin! doch war gewiß etwas Schönes drin! Es roch so nach Äpfeln und Nüssen!

I saw the Christ-child! Imagine it, though

I saw the Christ-child! Imagine it, though – He came from the wood with his cap full of snow, His poor little nose red and frozen. His little hands ached from a heavy load He had a sack that he toted and towed It dragged along loudly behind him. What was in it, you’d like to know? You nosey parkers, you rascal-pack, Do you suppose it was open, the sack? All the way up it was tightly tied. But something good was surely inside – Such a scent of apples and nuts!

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Christmas, Resigned

NOËL RÉSIGNÉ

Jules Laforgue (1860-87)

NOËL RÉSIGNÉ

Noël! Noël! toujours, sur mes livres, je rêve. Que de jours ont passé depuis l’autre Noël! Comme toute douleur au cœur de l’homme est brève. Non, je ne pleure plus, cloches, à votre appel. Noël! triste Noël! En vain la bonne chère S’étale sous le gaz! il pleut, le ciel est noir, Et dans les flaques d’eau tremblent les réverbères Que tourmente le vent, un vent de désespoir. Dans la boue et la pluie on palpe des oranges, Restaurants et cafés s’emplissent dans le bruit, Qui songe à l’éternel, à l’histoire, à nos fanges? Chacun veut se gaver et rire cette nuit! Manger, rire, chanter, — pourtant tout est mystère - Dans quel but venons-nous sur ce vieux monde, et d’où? Sommes-nous seuls? Pourquoi le Mal? Pourquoi la Terre? Pourquoi l’éternité stupide? Pourquoi tout? Mais non! mais non, qu’importe à la mêlée humaine? L’illusion nous tient! — et nous mène à son port. Et Paris qui mourra faisant trêve à sa peine Vers les cieux éternels braille un Noël encor.

Christmas, Resigned

Nowell! Nowell! At my books, I am dreaming on! How many days have passed since the last Nowell! How brief is every grief in the heart of man. No, I no longer weep at the tolling bell. Christmas! Sad Christmas! The sky is rainy and black. Good cheer spreads large to no purpose under the gas. Reflected in puddles of water, the street-lamps shake, Abused by the wind, a wind of hopelessness. In the mud and the rain there are oranges to squeeze. Who thinks of our filth, of history and the hereafter? Cafés and restaurants wrap themselves up in the noise. What people want tonight is guzzling and laughter. Eat, laugh, and sing – yet all is in mystery furled… From where, and for what, do we come to this old round ball? Are we alone? Why Evil? Why the world? Why idiotic Eternity? Why all? But no, no! What is all that to the tumult of man? We are gripped by illusion, it brings us safe to its shore, And Paris the moribund, calling a truce with her pain, Shouts into the ageless skies one Christmas more.

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Resting in Egypt

Le Repos En Egypte

Albert Samain (1858-1900)

Le Repos En Egypte

La nuit est bleue et chaude, et le calme infini… Roulé dans son manteau, le front sur une pierre, Joseph dort, le coeur pur, ayant fait sa prière; Et l’âne à ses côtés est comme un humble ami. Entre les pieds du Sphinx appuyée à demi, La Vierge, pâle et douce, a fermé la paupière; Et, dans l’ombre, une étrange et suave lumière Sort du petit Jésus dans ses bras endormi. Autour d’eux le désert s’ouvre mystérieux; Et tout est si tranquille à cette heure, en ces lieux Qu’on entendrait l’enfant respirer sous ses voiles. Nul souffle…La fumée immobile du feu, Mont ainsi qu’un long fil se perdre dans l’air bleu… Et le Sphinx éternel atteste les étoiles.

Resting in Egypt

The blue, hot night, the calm that has no end… Wrapped in his cloak, a stone beneath his head, Sleeps Joseph, pure in heart, his prayers said; The ass lies by him, like a humble friend. Between the Sphinx’s paws composed to rest, The Virgin, pale and sweet, has veiled her sight. The shadow glimmers with a strange, soft light: The infant Jesus sleeps upon her breast. The time and place are peaceful. Not a sound: Only the breathing of the babe. All round, The desert sands their mysteries unfold. The wind is still, the smoke climbs quietly, Like a long thread, to vanish in the sky; The timeless Sphinx bids all the stars behold.

