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Translation
of Eugenio Montale
La Bufera
La bufera che
sgronde sulle foglie
dure della magnolia
i lunghi tuoni
marzolini e la grandine,
(i suoni di cristallo
nel tuo nido
notturno ti sorprendono,
dell’oro
che s’è spento
sui mogani, sul taglio
dei libri rilegati,
brucia ancora
una grana di zucchero
nel guscio
delle tue palpebre)
Il lampo che candisce
alberi e muro e li
sorprende in quella
eternità d’istante-marmo
manna
e distruzione-ch’entro
te scolpita
porti per tua condanna
e che ti lega
più che l’amore
a me, strana sorella,-
e poi lo schianto rude,
i sistri, il fremere
dei tamburelli sulla
fossa fuia
lo scalpicciare del
fandango, e sopra
qualche gesto che
annaspra..
Come quando
ti rivolgesti e con
la mano, sgombra
la fronte dalla nube
dei capelli,
mi salutasti-per entrar
nel buio.
-----------------------
The Storm
The storm which drips
onto the stiff
leaves of the magnolia,
and the rumble
of thunder in March
and the hail,
(the crystalline sounds
surprise you
in your nocturnal
retreat, sounds of gold
which is spent on
mahogany trees, on
binding of fine books,
a grain of sugar
yet gleams in the
fold of your eyelids)
the lightening which
candies
trees and wall and
surprises them in that
eternity of an instant-marble
both godsend
and curse-which carves
within you havens for
your condemnation
and which binds you more
than love to me, strange
sister, -
and then the harsh
crash of the sistra, the shuddering
of tambourines over
the pit, the shuffle of the fandango,
and above some sort
of gesturing motion…
As when
you turned around and
with a sweep of your hand
brushed away a tuft
of hair
from your forehead
and bid farewell
oly to fade into the
darkness.
~~~~~~~~
Translation of Antonia
Pozzi
Ricongiungimento
Se io capissi
Quel che vuol dire
- non vederti più
-
credo che la mia vita
qui – finirebbe.
ma per me la terra
è soltanto
la zolla che calpesto
e l'altra che calpesti
tu:
il resto è
aria in cui
- zattere sciolte
-
navighiamo a incontrarci.
Nel cielo limpido
infatti
sorgono a volte piccole
nubi
fili di lana
o piume - distanti
-
e chi guarda di lì
a pochi istanti
vede una nuvola sola
che si allontana.
---------------------------
Reunion
If I understood
the meaning of
- not ever seeing
you again –
I believe my life
here – would end.
But for me the earth
is only a clod that
I trample down
and the other which
you likewise trample:
what remains is air
where
- rafts set adrift
–
we steer toward each
other.
In the bright sky
indeed
small clouds rise
at times
silk threads
or feathers – far
off –
and whoever looks
from there
in a few seconds sees
a single cloud
which moves away.
~~~~~~~~~~
Translation of Salvatore
Quasimodo
Quasi un madrigale
Il girasole piega a
occidente
e già precipita
il giorno nel suo
occhio in rovina e
l'aria dell'estate
s'addensa e già
curva le foglie e il fumo
dei cantieri. S'allontana
con scorrere
secco di nubi e stridere
di fulmini
quest'ultimo gioco
del cielo. Ancora,
e da anni, cara, ci
ferma il mutarsi
degli alberi stretti
dentro la cerchia
dei Navigli. Ma è
sempre il nostro giorno
e sempre quel sole
che se ne va
con il filo del suo
raggio affettuoso.
Non ho più
ricordi, non voglio ricordare;
la memoria risale
dalla morte,
la vita è senza
fine. Ogni giorno
è nostro. Uno
si fermerà per sempre,
e tu con me, quando
ci sembri tardi.
Qui sull'argine del
canale, i piedi
in altalena, come
di fanciulli,
guardiamo l'acqua,
i primi rami dentro
il suo colore verde
che s'oscura.
E l'uomo che in silenzio
s'avvicina
non nasconde un coltello
fra le mani,
ma un fiore di geranio.
-------------------------------------
Almost a Madrigal
The sunflower bows
to the west
and already hastens
the day in its
ruined eye and the
air of summer
thickens and already
bends the leaves
and the smoke of the
dockyards. This last game
leaves with the dry
gliding of clouds and
the clashing of thunder
and lightning
again, and for years,
dear one, the change of
the narrow trees stops
us within the circle
of the Fleet.
But it’s always our day
and always that sun
which goes away
with the thread of
its loving ray.
