April 2009 Archives

Adam Mickiewicz

Grób Potockiej


W kraju wiosny, pomiędzy rozkosznymi sady,
Uwiędłaś, młoda różo! bo przeszłości chwile,
Ulatując od ciebie jak złote motyle,
Rzuciły w głębi serca pamiątek owady.

Tam na północ ku Polsce świecą gwiazd gromady,
Dlaczegoż na tej drodze błyszczy się ich tyle?
Czy wzrok twój ognia pełen, nim zgasnął w mogile,
Tam wiecznie lecąc jasne powypalał ślady?

Polko! - i ja dni skończę w samotnej żałobie;
Tu niech mi garstkę ziemi dłoń przyjazna rzuci.
Podróżni często przy twym rozmawiają grobie,

I mnie wtenczas dŹwięk mowy rodzinnej ocuci;
I wieszcz, samotną piosnkę dumając o tobie,
Ujrzy bliską mogiłę i dla mnie zanuci.

Poetic translation

The Grave of Countess Potocka

In Spring of love and life, My Polish Rose,
You faded and forgot the joy of youth;
Bright butterfly, it brushed you, then left ruth
Of bitter memory that stings and glows.
O Stars! that seek a path my northland knows,
How dare you now on Poland shine forsooth,
When she who loved you and lent you her youth
Sleeps where beneath the wind the long grass blows?

Alone, My Polish Rose, I die, like you.
Beside your grave a while pray let me rest
With other wanderers at some grief's behest.
The tongue of Poland by your grave rings true.
High-hearted, now a young boy past it goes,
Of you it is he sings, My Polish Rose.

Pierre Jean de Beranger

QU'ELLE  EST  JOLIE!

    Grands dieux! Combien elle est jolie
    Celle que j'aimerai toujours!
    Dans leur douce mélancolie
    Ses yeux font rêver aux amours.
    Du plus beau souffle de la vie
    À l'animer le ciel se plaît.
    Grands dieux! Combien elle est jolie!
    Et moi, je suis, je suis si laid!
    Grands dieux, combien elle est jolie!

    Elle compte au plus vingt printemps.
    Sa bouche est fraîche épanouie;
    Ses cheveux sont blonds et flottants.
    Par mille talents embellie,
    Seule elle ignore ce qu'elle est.
    Grands dieux! Combien elle est jolie!
    Et moi, je suis, je suis si laid!

    Grands dieux! Combien elle est jolie!
    Et cependant j'en suis aimé.
    J'ai dû long-temps porter envie
    Aux traits dont le sexe est charmé.
    Avant qu'elle enchantât ma vie,
    Devant moi l'amour s'envolait.
    Grands dieux! Combien elle est jolie!
    Et moi, je suis, je suis si laid!

    Grands dieux! Combien elle est jolie!
    Et pour moi ses feux sont constants.
    La guirlande qu'elle a cueillie
    Ceint mon front chauve avant trente ans.
    Voiles qui parez mon amie,
    Tombez; mon triomphe est complet.
    Grands dieux! Combien elle est jolie!
    Et moi, je suis, je suis si laid!


Poetic translation

HOW FAIR SHE IS


Ye gods! she is so fair, so sweet,
I've cast my life beneath her feet;
In her deep, melancholy eyes
All love's raptured languor lies;
Gentle zephyrs, blowing round her,
With their choicest sweets have crown'd her;
She's fair as morning's rosy light,
Whilst I am gloomy as the night.

Ye gods ! she is so fair, so sweet,
I've cast my life beneath her feet;
The tinge upon her golden hair
Gleams as tho' sunset loiter'd there;
Clever she is in all but this,
She scarcely knows how fair she is;
She's fair as morning's rosy light,
Whilst I am gloomy as the night.

Ye gods! she is so fair, so sweet,
I've cast my life beneath her feet;
Tho' love had been my fondest dream,
And woman's charms my favorite theme,
Before she brighten'd up my heart
Love fled away, or kept apart;
She's fair as morning's rosy light,
Whilst I am gloomy as the night.

Ye gods! she is so fair, so sweet,
I've cast my life beneath her feet --
A life of barely thirty years,
And yet how old with doubts and fears,
Until with love, and hope, and truth,
She seem'd to bring me back my youth;
For she was fair as morning's light,
Whilst I was gloomy as the night. 

