The Stranger

L’Étranger

René François Armand Sully-Prudhomme (1839-1907)

L’Étranger
Je me dis bien souvent : de quelle race es-tu ? Ton coeur ne trouve rien qui l'enchaîne ou ravisse, Ta pensée et tes sens, rien qui les assouvisse : Il semble qu'un bonheur infini te soit dû. Pourtant, quel paradis as-tu jamais perdu ? A quelle auguste cause as-tu rendu service ? Pour ne voir ici-bas que laideur et que vice, Quelle est ta beauté propre et ta propre vertu ? A mes vagues regrets d'un ciel que j'imagine, A mes dégoûts divins, il faut une origine : Vainement je la cherche en mon coeur de limon ; Et, moi-même étonné des douleurs que j'exprime, J'écoute en moi pleurer un étranger sublime Qui m'a toujours caché sa patrie et son nom.
The Stranger
I often ask myself: What breed are you? Your heart remains unravished, unenslaved; There’s nothing that your thoughts and senses craved; Eternal happiness must be your due. And yet, what paradise did you forego? What worthy cause have you done service to? Confined to vice and squalor here below, What’s your own beauty and your own virtue? My longing for some heaven, my divine Uneasiness, must have some origin; I seek it vainly in my turbid heart. Amazed at my pathetic litany, I hear a noble stranger weep in me, Who won’t his country, or his name, impart.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by René François Armand Sully-Prudhomme...

At the old Jewish Cemetery

Prag: Auf dem alten jüdischen Friedhofe

Ada Christen (1839-1901)

Prag: Auf dem alten jüdischen Friedhofe
Sinnend stand ich bei dem Grabe Rabby Löv's, des jüd'schen Weisen, Hörte wie im Traum den Führer Seine todten Ahnherrn preisen. Und warum, so frug ich staunend, All' die Juden, groß und kleine, Auf das Grab mit leisem Murmeln Werfen bunte Kieselsteine? Und es wurde mir die Antwort: "Um zu ehren, ist geboten, Daß wir Blumen streu'n Lebend'gen, Steine auf das Grab der Todten." Von solch' heidnischem Gebrauche Sind wir Christen längst gereinigt: Wir bekränzen stets die Gräber Jener, welche wir gesteinigt.
At the old Jewish Cemetery
I stood thoughtful at his graveside, Rabbi Loew’s, the Jewish sage, And the guide, perhaps I dreamed it, Praised his long-dead parentage. Why are Jews, I asked in wonder, Children and the fully grown, One and all, with quiet murmurs Throwing pretty pebbles on? ‘It’s to honour him,’ they answered: ‘Flowers are prohibited. They are strewn upon the living; Stones are proper for the dead.’ Long ago, such heathen customs By us Christians were disowned: No, instead we heap up flowers On the graves of those we stoned.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Laurel

H δάφνη

Achilleas Paraschos (1838-95)

H δάφνη
Μή με ζηλεύετε· κανείς τή δάφνη μή ζηλεύει· μ’ αίμα καί δάκρυ πύρινο τή ρίζα μου ποτίζουν. Καλότυχος όποιος ποτέ τή δάφνη δέν γυρεύει, καί μόνον τά τριαντάφυλλα τό στήθος του στολίζουν. Κοινό στεφάνο μ’έχουνε η δόξα καί ο πόνος, καί τά θλιμμέν’απόπαιδα τής μοίρας μ’ έχουν μόνο. Κάθε μου φύλλο άδοξος τό φαρμακεύει φθόνος· γιά τούτο μόνο ποιητάς τού κόσμου στεφανώνω.
The Laurel
‘Envy me not. Let not one soul envy the laurel-tree. My roots quaff blood and burning tears, for thus they water me. Happy the man who never made the laurel-wreath his quest, And has no more than roses to decorate his breast. I am a crown that’s common to glory and to pain; My every leaf is poisoned, base jealousy’s my bane. Only those wretches wear me whom fortune forth has hurled, And that alone is why I crown the poets of the world.’

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Secret

Le Secret

Armand Silvestre (1837-1901)

An ‘X’ (a graduate of the École Polytechnique), he was an Inspector of Finances, one of the highest officials in France. His drama Henry VIII was set to music by Saint–Saens, and a sacred stage work was set by Gounod. He wrote five illustrated volumes on the nude in art. Set to music by Fauré.
Le Secret
Je veux que le matin l'ignore Le nom que j'ai dit à la nuit, Et qu'au vent de l'aube, sans bruit, Comme une larme il s'évapore. Je veux que le jour le proclame L'amour qu'au matin j'ai caché, Et, sur mon coeur ouvert penché, Comme un grain d'encens il l'enflamme. Je veux que le couchant l'oublie Le secret que j'ai dit au jour, Et l'emporte, avec mon amour, Aux plis de sa robe pâlie!
The Secret
O may the morn never know it, the name that I spoke to the night: may it vanish mute as a tear-drop on the breeze of the early light. O may the noonday proclaim it, the love that I hid from the morn: may it light on my heart, laid open; may my heart like an incense burn. O may dusk forget my secret, forget what I told to the day: in its robe’s pale folds may it carry my love and my secret away.
Published in AGENDA Poetry & Opera 2014

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Testament

Set to music by Duparc.