I don’t hold any more
memories, I don’t
want to remember,
memory rises from the dead,
life is without end.
Each day
isours. One
such will stop forever,
and you, with me,
when it seems too late
for us. Here
on the bank of the canal
see-sawing feet, like
those of children,
we look out on the
water, the first
branch within its
green color which clouds over.
And the man who approaches
in silence
doesn’t hide a knife
between his hands,
but a geranium flower.
----------------------
Translation of Robert
Desnos
Destinée arbitraire
à Georges Malkine
Voici venir le temps
des croisades.
Par la fenêtre
fermée les oiseaux s'obstinent à parler
comme les poissons
d'aquarium.
À la devanture
d'une boutique
une jolie femme sourit.
Bonheur tu n'es que
cire à cacheter
et je passe tel un
feu follet.
Un grand nombre de
gardiens poursuivent
un inoffensif papillon
échappé de l'asile
Il devient sous mes
mains pantalon de dentelle
et ta chair d'aigle
ô mon rêve
quand je vous caresse!
Demain on enterrera
gratuitement
on ne s'enrhumera
plus
on parlera le langage
des fleurs
on s'éclairera
de lumières inconnues à ce jour.
Mais aujourd'hui c'est
aujourd'hui
Je sens que mon commencement
est proche
pareil aux blés
de juin. .
Gendarmes passez-moi
les menottes.
Les statues se détournent
sans obéir.
Sous leur socle j'inscrirai
des injures et le nom
de mon pire ennemi.
Là-bas dans
l'océan
Entre deux eaux
Un beau corps de femme
Fait reculer les requins
Ils montent à
la surface se mirer dans l'air
et n'osent pas mordre
aux seins
aux seins délicieux.
------------------------
Arbitrary Destiny
to Georges Malkine
Here comes the time
of the crusades.
Through the closed
window the birds obstinately refuse to speak
like the fishes of
the aquarium.
At a boutique’s store
front
a pretty woman smiles
Happiness you’re nothing
but sealing wax
and I pass such a
will-o’-the-wisp.
A large number of
caretakers chase
an inoffensive butterfly
escaped from the sanctuary
It ends up as trousers
lace under my hands
and your eagle’s flesh
Oh my dream when I
caress you!
Tomorrow they’ll bury
for free
no one will catch
a cold again
the language of the
flowers will be spoken
we’ll be lit up by
unknown lights on that day.
But today is today
I feel that my beginning
is near
similar to the wheat
of June.
Police, pass me the
handcuffs.
The statues turn away
without obeying.
Under their base I
will inscribe the insults and the name
of my worst enemy.
Over there in the
ocean
Between two waters
A woman’s beautiful
body
Draws the sharks away
They surface to be
reflected in the air
and don’t dare bite
at the breasts
at the delicious breasts.
Translation of Mario
Luzi
Passi
Rifioriranno i tigli
e le rose serali sopra
i muri
per le vie pensierose
lungo i portali calmi
e le fontane?
L’alta fronte di Fiesole
e le balze di fiori
temerarie
ove al tempo di maggio
selvagge aprono il
fiume e le alberete?
Ma ormai dove sono
- oltre
il Lete bisbigliano – gli amici
per le strade segrete
con le armi serene
e vagabonde?
Ora il sole ricurvo
parla di loro al vento
e alle ginestre;
passano giovanette
sull’atavico ponte
sconosciute
e qualcuno le chiama
più avvolgente
dell’aria e delle rose
da un serico verone
ove l’altura ha senso
di morire.
--------------------
Steps
The linden trees and
evening
roses will flower
anew above the walls
through the thoughtful
streets
along the calm portals
and the fountains?
The high façade
of Fiesole
and the cliffs of
temerarious flowers
that in Maytime
are wild, open up
the river and the line of trees?
However, at this time
where are
- whispering
beyond the Lete – the friends
through secret avenues
with serene and wandering
armies?
Now the bent sun
speaks of them to
the wind and gorse;
young women go by
on the atavistic unknown
bridges
and someone calls them
more wound up than
the air and roses
from a silken balcony
where height has the
sense to die.
Translation of Mario
Luzi
Da Nella gloria
delle finestre
Prima di primavera,
ma poco,
si diffonde la sua
acquosa luminescenza
e quel chiaro e quell’alone
sui monti,
quel trepidare dell’aria,
quel vibrare delle
immagini
di là da quella
garza
di indicibile festività,
schermate
e accese da essa,
quel fulgore
dell’effimero
esultante a un tratto
di esserlo – vigilia,
vigilia incolmabile
di nessun avvenimento
–
c’è
non so in quale ricordo,
ma c’è detta
dall’erba
questa
nota
di non so che perduto
monocordio –
pensa lei raggiunta
in tutte le cellule.