Love's Emblems 

NOW the lusty spring is seen;
    Golden yellow, gaudy blue,
    Daintily invite the view:
Everywhere on every green
Roses blushing as they blow
    And enticing men to pull,
Lilies whiter than the snow,
    Woodbines of sweet honey full:
        All love's emblems, and all cry,
        'Ladies, if not pluck'd, we die.'

Yet the lusty spring hath stay'd;
    Blushing red and purest white
    Daintily to love invite
Every woman, every maid:
Cherries kissing as they grow,
    And inviting men to taste,
Apples even ripe below,
    Winding gently to the waist:
        All love's emblems, and all cry,
        'Ladies, if not pluck'd, we die.'

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mosy tone
Half hidden from the eye!
---Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me! 

Juan Meléndez Valdés

EL AMANTE TIMIDO

En la pena aguda           
que me hace sufrir         
el Amor tirano          
desde que te vi,         
mil veces su alivio         
te voy a pedir,         
y luego, aldeana,         
que llego ante ti,           
    si quiero atreverme,         
     no sé qué decir.         

Las voces me faltan,         
y mi frenesí         
con míseros ayes           
las cuida suplir;         
pero el dios aleve         
se burla de mí:         
cuanto ansío más tierno         
mis labios abrir,          
     si quiero atreverme,         
     no sé qué decir.         

Sus fuegos entonces         
empieza a sentir         
tan vivos el alma           
que pienso morir.         
Mis lágrimas corren;         
mi agudo gemir         
tu pecho sensible         
conmueve, y al fin,          
      si quiero atreverme,         
      no sé qué decir.         

No lo sé, temblando         
si por descubrir         
con loca esperanza           
mi amor infeliz,         
tu lado por siempre         
tendré ya que huir,         
sellándome el miedo         
la boca, y así,          
       si quiero atreverme,         
       no sé qué decir.         

¡Ay!, ¡si tú, adorada,         
pudieras oír         
mis hondos suspiros,           
yo fuera feliz!         
Yo, Filis, lo fuera;         
mas, ¡triste de mí!,         
que tímido al verte         
burlarme y reír,           
       si quiero atreverme,         
       no sé qué decir.         


Poetic translation

THE TIMID LOVER

In the sharp pains the tyrant Love,
 Since first I saw thee, made me feel,
To thee a thousand times above,
 I come those pains to heal.
My village girl I but soon as nigh
 To thee I find my way.
If e'er so bold to be I try,
 I know not what to say.

My voices fail, and mournful sighs,
 Malicious frenzy watching o'er.
The place of them alone supplies ;
 While mocks my efforts more
The traitor god, when anxious by
 My thoughts to speak I pray;
If e'er so bold to be I try,
 I know not what to say.

Then feels his fire so strong my soul,
 Meseems, to die my only fate;
My tears in torrents freely roll,
 And with deep' groanlngs wait
To move thy feeling heart's reply;
 But vainly, all astray!
If e'er so bold to be I try,
 I know not what to say.

I know not what, in trembling fear,
 That seals my lips, as yet to learn
A foolish hope, thou mayst ev'n here
 My hapless love discern.
I feel I must for ever fly
 From thy side far away!
If e'er so bold to be I try,
 I know not what to say.

Alas I if thou couldst, my adored,
 But hear those sighs and thoughts express'd.
What happiness 't would me afford!
 I should be, Phyllis, blest.
But woe is me I beneath thine eye,
 To sink in mock'd dismay!
If e'er so bold to be I try,
 I know not what to say.

When we two parted    
  In silence and tears,    
Half broken-hearted    
  To sever for years,    
Pale grew thy cheek and cold
  Colder thy kiss;    
Truly that hour foretold    
  Sorrow to this.    
 
The dew of the morning     
  Sunk chill on my brow--
It felt like the warning     
  Of what I feel now.     
Thy vows are all broken,     
  And light is thy fame:     
I hear thy name spoken,
  And share in its shame.     
 
