Poetry Translation

english translation

The Two Old Nags

original Scots poem

The Twa Cummeris

Rycht airlie on Ask Weddinsday,
Drynkand the wyne satt cumeris tway;
The tane cowth to the tother complene,
Graneand and suppand cowd scho say,
“This lang Lentern makis me lene.”

On cowch besyd the fyre scho satt,
God wait gif scho wes grit and fatt,
Yit to be feble scho did hir fene,
And ay scho said, “Latt preif of that,
This lang Lentern makis me lene.”

“My fair, sweit cummer,” quod the tuder,
“Ye tak that nigertnes of your muder;
All wyne to test scho wald disdane
Bot mavasy, scho bad nane uder;
This lang Lentern makis me lene.”

“Cummer, be glaid both evin and morrow,
Thocht ye suld bayth beg and borrow,
Fra our lang fasting ye yow refrene,
And latt your husband dre the sorrow;
This lang Lentern makis me lene.”

“Your counsale, cummer, is gud,” quod scho,
“All is to tene him that I do,
In bed he is nocht wirth a bene;
Fill fow the glass and drynk me to;
This lang Lentern makis me lene.”

Off wyne owt of ane choppyne stowp,
They drank twa quartis, sowp and sowp,
Off drowth sic exces did thame strene;
Be than to mend thay had gud howp
That Lentrune suld nocht mak thame lene.

english translation

Sonnet: In Orkney

original Scots poem

Sonet. In Orknay

Upon the utmost corners of the warld,
and on the borders of this massive round,
quhaire fates and fortoune hither hes me harld,
I doe deplore my greiffs upon this ground;
and seing roring seis from roks rebound
by ebbs and streames of contrair routing tyds,
and phebus chariot in there wawes ly dround,
quha equallye now night and day devyds,
I cal to mynde the storms my thoughts abyds,
which euer wax and never dois decress,
for nights of dole dayes Ioys ay ever hyds,
and in there vayle doith al my weill suppress:
so this I see, quhaire ever I remove,
I chainge bot sees, but can not chainge my love.

english translation

from Book 7 of Eneados

original Scots poem

from Book 7 of Eneados

Unsterit lang tyme and unmovit, Itale
Now birnis into fury bellicall.
Sum grathis thame on fute to gae in feild,
Sum hie montit on hors bak under scheild
The dusty pouder updrivand with ane stoure,
And every man socht wappinnis and armoure:
Thare schynand scheildis sum did burnis wele,
And sum polist scharp spere hedis of stele,
To mak thame bricht with fat creische or same,
And on quhitstanis thare axis scharpis at hame:
To bere pyncellis it gladis thame up and doun,
And are rejocit to here the trumpettis soun.
Five of the gretest and maist cheif cieteis,
Thare wappinnis to renew in all degreis,
Set up forgis and stele styddyis fyne,
Riche Atina, and the proude Tiburine,
Ardea the ciete, and Crustumerie
And eik Antemne with strang towris hie,
And werelie wallis battellit all about:
The sikkir helmes penys and forgis out,
Thare targis bow thay of the licht sauch-tre,
And bos bukleris coverit with corbulye:
Sum stele hawbrekis forgis furth of plate,
Birnyst flawkertis and leg harnes fut hate,
With latit sowpyl silver weil ammelyt:
Al instrumentis of pleuch graith irnit or stelit,
As culturis, sokkys, and the sowmes grete,
With sythis and all hukis that scheris quhete,
War thidder brocht, and tholis tempyr new,
The lust of all sic werklomes wer adew:
Thay dyd thame forge in swerdis of mettal brycht,
For to defend thare cuntre and thare richt.
Be this thare armour grathyt and thare gere,
The draucht trumpet blawis the brag of were:
The slughorn, ensenye, or the wache cry
Went for the battall all suld be reddy:
He pullis doun his sellat quhare it hang,
Sum dele affrait of the noyis and thrang:
He drivis furth the stampand hors on raw
Unto the yoik, the chariotis to draw:
He clethis him with his scheild and semys bald,
He claspis his gilt habirihone and thrinfald:
He in his breistplait strang and his birnye,
Ane sovir swerd beltis law doun by his the.
Ze Musis now, sueit Godessis ichone . . .

english translation

Man at Sunset

original Romanian poem

Om În Amurg

Acum sunt un om în amurg,
Fugi în munþii tãi, cãprioarã,
Nu mai râvnesc sã-þi sãrut buzele
A doua oarã, a treia oarã.

Acum sunt un om în amurg.
Pieri din juru-mi, viclean bancher,
N-am ce sa mai fac cu aurul tãu,
Aurul n-are trecere în cer.

Fiece zi are amurg,
Fiece zi are ºi zori.
Toamna via e plinã de struguri,
Primavara numai de flori.

Acum sunt un om în amurg,
Ora amiezii a fost dulce, dulce.
În cuibul ei din fulgi de zãpadã,
Luna s-a dus sã se culce.

english translation

The Fourth Horse

original Romanian poem

Al Patrulea Cal

Băieţandru fiind călare umblam,
Pe un cal alb, ca al Sfântului Gheorghe.
Calul n-avea aripi, eu n-aveam suliţă,
Dar ucideam balauri verzi ca Sfântul Gheorghe.
Întocmai ca Sfântul Gheorghe ucideam balauri.