-----------------
From In the glory
of windows
Before spring, but
little before,
its watery luminescence
spreads
and that clearness
and that halo on mountains,
that anxiety of air,
that striking of
images
from there from that
gauze
of inexpressible festivity,
shielded
and ignited from it,
that splendor
of the exultant ephemeral
one
all of a sudden being
– eve,
unbridgeable eve
of no event -
there is
I don’t know in which
memory,
but it is said from
the grass
this
note
of I don’t know which
lost monochord -
believes itself caught
up in all the cells.
Pink Hydrangea
Translation of Rainer M. Rilke
Rosa Hortensie
Wer nahm das Rosa an? Wer wußte
auch,
daß es sich sammelte in diesen
Dolden?
Wie Dinge unter Gold, die sich entgolden,
entröten sie sich sanft, wie
im Gebrauch.
Daß sie für solches Rosa
nichts verlangen.
Bleibt es für sie und lächelt
aus der Luft?
Sind Engel da, es zärtlich
zu empfangen,
wenn es vergeht, großmütig
wie ein Duft?
Oder vielleicht auch geben
sie es preis,
damit es nie erführe vom Verblühn.
Doch unter diesem Rosa hat ein Grün
gehorcht, das jetzt verwelkt und
alles weiß.
Pink Hydrangea
Who accepted the color of pink?
Who also
knew, that it abounded in these
umbels?
As objects amid gold, their sheen
diminishes,
red gently turns, as from wear and
tear.
That they ask no compensation for
such pink!
Does it last for them and smile
from the air?
Are angels there, to receive it
tenderly,
as soon as it fades, generous like
a fragrance?
Or perhaps they also relinquish it,
never to thus experience fading.
But beneath this pink a bit of green
has
listened, that now withers and knows
it all.
Die Gazelle
Gazella Dorcas
Verzauberte: wie kann der Einklang zweier
erwählter Worte je den Reim erreichen,
der in dir kommt und geht, wie auf ein Zeichen.
Aus deiner Stirne steigen Laub und Leier,
und alles Deine geht schon im Vergleich
durch Liebeslieder, deren Worte, weich
wie Rosenblätter, dem, der nicht mehr liest,
sich auf die Augen legen, die er schließt:
um dich zu sehen: hingetragen, als
wäre mit Sprüngen jeder Lauf geladen
und schösse nur nicht ab, solang der Hals
das Haupt ins Horchen hält: wie wenn beim Baden
im Wald die Badende sich unterbricht:
den Waldsee im gewendeten Gesicht.
The Gazelle
Gazella Dorcas
Magical one: how can harmony of two
chosen words ever reach the rhyme,
which comes and goes in you, as upon a sign.
From your brow soar leaves and lyre,
and everything yours will accord well
throughout love songs, whose words, soft
as rose petals, to him who no longer reads,
lay down on the eyes, which he closes:
in order to see you: carried forth, as
though each run were charged with leaps
but did not dart off, as long as the neck
draws the head up to attention: as when bathing
in the forest the woman bather pauses:
the forest lake in her turned face.
Persisches Heliotrop
Es könnte sein, dass dir der Rose Lob
zu laut erscheint für deine Freundin: Nimm
das schön gestickte Kraut und überstimm
mit dringend flüsterndem Heliotrop
den Bülbül, der an ihren Lieblingsplätzen
sie schreiend preist und sie nicht kennt.
Denn sieh: wie süße Worte nachts in Sätzen
beisammenstehn ganz dicht, durch nichts getrennt,
aus der Vokale wachem Violett
hindüftend durch das stille Himmelbett -:
so schließen sich vor dem gesteppten Laube
deutliche Sterne zu der seidnen Traube
und mischen, dass sie fast davon verschwimmt,
die Stille mit Vanille und mit Zimmt.
Persian Heliotrope
It could be, the rose’s acclimation
appears too showy for your beloved: Take
the finely-embroidered herb and outsing
with urgently whispering Heliotrope
the nightingale, who shrilly praises your beloved
at her favorite places yet doesn’t know her
Then look: as sweet words at night in phrases
densely woven side by side, separated by nothing,
out of the vowels waking violet
wafting through quiet heaven’s bed -:
that’s how in front of the quilted arbor
the stars close to a velvet grape cluster
and mingle, to almost blur,
the stillness with vanilla and cinnamon.