They name thee before me,     
  A knell to mine ear;     
A shudder comes o'er me--     
  Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,     
  Who knew thee too well:     
Long, long shall I rue thee,     
  Too deeply to tell.     
 
In secret we met--
  In silence I grieve,     
That thy heart could forget,     
  Thy spirit deceive.     
If I should meet thee     
  After long years,
How should I greet thee?     
  With silence and tears.

William Drummond Of Hawthorn Den

THE QUALITY OF A KISS

The kiss with so much strife
Which I late got, sweet heart,
Was it a sign of death, or was it life?
Of life it could not be,
For I by it did sigh my soul in thee;
Nor was it death, death doth no joy impart.
Thou silent stand'st, ah ! what thou didst bequeath
To me a dying life was, living death. 

Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

In qual parte del cielo, in quale idea
era l'esempio, onde natura tolse
quel bel viso leggiadro, in ch' ella volse
mostrar qua giù quanto lassù potea ?
qual ninfa in fonti, in selve mai qual dea
chiome d' oro si fino a l' aura sciolse ?
quando un cor tante in se vertuti accolse ?
benchè la somma è di mia morte rea.

Per divina bellezza indarno mira,
chi gli occhi de costei già mai non vide,
come soavemente ella gli gira.
Non sa come Amor sana e come ancide
chi non sa come dolce ella sospira,
e come dolce parla e dolce ride.

Poetic translation

In what celestial sphere, by whom inspired,
Did Nature find the cast from which she drew
This lovely face wherein she hath aspired
To manifest below what Heaven can do?
Upon the breeze these tresses of pure gold
What goddess of the woods, what water-fay
Hath lavished thus ? What other heart could hold
These virtues which have made my life their prey?

Of godly beauty he is unaware
Who hath not gazed into my Lady's eyes,
Nor gathered her sweet glances here on earth;
He knoweth not Love's Hell nor Paradise
Who never heard her sighs as light as air,
The gentle music of her speech and mirth. 

Antoin Ó Raifteirí / Anthony Raftery
 

Máire Ní Eidhin   


Ar mo dhul chuig an Aifreann le toil na ngrásta,
Bhí an lá ag cur báistí is d'ardaigh gaoth,
Casadh an ainnir liom le taobh Chill Tartain
Is thit mé láithreach i ngrá le mnaoi.
Labhair mé léi go múinte mánla,
Is de réir a cáilíochta d'fhreagair sí,
'Sé dúirt sí - "Raifteirí, tá m'intinn sásta,
Agus gluais go lá liom go Baile Uí Laí."
Nuair a fuair mé an tairscint níor lig mé ar cairde í,
Rinne mé gáire agus gheit mo chroí,
Ní raibh le dul againn ach trasna páirce
Agus thug sin slán sinn go tóin an tí.
Leagadh chughainn bord a raibh gloine is cárta air,
Is bhí an chúileann fáinneach le m'ais ina suí,
'Sé dúirt sí - "Raifteirí, bí ag ól is céad fáilte,
Tá an siléar láidir i mBaile Uí Laí."

Poetic translation
 
The Lass from Bally-na-Lee

 

On my way to Mass

    To say a prayer,

The wind was high

    Sowing rain,

I met a maid

    With wind-wild hair

And madly fell

    In love again.

I spoke with learning,

    Charm and pride

And, as was fitting,

    Answered she:

'My mind is now

    well satisfied,

So walk with me

    To Bally-na-Lee.'

Given the offer,

    I didn't delay,

And blowing a laugh

    At this willing young lass,

I swung with her over

    The fields through the day

Till shortly we reached

    The rump of the house.

A table with glasses

    And drink was set

And then says the lassie,

    Turning to me:

'You are welcome, Raftery,

    So drink a wet

To love's demands

    In Bally-na-Lee.'

PARNY

LE BAISER

Ah! Justine, qu'avez-vous fait?
Quel nouveau trouble et quelle ivresse!
Quoi! cette extase enchanteresse
D'un simple baiser est l'effet?
Le baiser de celui qu'on aime
A son attrait et sa douceur;
Mais le prélude du bonheur
Peut-il être le bonheur même?
Oui, sans doute, ce baiser-là
Est le premier, belle Justine;
Sa puissance est toujours divine ,
Et votre cœur s'en souviendra.
Votre ami murmure et s'étonne
Qu'il ait sur lui moins de pouvoir;
Mais il jouit de ce qu'il donne;
C'est beaucoup plus que recevoir.