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Épiphanie

Epiphany

José-Maria de Hérédia (1842-1905)

Epiphany

Donc, Balthazar, Melchior et Gaspar, les Rois Mages, Chargés de nefs d’argent, de vermeil et d’émaux Et suivis d’un très long cortège de chameaux, S’avancent, tels qu’ils sont dans les vieilles images. De l’Orient, lointain, ils portent leurs hommages Aux pieds du fils de Dieu, nés pour guérir les maux Que souffrent ici-bas l’homme et les animaux ; Un page noir soutient leurs robes à ramages. Sur le seuil de l’étable où veille saint Joseph, Ils ôtent humblement la couronne du chef Pour saluer l’Enfant qui rit et les admire. C’est ainsi qu’autrefois, sous Auguste César, Sont venus, présentant l’or, l’encens et la myrrhe, Les Rois Mages Gaspar, Melchior et Balthazar.

Épiphanie

Balthazar, Melchior, Gaspar, the Three Kings, Loaded with silver, scarlets and enamels, And followed by a long parade of camels, Draw near, as in great art’s imaginings. From eastern lands afar the trio brings Homage to God’s Son, born to heal all ills Endured on earth by men and animals… Intricate robes! held high by underlings. St Joseph keeps his vigil at the byre: They humbly doff their crowns, their heads are bare, They greet the laughing and admiring Child. So, when in times long past Augustus ruled, There came with myrrh and frankincense and gold Three Kings called Gaspar, Melchior, Balthazar.

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Good King Wenceslas

Latin

Good King Wenceslas

Post author By Website Editor
Post date December 16, 1818

J M Neale

Translated into Latin by Timothy Adès

Good King Wenceslas looked out On the feast of Stephen When the snow lay round about Deep and crisp and even Brightly shone the moon that night Though the frost was cruel When a poor man came in sight Gath'ring winter fuel "Hither, page, and stand by me If thou know'st it, telling If thou know'st it, telling Yonder peasant, who is he? Where and what his dwelling?" "Sire, he lives a good league hence Underneath the mountain Right against the forest fence By Saint Agnes' fountain." "Bring me flesh and bring me wine Bring me pine logs hither Thou and I will see him dine When we bear him thither." Page and monarch forth they went Forth they went together Through the rude wind's wild lament And the bitter weather "Sire, the night is darker now And the wind blows stronger Fails my heart, I know not how, I can go no longer." "Mark my footsteps, my good page Tread thou in them boldly Thou shalt find the winter's rage Freeze thy blood less coldly." In his master's steps he trod Where the snow lay dinted Heat was in the very sod Which the Saint had printed Therefore, Christian men, be sure Wealth or rank possessing Ye who now will bless the poor Shall yourselves find blessing.

Good King Wenceslas

Wenceslaë, quas nives prospicis, rex pie, crusta plana stabiles Stephani in die! lunae lux trans tenebras monstrat indigentem per pruinas horridas ligna colligentem. “Adsta, puer, propius, narrans forsan testis: unde venit, quae domus, quis est hic agrestis?” “Tria procul milia redit hinc sub montem, silvae saepis incola Agnes iuxta fontem.” “Fer mi carnem, vinum fer, pineis cum lignis: hunc visemus, minister, dapibus benignis.” rex et puer protinus una properatis, duris in frigoribus raucae tempestatis. “Princeps, nox fit caecior, aquilo bacchatur. nescio quam languet cor: progredi non datur.” “Vade passibus meis sanguine tepenti, trucis expers hiemis, vi non algens venti.” Calcat passus domini per nives ingressi: caespites sunt calidi sancto pede pressi. ergo, potens vel dives, credas et salveris! benedicens pauperes tu benediceris.

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