СНОВИДЕНИЕ
by Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837)
because this is both Pushkin’s birthday and UN Russian Language Day

Недавно, обольщен прелестным сновиденьем,
В венце сияющем, царем я зрел себя;
Мечталось, я любил тебя —
И сердце билось наслажденьем.
Я страсть у ног твоих в восторгах изъяснял.
Мечты! ах! отчего вы счастья не продлили?
Но боги не всего теперь меня лишили:
Я только — царство потерял.

Views: 58

El canto de la miel
by Federico García Lorca (1898-1936)

La miel es la palabra de Cristo.
El oro derretido de su amor.
El más allá del néctar.
La momia de la luz del paraíso.

La colmena es una estrella casta,
Pozo de ámbar que alimenta el ritmo
De las abejas. Seno de los campos
Tembloroso de aromas y zumbidos.

La miel es la epopeya del amor,
La materialidad de lo infinito.
Alma y sangre doliente de las flores
Condensada a través de otro espíritu.

(Así la miel del hombre es la poesía
Que mana de su pecho dolorido,
De un panal con la cera del recuerdo
Formado por la abeja de lo íntimo.)

La miel es la bucólica lejana
Del pastor, la dulzaina y el olivo.
Hermana de la leche y las bellotas,
Reinas supremas del dorado siglo.

La miel es como el sol de la mañana,
Tiene toda la gracia del Estío
Y la frescura vieja del Otoño.
Es la hoja marchita y es el trigo.

¡Oh divino licor de la humildad,
Sereno como un verso primitivo!

La armonía hecha carne tú eres,
El resumen genial de lo lírico.
En ti duerme la melancolía,
El secreto del beso y del grito.

Dulcísima. Dulce. Éste es tu adjetivo.
Dulce como los vientres de las hembras.
Dulce como los ojos de los niños.
Dulce como la sombra de la noche.
Dulce como una voz
         o como un lirio.

Para el que lleva la pena y la lira,
Eres sol que ilumina el camino.
Equivales a todas las bellezas,
Al color, a la luz, a los sonidos.

¡Oh divino licor de la esperanza,
Donde a la perfección del equilibrio
Llegan alma y materia en unidad
Como en la hostia cuerpo y luz de Cristo!

Y el alma superior es de las flores.
¡Oh licor que esas almas han unido!
El que te gusta no sabe que traga
Un resumen dorado de lirismo.

Views: 80

Iambicum Trimetrum
by Edmund Spenser (1552-1628)

Unhappy verse, the witness of my unhappy state,
   Make thy self flutt’ring wings of thy fast flying
   Thought, and fly forth unto my love, wheresoever she be:
Whether lying restless in heavy bed, or else
   Sitting so cheerless at the cheerful board, or else
   Playing alone careless on her heavenly virginals.
If in bed, tell her, that my eyes can take no rest:
   If at board, tell her, that my mouth can eat no meat:
   If at her virginals, tell her, I can hear no mirth.
Asked why? say: waking love suffereth no sleep:
   Say that raging love doth appal the weak stomach:
   Say, that lamenting love marreth the musical.
Tell her, that her pleasures were wont to lull me asleep:
   Tell her, that her beauty was wont to feed mine eyes:
   Tell her, that her sweet tongue was wont to make me mirth.
Now do I nightly waste, wanting my kindly rest:
   Now do I daily starve, wanting my lively food:
   Now do I always die, wanting thy timely mirth.
And if I waste, who will bewail my heavy chance?
   And if I starve, who will record my cursed end?
   And if I die, who will say: this was Immerito?

Views: 22

Aus der Kinderzeit
by Detlev von Liliencron (1844-1909)

In alten Briefen saß ich heut vergraben,
Als einer plötzlich in die Hand mir fiel,
Auf dem die Jahresziffer mich erschreckte,
So lange war es her, so lange schon.
Die Schrift stand groß und klein und glatt und kraus
Und reichlich untermischt mit Tintenflecken:
»Mein lieber Fritz, die Bäume sind nun kahl,
Wir spielen nicht mehr Räuber und Soldat,
Türk hat das rechte Vorderbein gebrochen,
Und Tante Hannchen hat noch immer Zahnweh,
Papa ist auf die Hühnerjagd gegangen.
Ich weiß nichts mehr. Mir geht es gut.
Schreib bald und bleibe recht gesund.
Dein Freund und Vetter Siegesmund.«

»Die Bäume sind nun kahl,« das herbe Wort
Ließ mich die Briefe still zusammenlegen,
Gab Hut und Handschuh mir und Rock und Stock
Und drängte mich hinaus in meine Heide.

Views: 20

The Flowers of the Forest
by Jean Elliot (1727-1805)

I’ve heard them lilting at our ewe milking,
      Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day;
But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning;
      The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning;
      Lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae;
Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing;
      Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away.

In har’st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
      Bandsters are runkled, and lyart, and gray;
At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing nae fleeching;
      The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

At e’en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming
      ’Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk maid sits dreary, lamenting her deary—
      The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.

Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!
      The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
      The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.

We’ll hear nae mair lilting, at the ewe-milking;
      Women and bairns are heartless and wae:
Sighing and moaning, on ilka green loaning—
      The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

Views: 32

At Castle Boterel
by Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

As I drive to the junction of lane and highway,
      And the drizzle bedrenches the waggonette,
I look behind at the fading byway,
      And see on its slope, now glistening wet,
            Distinctly yet

Myself and a girlish form benighted
      In dry March weather. We climb the road
Beside a chaise. We had just alighted
      To ease the sturdy pony’s load
            When he sighed and slowed.

What we did as we climbed, and what we talked of
      Matters not much, nor to what it led, ―
Something that life will not be balked of
      Without rude reason till hope is dead,
            And feeling fled.

It filled but a minute. But was there ever
      A time of such quality, since or before,
In that hill’s story ? To one mind never,
      Though it has been climbed, foot-swift, foot-sore,
            By thousands more.

Primaeval rocks form the road’s steep border,
      And much have they faced there, first and last,
Of the transitory in Earth’s long order ;
      But what they record in colour and cast
            Is—that we two passed.

And to me, though Time’s unflinching rigour,
      In mindless rote, has ruled from sight
The substance now, one phantom figure
      Remains on the slope, as when that night
            Saw us alight.

I look and see it there, shrinking, shrinking,
      I look back at it amid the rain
For the very last time; for my sand is sinking,
      And I shall traverse old love’s domain
            Never again.

Views: 32