Poetic translation

The Kiss.

An, Justine! what have you done?
All this ecstasy of bliss,
All this throbbing passion won
From one single kiss !
Lingering kisses never cloy
On the loving lips we press,
But, perhaps, the foretaste e'en of joy
Is love's greatest happiness;
And e'en the remembrance, Sweet,
Of this first kiss, always will
Make your bosom flush and beat,
Till your heart be cold and still.
Now your lover scarce believes
That 'tis his love inspires you:
Better to give than to receive,
So he joys in the love that fires you.

(Still looking for the French original)

MY LITTLE NEIGHBOR.


If you nothing have to say,
Why so often come this way?
Rosy mouth and blue eyes smiling,
Stronger heads than mine beguiling

From their study and their labor;
Tell me, charming little neighbor,
If you nothing have to say,
Why so often come this way ?

If you nothing have to teach,
Why not practise as you preach?
Little hands so softly pressing,
Teasing half, and half caressing,

Saucy mouth, and sparkling eye,
Needs must have a reason why;
If you nothing have to teach
Why not practise as you preach

If you say I have not won you,
Why not, sweet one, let me shun you?
Now my books aside are thrown,
You I read, and you alone;

If you ever are denying,
Why then hinder me from flying?
If you say I have not won you,
Why not, sweet one, let me shun you ?

Heinrich Heine

With kisses my lips were wounded by you,
So kiss them well again;
And if by evening you are not through,
You need not hurry then.

For you have still the whole, long night,
Darling, to comfort me!
And what long kisses and what delight
In such a night may be.

Poetic translation

Hast du die Lippen mir wund geküßt,
So küsse sie wieder heil,
Und wenn du bis Abend nicht fertig bist,
So hat es auch keine Eil.

Du hast ja noch die ganze Nacht,
Du Herzallerliebste mein!
Man kann in solch einer ganzen Nacht
Viel küssen und selig sein.

Heinrich Heine

With kisses my lips were wounded by you,
So kiss them well again;
And if by evening you are not through,
You need not hurry then.

For you have still the whole, long night,
Darling, to comfort me!
And what long kisses and what delight
In such a night may be.

Poetic translation

Hast du die Lippen mir wund geküßt,
So küsse sie wieder heil,
Und wenn du bis Abend nicht fertig bist,
So hat es auch keine Eil.

Du hast ja noch die ganze Nacht,
Du Herzallerliebste mein!
Man kann in solch einer ganzen Nacht
Viel küssen und selig sein.

Heinrich Heine

Die Lilje meiner Liebe
Du stehst so träumend am Bach,
Und schaust hinein so trübe,
Und flüsterst Weh und Ach!

Geh fort mit deinem Gekose!
Ich weiß es, du falscher Mann,
Daß meine Cousine, die Rose,
Dein falsches Herz gewann.

Poetic translation

My sweetheart has a lily
That dreams by a brook all day,
It turns from me, and stilly
Its beauty seems to say:

"Go, faithless man, your rapture
Has left me cold. . . . Depart!
I saw you bend and capture
The Rose with your faithless heart."

Александр Блок
    

НЕЗНАКОМКА
    

По вечерам над ресторанами
Горячий воздух дик и глух,
И правит окриками пьяными
Весенний и тлетворный дух.

Вдали над пылью переулочной,
Над скукой загородных дач,
Чуть золотится крендель булочной,
И раздается детский плач.

И каждый вечер, за шлагбаумами,
Заламывая котелки,
Среди канав гуляют с дамами
Испытанные остряки.

Над озером скрипят уключины
И раздается женский визг,
А в небе, ко всему приученный
Бесмысленно кривится диск.

И каждый вечер друг единственный
В моем стакане отражен
И влагой терпкой и таинственной
Как я, смирен и оглушен.

А рядом у соседних столиков
Лакеи сонные торчат,
И пьяницы с глазами кроликов
"In vino veritas!"* кричат.