Eine Sibylle
Einst, vor Zeiten, nannte man sie alt.
Doch sie blieb und kam dieselbe Straße
täglich. Und man änderte die Maße,
und man zählte sie wie einen Wald
nach Jahrhunderten. Sie aber stand
jeden Abend auf derselben Stelle,
schwarz wie eine alte Zitadelle
hoch und hohl und ausgebrannt;
von den Worten, die sich unbewacht
wider ihren Willen in ihr mehrten,
immerfort umschrieen und umflogen,
während die schon wieder heimgekehrten
dunkel unter ihren Augenbogen
saßen, fertig für die Nacht.
A Sibyl
Once, in times gone by, one called her old.
Yet she remained and came by the same street
daily. And one changed the standard,
and counted her age like a stand of woods
in centuries. She however stood
each evening in the same exact spot,
black as an ancient stronghold
high and empty and gutted out;
by the words, which unguarded grew
within her against their will,
all the time shrieking and flying about,
whereas those already returned to settle home
dark under the arches of her eyes
sat, ready for the night.
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Translation
of Arthur Rimbaud
Fleurs
D’un gradin d’or,
- parmi les cordons de soie, les gazes grises, les velours verts
et les disques de crystal
qui noircissent comme du bronze au soleil, - je vois la digitale s’ouvrir
sur un tapis de filigranes d’argent, d’yeux et de chevelures.
Des pièces
d’or jaune semées sur l’agate, des piliers d’acajou suportant un
dôme d’émeraudes, des bouquets de satin blanc et de fines
verges de rubis entourent la rose d’eau.
Tels qu’un dieu
aux énormes yeux bleus et aux formes de neige, la mer et le ciel
attirent
aux terrasses de marbre
la foule des jeunes et fortes roses.
Flowers
By a golden step,
- among silken cords, gray gauze, green velvets, and crystal discs
which blacken like
a suntan, - I see the digitalis open on a carpet of silver strands,
on eyes and on hair.
Pieces of yellow
gold scattered over agate, pillars of mahogany supporting a canopy
of emeralds, bunches
of white satin and thin rods of ruby encircle the sentimental rose.
As a god with enormous
blue eyes and the form of snow, the sea and sky attract
a riot of young and
strong roses to the marble terraces.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Translation of David
Diop
Celui qui a tout perdu
Le soleil brillait
dans ma case
Et mes femmes étaient
belles et souples
Comme les palmiers
sous la brise des soirs.
Mes enfants glissaient
sur le grand fleuve
Aux profondeurs de
mort
Et mes pirogues luttaient
avec les crocodiles
La lune, maternelle,
accompagnait nos danses
Le rythme frénétique
et lourd du tam-tam,
Tam-tam de la joie,
tam-tam de l'insouciance
Au milieu des feux
de liberté.
Puis un jour, le Silence...
Les rayons du soleil
semblèrent s'éteindre
Dans ma case vide
de sens.
Mes femmes écrasèrent
leurs bouches rougies
Sur les lèvres
minces et dures des conquérants aux yeux d'acier
Et mes enfants quittèrent
leur nudité paisible
Pour l'uniforme de
fer et de sang.
Votre voix s'est éteinte
aussi
Les fers de l'esclavage
ont déchiré mon coeur
Tams-tams de mes nuits,
tam-tams de mes pères
He who has lost everything
The sun shone in my
hut
And my wives were
beautiful and supple
Like palm trees beneath
the breeze of the evenings.
My children glided
along the large river
To the depths of death
And my dugouts fought
with the crocodiles
The moon, maternal,
accompanied our dances
The frenetic and heavy
rhythm of the tom-tom,
Tom-tom of joy, tom-tom
of unconcern
In the midst of the
fires
of freedom.
Then one day, Silence...
The rays of the sun
seemed to die out
In my now-meaningless
hut.
My wives crushed their
reddened mouths
On the thin and hard
lips of conquerors with eyes of steel
And my children left
their peaceful nudity
For the uniform of
iron and blood.