Când mi-a mijit mustaţa, călare prin lume
Pe un cal porumbac mă plimbam.
Calul n-avea aripi, eu n-aveam aripi,
Dar săream amândoi peste munţi,
Peste ape . . . Tineri! . . . Tineri eram! . . .

Mai târziu am umblat pe-un cal murg.
Cum îi mai scăpărau potcoavele!...
Vino, fată ochioasă, spuneam
Femeilor oacheşe ce le’ntâlneam,
Calul meu are şeaua de aur.

Acum stau lângă drum, aştept lângă drum
Să-mi vină al patrulea cal.
Cum va fi al patrulea cal?
Aripi va avea al patrulea cal,
Negru va fi al patrulea cal . . .
Negru . . . Negru ca smoala . . .

english translation

The Days, The Days

original Romanian poem

Zilele, Zilele

Nu ştiu cum au fost zilele mele,
Dar până la una au ars, au ars.
Cenuşa lor mi-a rămas în palmă
A venit vântul şi-a risipit-o —
Peste grădini înflorite a risipit-o.

Nu ştiu cum au fost nopţile mele,
Dar până la una s-au topit,
Ca zăpezile iernii s-au topit.
A deschis gura pământul, gura,
Şi până la una le-a înghitit.

Nu ştiu cum a fost dragostea mea,
Poate dulce a fost, poate amară.
Poate-a durat o viaţă, poate numai o seară.
Timpul viclean a adus-o pe aripi,
Timpul viclean a venit şi-a luat-o.

Nu ştiu cum va fi moartea mea,
Dar n-o să vrea să fie blajină.
Prea am dorit-o, prea am urât-o,
Prea am chemat-o ca s-o alung,
Prea am chemat-o . . .

english translation

Amen

original German poem

Amen

Verwestes gleitend durch die morsche Stube;
            Schatten an gelben Tapeten; in dunklen Spiegeln wölbt
            Sich unserer Hände elfenbeinerne Traurigkeit.
Braune Perlen rinnen durch die erstorbenen Finger.
            In der Stille
            Tun sich eines Engels blaue Mohnaugen auf.
Blau ist auch der Abend;
            Die Stunde unseres Absterbens, Azraels Schatten,
            Der ein braunes Gärtchen verdunkelt.

english translation

Evening Thunderstorm

original German poem

Der Gewitterabend

O die roten Abendstunden!
Flimmernd schwankt am offenen Fenster
Weinlaub wirr ins Blau gewunden,
Drinnen nisten Angstgespenster.

Staub tanzt im Gestank der Gossen.
Klirrend stößt der Wind in Scheiben.
Einen Zug von wilden Rossen
Blitze grelle Wolken treiben,

Laut zerspringt der Weiherspiegel.
Möven schrein am Fensterrahmen.
Feuerreiter sprengt vom Hügel
Und zerschellt im Tann zu Flammen.

Kranke kreischen im Spitale.
Bläulich schwirrt der Nacht Gefieder.
Glitzernd braust mit einem Male
Regen auf die Dächer nieder.

english translation

The Rats

original German poem

Die Ratten

In Hof scheint weiß der herbstliche Mond.
Vom Dachrand fallen phantastische Schatten.
Ein Schweigen in leeren Fenstern wohnt;
Da tauchen leise herauf die Ratten

Und huschen pfeifend hier und dort
Und ein gräulicher Dunsthauch wittert
Ihnen nach aus dem Abort,
Den geisterhaft der Mondschein durchzittert

Und sie keifen vor Gier wie toll
Und erfüllen Haus und Scheunen,
Die von Korn und Früchten voll.
Eisige Winde im Dunkel greinen.

english translation

She Picked Up the Habit

original French poem

Elle avait pris ce pli

Elle avait pris ce pli dans son âge enfantin
De venir dans ma chambre un peu chaque matin;
Je l’attendais ainsi qu’un rayon qu’on espère;
Elle entrait et disait: “Bonjour, mon petit père”;
Prenait ma plume, ouvrait mes livres, s’asseyait
Sur mon lit, dérangeait mes papiers, et riait,
Puis soudain s’en allait comme un oiseau qui passe.
Alors, je reprenais, la tête un peu moins lasse,
Mons oeuvre interrompue, et, tout en écrivant,
Parmi mes manuscrits je rencontrais souvent
Quelque arabesque folle et qu’elle avait tracée,
Et mainte page blanche entre ses mains froissée
Où, je ne sais comment, venaient mes plus doux vers.
Elle aimait Dieu, les fleurs, les astres, les prés verts,
Et c’était un esprit avant d’être une femme.
Son regard reflétait la clarté de son âme.
Elle me consultait sur tout à tous moments.
Oh! que de soirs d’hiver radieux et charmants,
Passés à raisonner langue, histoire et grammaire,
Mes quatres enfants groupés sur mes genoux, leur mère
Tout près, quelques amis causant au coin du feu!
J’appelais cette vie être content de peu!
Et dire qu’elle est morte! hélas! que Dieu m’assiste!
Je n’étais jamais gai quand je la sentais triste;
J’étais morne au milieu du bal le plus joyeux
Si j’avais, en partant, vu quelque ombre en ses yeux.