И каждый вечер, в час назначенный
(Иль это только снится мне?),
Девичий стан, шелками схваченный,
В туманном движется окне.
И медленно, пройдя меж пьяными,
Всегда без спутников, одна
Дыша духами и туманами,
Она садится у окна.

И веют древними поверьями
Ее упругие шелка,
И шляпа с траурными перьями,
И в кольцах узкая рука.

И странной близостью закованный,
Смотрю за темную вуаль,
И вижу берег очарованный
И очарованную даль.

Глухие тайны мне поручены,
Мне чье-то солнце вручено,
И все души моей излучины
Пронзило терпкое вино.

И перья страуса склоненные
В моем качаются мозгу,
И очи синие бездонные
Цветут на дальнем берегу.

В моей душе лежит сокровище,
И ключ поручен только мне!
Ты право, пьяное чудовище!
Я знаю: истина в вине.

_____________________________________
* In vino veritas! -- Истина -- в вине! (лат.)



Poetic translation

THE LADY UNKNOWN

Of evenings hangs above the restaurant
A humid, wild and heavy air.
The Springtime spirit, brooding, pestilent,
Commands the drunken outcries there.

Far off, above the alley's mustiness,
Where bored gray summerhouses lie,
The baker's sign swings gold through dustiness,
And loud and shrill the children cry.

Beyond the city stroll the exquisites,
At every dusk and all the same:
Their derbies tilted back, the pretty wits
Are playing at the ancient game.

Upon the lake but feebly furious
Soft screams and creaking oar-locks sound.
And in the sky, blase, incurious,
The moon beholds the earthly round.

And every evening, dazed and serious,
I watch the same procession pass;
In liquor, raw and yet mysterious,
One friend is mirrored in my glass.

Beside the scattered tables, somnolent
And dreary waiters stick around.
"In vino verltas!" shout violent
And red-eyed fools in liquor drowned.

And every evening, strange, immutable,
(Is it a dream no waking proves?)
As to a rendezvous inscrutable
A silken lady darkly moves.

She slowly passes by the drunken ones
And lonely by the window sits;
And from her robes, above the sunken ones,
A misty fainting perfume flits.

Her silks' resilience, and the tapering
Of her ringed fingers, and her plumes,
Stir vaguely like dim incense vaporing,
Deep ancient faiths their mystery illumes.

I try, held in this strange captivity,
To pierce the veil that darkling falls--
I see enchanted shores' declivity,
And an enchanted distance calls.

I guard dark secrets' tortuosities.
A sun is given me to hold.
An acrid wine finds out the sinuosities
That in my soul were locked of old.

And in my brain the soft slow flittering
Of ostrich feathers waves once more;
And fathomless the azure glittering
Where two eyes blossom on the shore.

My soul holds fast its treasure renitent,
The key is safe and solely mine.
Ah, you are right, drunken impenitent!
I also know: truth lies in wine.
 

Дмитрий Мережковский
    
ПРОКЛЯТИЕ ЛЮБВИ
   

С усильем тяжким и бесплодным,
Я цепь любви хочу разбить.
О, если б вновь мне быть свободным.
О, если б мог я не любить!

Душа полна стыда и страха,
Влачится в прахе и крови.
Очисти душу мне от праха,
Избавь, о, Боже, от любви!

Ужель непобедима жалость?
Напрасно Бога я молю:
Все безнадежнее усталость,
Все бесконечнее люблю.

И нет свободы, нет прощенья,
Мы все рабами рождены,
Мы все на смерть, и на мученья,
И на любовь обречены.

Poetic translation


THE CURSE OF LOVE

With heavy anguish, hopeless straining,
The bonds of love I would remove.
Oh, to be loosed from their enchaining!
Oh, freedom, only not to love!

The soul that shame and fear are scourging
Crawls through a mist of dust and blood.
From dust, great God, my spirit purging,
Oh, spare me from love's bitter flood!

Is pity's wall alone unshaken?
I pray to God, I cry in vain,
More weary, by all hope forsaken;
Resistless love grows great again.

There is no freedom, unforgiven,
We live as slaves, by life consumed;
We perish, tortured, bound and driven,
Promised to death, and to love--doomed.