Your voice too has
passed on
Irons of slavery have
torn my heart
Tom-toms of my nights,
tom-toms of my fathers
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Translation of
Pierre Reverdy
Chemin Tournant
IL y a un terrible
gris de poussière dans le temps
Un vent du sud avec
de fortes ailes
Les échos sourds
de l'eau dans le soir chavirant
Et dans la nuit mouillée
qui jaillit du tournant
des voix rugueuses qui se plaignent
Un goût de cendre
sur la langue
Un bruit d'orgue dans
les sentiers
Le navire du coeur
qui tangue
Tous les désastres
du métier
Quand les feux du désert
s'éteignent un à un
Quand les yeux sont
mouillés comme
des brins d'herbe
Quand la rosée
descend les pieds nus sur les feuilles Le matin à peine levé
Il y a quelqu'un qui
cherche
Une adresse perdue
dans le chemin caché
Les astres dérouillés
et les fleurs dégringolent
A travers les branches
cassées
Et le ruisseau obscur
essuie ses lèvres molles à peine décollées
Quand le pas du marcheur
sur le cadran qui compte
règle le mouvement
et pousse l'horizon
Tous les cris sont
passés tous les temps se rencontrent
Et moi je marche au
ciel les yeux dans les rayons
Il y a du bruit pour
rien et des noms dans ma tête
Des visages vivants
Tout ce qui s'est passé au monde
Et cette fête
Où j'ai perdu mon temps
Revolving Lane
There is a terrible
gray with dust in time
A southern wind with
strong wings
Deaf echoes of water
in the capsizing evening
And in the wet night
which bends as it spouted
rough voices which
complain
A taste of ash on
the tongue
Organ noise on the
paths
Ship’s heart which
pitches
All disasters of the
trade
When the fires
of the desert are extinguished one by one
When the eyes are
wet like
grass bits
When the dew descends
the naked feet on the leaves the morning hardly risen
There is somebody
who seeks
An address lost in
the hidden lane
The de-rusted stars
and the fallen flowers
Through the broken
branches
And the obscure brook
dries its hardly separated soft lips
When the step
of the marcher on the dial counts
regulates the movement
and pushes the horizon
All the cries have
passed all the times meet up
And I, I walk
to the sky the eyes in the rays
There is noise for
nothing and the names in my head
Alive faces
All that occurred
in the world
And this festival
Where I wasted my time
---------------------------------
A Carousel Comes to
Life
Candied apples and twizzle sticks
beckon to a lively carousel on
the corner green. It revolves in
pastels
of Old World prestige below
the vacant lot where I stand.
In thoughtful prayer, its whirring
takes me back in time, as beaded
jet sparkles on a pinwheel, to my
past life in sapphire and garnet,
a blue and red hush for military
glory.
Our column also held the middle,
as
outriders spiraled up and down like
the Master who works his puppet show.
A pinnacle in an alcove of candy
striped
poles, my bravery was put to the
test
under the whorl of sky-blue canopy.
Right to left, sinister details countered
the clock and now paint the canopy
with
bygone scenes to catch up to.
I was one
of those acquarelles, motioning
pride
in the unraveling concourse.
Auriga,
the Charioteer, who charges ahead,
the first
to fall to the stars. The Gypsy,
who dances
the tarantella, and casts lots around
destiny’s fire, faster and faster.
Carnival
at the Venetian port, where holiday
masks
and capes in black fleet in procession
before gowns in tulle and faille.
Rondelle,
the bright jewel that lays between
blue
and red, as ladies lean over to
cry
at bagatelle play. The flotilla,
which
rounds the palisade and unfurls
its flag
in crepe de chine. A draw to
swells
and to the breath of the living,
as
I look down from my phantom
post to a carousel that comes to
life.
Translation of Pierre
Reverdy
Tard dans la vie
Je suis dur
Je suis tendre
Et j'ai perdu mon
temps
A rêver sans
dormir
A dormir en marchant
Partout où
j'ai passé
J'ai trouvé
mon absence
Je ne suis nulle part
Excepté le
néant
Mais je porte caché
au plus haut des entrailles
À la place
où la foudre a frappé trop souvent
Un coeur où
chaque mot a laissé son entaille
Et d'où ma
vie s'égoutte au moindre mouvement
Late in life
I am hard
I am tender
And I’ve lost time
To dream without sleeping
To sleepwalk
Everywhere I’ve passed
by
I’ve found my absence
I’m not part of anything
Except part of the
nothingness
But I carry concealed
to the highest of entrails
To the place where
lightning has struck too often
A heart where each
word has left its notch
And from where my
life drains by the least movement
Translation of Rainer
M. Rilke
Das Lied des Bettlers
Ich gehe immer von
Tor zu Tor,
verregnet und verbrannt;
auf einmal leg ich
mein rechtes Ohr
in meine rechte Hand.