THE CURSE OF LOVE

With heavy anguish, hopeless straining,
The bonds of love I would remove.
Oh, to be loosed from their enchaining!
Oh, freedom, only not to love!

The soul that shame and fear are scourging
Crawls through a mist of dust and blood.
From dust, great God, my spirit purging,
Oh, spare me from love's bitter flood!

Is pity's wall alone unshaken?
I pray to God, I cry in vain,
More weary, by all hope forsaken;
Resistless love grows great again.

There is no freedom, unforgiven,
We live as slaves, by life consumed;
We perish, tortured, bound and driven,
Promised to death, and to love--doomed.  

Lodovico Ariosto

La bella donna mia d' un si bel foco
e di sì bella neve ha il viso adorno,
ch' Amor mirando intorno
qual di lor sia più bel, si prende gioco;

tal ' è proprio a veder quell' amorosa
fiamma che nel bel viso
si sparge, ond' ella con soave riso
si va sue bellezze innamorando;

qual' è a veder, qualor vermiglia rosa
scuopra il bel paradiso
delle sue foglie, allor che 'l sol diviso
dall' orlente sorge il giorno alzando.

E bianca è sì, come n' appare, quando
nel bel seren più limpido la luna
sovra l' onda tranquilla
co' bei tremanti suoi raggi scintilla.

Sì bella è la beltade che in quell' una
mia donna hai posto, Amor, e in sì bel loco
che l'altro bel di tutto il mondo è poco.


Poetic translation


MY lovely lady doth adorn her face
With such bright fire and such pure drifts of snow,
Which be the richer grace
Love, gazing upon both, is fain to know.

The passionate flame we see
Over her fair cheeks run,
As with soft laughters she
Of her fond charms enamours everyone,

Is like the crimson rose
Opening the promised land
Of her sweet petals when the sun-god throws
The east behind him and soars day in hand.

Her candour doth appear
Even as the moon in tranquil skies and bright
Upon still waters clear
Casting her tremulous rays of silver light.

Love, thou hast granted to my lady here
Beauty so wondrous rare
The world hath nought that can with it compare.

When a fierce wind goes raging by,
A great fire grows, it doth not die;
When a light zephyr floats about
It blows a little burning out!

Where bitterest is the battle strife
In every place, by every coast,
Within the heart great love hath life
And of the doughtiest deeds doth boast.
Madonna, poor thy love and slight
If by a breath 'tis put to flight! 

Александр Пушкин, "Я вас любил"

Poetic translation

Thee I loved; not yet love perhaps is

In my heart entirely quenched

But trouble let it thee no more;

Thee to grieve with nought I wish.

Silent, hopeless thee I loved,

By fear tormented, now by jealousy;

So sincere my love, so tender,

May God the like thee grant from another.

Seán Ó Neachtain

(c. 1650-1729)

 

Úrchnoc Chéin mhic Cáinte                                             

 

Rachainn fón choill leat a mhaighdean na n-órfholt,

ag féachain ar éanlaith 's ag éisteacht a gceolghob,

Beidh fidil at caoinche, beidh píop ag an smólach,

londubh ag cur cana le cláirsigh go ceolmhar.

 

Beidh liú ag an dreolán is órgán ag céirseach,

an fhuiseog 's an meantán 's a dtiompán go gleasta,

gealbhan sa tom glas 's a thrumpa ina bhéal-san,

ag bualadh puirt damhsa ré ansacht a chléibh duit.

 

Beidh cuilm agus fearáin ag crón ré chéile,

an truideog 's an sacán go cóngarach ag léimnigh,

cuach bheag na craoibhe go silleadh dod'fhéachain,

gearrghuirt is traona de shíor frat, a théagair. ...

 

Beidh an macalla inár n-aice-ne ag gáirí,

beidh na mná sí is braoine ar a gcláirsigh,

beidh an uile ní frat dar mian leat, a chathaigh,

godeo na díle ní scaoilfe mo pháirt leat.

 

Beidh dealramh na gréine ag sméideadh go drithleach

orainne féachaint trí ghéagaibh na coille,

drúilíní ag súgradh, ba chiúl leat an t-uisce,

éisc agus dobhráin ag comhspairn go cliste.