Dann kommt mir meine
Stimme vor
als hätt ich
sie nie gekannt.
Dann weiß ich
nicht sicher wer da schreit,
ich oder irgendwer.
Ich schreie um eine
Kleinigkeit.
Die Dichter schrein
um mehr.
Und endlich mach ich
noch mein Gesicht
mit beiden Augen zu;
wie's dann in der
Hand liegt mit seinem Gewicht
sieht es fast aus
wie Ruh.
Damit sie nicht meinen
ich hätte nicht,
wohin ich mein Haupt
tu.
The Song of the Beggar
I always go from door
to door,
rainsoaked and scorched;
suddenly I lay my
right ear
in my right hand.
Then my voice sounds
to me
as if I never knew
it.
Then I’m not sure who’s
screaming there,
I or someone else.
I scream for a morsel.
The poets cry for
more.
And finally I close
my face
with both eyes;
how it lies with its
weight in the hand
it almost looks like
peace.
So that they don’t
think I had none,
where I put my head.
Translation of Rainer
M. Rilke
Abendmahl
Ewiges will zu uns.
Wer hat die Wahl
und trennt die großen
und geringen Kräfte?
Erkennst du durch
das Dämmern der Geschäfte
im klaren Hinterraum
das Abendmahl:
wie sie sichs halten
und wie sie sichs reichen
und in der Handlung
schlicht und schwer beruhn.
Aus ihren Händen
heben sich die Zeichen;
sie wissen nicht,
dass sie sie tun
und immer neu mit irgendwelchen
Worten
einsetzen, was man
trinkt und was man teilt.
Denn da ist keiner,
der nicht allerorten
heimlich von hinnen
geht, indem er weilt.
Und sitzt nicht immer
einer unter ihnen,
der seine Eltern,
die ihm ängstlich dienen,
wegschenkt an ihre
abgetane Zeit?
(Sie zu verkaufen,
ist ihm schon zu weit.)
Evening Repast
Eternity desires us.
Who has the choice
and separates the
major from the minor forces?
You notice through
the dusk of business
the evening repast
in the clear back room:
how they receive it
and how they pass it on
amongst themselves,
their gestures simple and profound.
From their hands the
indications lift themselves;
without them knowing
that they do
and always new with
any kind of words
put in, what one drinks
and what one shares.
Because there is none,
who would somewhere
secretly depart, whilst
he remains.
And doesn’t always
sit one amongst them,
who gives his parents
meekly serving him
away to time already
passed?
(To sell them is too
far for him.)
Autumn Day
Translation of Rainer M. Rilke
Herbsttag
Herr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer
war sehr groß.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren laß die
Winde los.
Befiehl den letzten Früchten
voll zu sein;
gieb ihnen noch zwei südlichere
Tage,
dränge sie zur Vollendung und
jage
die letzte Süße in den
schweren Wein.
Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich
keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange
bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe
schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter
treiben.
Autumn Day
Lord: it is time. The summer
was very big.
Place your shadow on the sundials,
and let the winds loose on the meadows.
Command the last fruits to fully
bear;
grant them two more southern days,
urge them to perfection and chase
the last sweetness in full-bodied
wine.
Who now has no home, has yet to build.
Who now is alone, will long remain
so,
will stay awake, read, write long
letters
and restlessly wander up and down
the avenues, when the leaves drift
'Resurrection’
Translation of Rainer M. Rilke
‘Auferstehung’
Der Graf vernimmt die Töne.
Er sieht einen lichten Riß;
Er weckt seine dreizehn Söhne
Im Erbbegräbnis.
Er grüßt seine beiden
Frauen
Ehrerbietig von weit--;
Und alle voll Vertrauen
Stehn auf zur Ewigkeit
Und warten nur noch auf Erich
Und Ulriken Dorotheen,
Die sieben- und dreizenjährig
Sechzehnhundertzehn
Verstorben sind in Flandern,
Um heute vor den andern
Unbeirrt herzugehn.
‘Resurrection’
The Earl hears the notes,
He sees a light crack;
He wakens his thirteen sons
In the family vault.
He greets his two wives
Respectfully from a distance--;
And all full of trust
Rise up unto eternity
And they await only Eric
And Ulrica Dorothy,
The seven- and thirteen-year-olds
Who, in sixteen hundred and ten
deceased in Flanders,
At this day ere the others
Staunchly move in procession.
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