 

(An Freagra)

 

Rachaidh mé féin leat gan éaradh go súgach,

ag féachain 's ag éisteacht na n-éan sin ag súgradh,

céad fearr liom féin sin ná féasta na cúirte;

a ailleáin, is a théagair súd mé leat gan diúltadh.

 

 

The Lover's Invitation                                                                         

 

(This poem was said to have been composed for Una Ní Bhroin, who accepted Ó Neachtain and became his wife.)

 

          I would go to the wood with you, O golden-headed maiden,

looking at the birds and listening to the music of their mouths.

The nightingale will have a fiddle, the thrush will have a flute

and the blackbird will be chanting melodiously accompanied by a harp.

 

          The wren will have a lute and the hen-blackbird an organ

the lark and the titmouse will have their drums ready,

a sparrow in the green bush will have his trumpet [trump? =Jew's harp] in his mouth,

playing dance music because he loves you so much.

 

          Pigeons and doves will be cooing together,

the starling and the fieldfare will be hopping about close by,

the little cuckoo on the branch will be seeking to look at you,

and the corncrake will be always with you, my love. ...

 

          The echo will be laughing beside us,

the women from the fairy mounds and forts will play on harps;

all you wish will be there beside you, my temptress,

and till the end of time my love for you will never desert you.

 

          The sunlight will pour down on us

through the branches of the wood,

glittering droplets will play, the water will be your music

while the otters and fish cleverly wrestle together.

 

          (The reply)

 

I'll go with you merrily without refusing,

looking and listening to the birds at play.

I prefer that a hundred times to feasting at court;

my pet, and my beloved, I come with you without resistance.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY

She walks in beauty, like the night
 Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
 Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
 Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
 Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
 Or softly lightens o'er her face ;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
 How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
 So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
 But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
 A heart whose love is innocent!

Lord Byron

There is a lady sweet and kind,
Was never face so pleased my mind;
I did but see her passing by,
And yet I love her till I die.

Her gesture, motion, and her smiles,
Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles,
Beguiles my heart, I know not why,
And yet I love her till I die.

Cupid is winged and doth range,
Her country so my love doth change;
But change she earth, or change she sky,
Yet will I love her till I die. 

TO ELECTRA

I dare not ask a kiss,
I dare not beg a smile,
Lest having that or this
I might grow proud the while.

No ! no! the utmost share
Of my desire shall be
Only to kiss that air
That lately kissed thee.

Wenn ich in deine Augen seh',
so schwindet all mein Leid und Weh!
Doch wenn ich küsse deinen Mund,
so werd ich ganz und gar gesund.

Wenn ich mich lehn' an deine Brust,
kommt's über mich wie Himmelslust;
doch wenn du sprichst: „Ich liebe dich!"
so muß ich weinen bitterlich.

Poetic translation:

Whene'er I gaze into thine eyes
Then all my grief and sorrow flies;
And when I kiss thy mouth, oh then
I am made well and strong again.

And when I lean upon thy breast
My soul is soothed with godlike rest;
But when thou sayest, " I love but thee! " ]
Then I must weep--and bitterly. 

Aus meinen grossen Schmerzen
Mach' ich die kleinen Lieder;
Die heben ihr klingend Gefieder
Und flattern nach ihrem Herzen.

Sie fanden den Weg zur Trauten,
Doch kommen sie wieder und klagen,
Und klagen und wollen nicht sagen
Was sie im Herzen schauten.

Poetic translation:

From grief too great to banish
Come songs, my lyric minions;
They lift their airy pinions
And toward her bosom vanish.

I let them rise and depart there--
But soon they flew homeward complainin
Complaining, but never explaining
What they had seen in her heart there.

It just so happened that I know several languages. It was never my intent, however, to speak these languages. I simply learned them so I could read poetry. This site will be my way of collecting in one place some of my favorite poems that feature one there, rather popular - love and romance. Romantic poetry is definitely one of the oldest applications of versification, and there are some real masterpieces that have an obvious advantage of being quite short. It is also my understanding that love poems are (sadly) the reason why poetry survives today. People still understand the value of a few lines that concisely express very complex (and often inexpressible!) feelings. If you are looking for something outside of the usual poems that circulate around Valentine's day, this site try to help you.