Armand Silvestre (1837-1901)

Set to music by Duparc.
Pour que le vent te les apporte Sur l’aile noire d’un remord, J’écrirai sur la feuille morte Les tortures de mon coeur mort! Toute ma sève s’est tarie Aux clairs midis de ta beauté, Et, comme à la feuille flétrie, Rien de vivant ne m’est resté Tes yeux m’ont brulé jusqu’à l’âme, Comme des soleils sans merci! Feuille que le gouffre réclame, L’autan va m’emporter aussi ... Mais avant, pour qu’il te les porte Sur l’aile noire d’un remord, J’écrirai sur la feuille morte Les tortures de mon coeur mort!
Testament
For the wind to bring you On remorse’s black wing, On the dead leaf I’ll write My dead heart’s suffering. My sap is all withered In your beauty’s bright noon: Like the leaf that is faded My life is all gone. Cruel suns are your eyes, To my soul I am burned: A leaf to the chasm, Borne off by south wind. This, first, it shall bring you On remorse’s black wing: On the dead leaf I’ll write My dead heart’s suffering.
Published in AGENDA Poetry & Opera 2014

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Armand Silvestre...

Poème d’amour

Love Poem

Armand Silvestre (1837-1901)

Love Poem
Je veux que mon sang goutte à goutte Monte à ta lèvre lentement.1 Comme un flot limpide et calmant, De ton cœur il prendra la route. Bois-le : mon âme y sera toute Dans un suprême enivrement : Car le seul mal que je redoute, C’est de survivre à mon tourment.2 Bois-le sans honte et sans peurs vaines : Ce trésor sacré de mes veines, Toi seule pourras le tarir.3 Avec mon souffle, avec mon âme,4 Ce sang que ta bouche réclame, Bois-le ! – Car j’ai soif de mourir !
Poème d’amour
Drop by drop my blood must drip, Climbing slowly to your lip, Like a calm and limpid wave, To your heart: no less, I crave. Drink it: all my soul shall be In the height of ecstasy. My one dread, one injury: To survive my agony. Feel no shame: all fears are vain: These my vessels you shall drain: Yours, my sacred treasury. Drink my soul and drink my breath, Drink my blood, assuage your mouth. Drink it! For I thirst to die!
1. N. Boulanger écrit à tes lèvres 2. Vers répété par N. Boulanger 3. N. Boulanger répète d’abord deux fois Toi seule puis, en reprenant le vers, 3 fois. 4. N. Boulanger écrit Avec mon cœur, avec mon âme

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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When the hounds of spring…

Latin by Timothy Adès When the Hounds of Spring Are on Winter's Traces

Algernon Swinburne (1837-1909)

Latin by Timothy Adès When the Hounds of Spring Are on Winter's Traces
💜When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,       The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places       With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; And the brown bright nightingale amorous Is half assuaged for Itylus, For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces,       The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 💜Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers,       Maiden most perfect, lady of light, With a noise of winds and many rivers,       With a clamor of waters, and with might; Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, Over the splendor and speed of thy feet; For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers,       Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night. 💜Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her,       Fold our hands round her knees, and cling? O that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her,       Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring! For the stars and the winds are unto her As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her,       And the southwest wind and the west wind sing. 💜For winter's rains and ruins are over,       And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover,       The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover       Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 💜The full streams feed on flower of rushes,       Ripe grasses trammel a traveling foot, The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes       From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, And the oat is heard above the lyre, And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes       The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. 💜And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night,       Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, Follows with dancing and fills with delight       The Maenad and the Bassarid; And soft as lips that laugh and hide The laughing leaves of the trees divide, And screen from seeing and leave in sight       The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 💜The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair       Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes; The wild vine slipping down leaves bare       Her bright breast shortening into sighs; The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, But the berried ivy catches and cleaves To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare       The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies.
When the hounds of spring…
vir hiemem indagat: latrans vestigia pellit: ~~ nutrit prata Ceres et novus annus agros: murmura crebrescunt pluviae frondisque susurri, ~~ dum repleant tenebras aeriosque locos: fuscaque rursus amans minuit Philomela dolorem, ~~ clara nitens, neque Ityn iam velut ante gemit: mente cadunt Thressae naves et barbara turba ~~ et quantus vigili lingua resecta dolor. at venias, virgo sanctissima, lucis origo: ~~ tende ferox arcum: prompta sagitta micet! detque sonum surgens multo cum flumine ventus: ~~ detque sonum raucae vis resonantis aquae. indue tu soleas, o velocissima cursu: ~~ ornetur rapidi splendida forma pedis: nam veniente die veniente et nocte tremescit ~~ pallidus, en! Zephyrus, regna et Eoa nitent. queis quaerenda locis numerisve adfanda puella est? ~~ haereat apprendens qua manus arte genu ? o si cor nostrum saliens ceu flamma salutet, ~~ flamma, vel exortae mobile robur aquae ! sidera enim et venti sunt illi talis amictus, ~~ psallentem fertur qui decorasse Linum : illam oriens sidus, delapsum amplectitur illam : ~~ Africus Orpheos dat Zephyrusque sonos. nam sat hiems dederat stragis : iam desiit imber: ~~ diffugere nives: tollitur omne nefas : iam perit et tempus quod amantibus abdit amantes, ~~ quod noctes auget deminuitque dies. iam est memor horarum, maeroris et immemor, idem: ~~ confectum nascens flos fugat acre gelu: iam virgulta virent, frondescunt germina gemmis : ~~ verna sub arbustis incipit ipsa dies. crescit arundinibus pinguis cum floribus amnis: ~~ gramen opimum obstat, quin vetat ire pedem : vix rubet igne novo tener annus, et impiger heres ~~ flos folio, flori denique fructus adest : fructusque et folium splendent velut ignis et aurum, ~~ rustica dum cultam vincit avena lyram, cornipedi et Satyrus contundit calce sub umbra ~~ castaneam siliquam castaneamque nucem. et pede Pan rapido – non acrior haedus eundo! – ~~ tuve movens noctu, Liber, ut ille die, saltibus exagitans mirabilibusque choreis ~~ Maenadas oblectas Bassaridumque comas : et, ceu dissiliunr risu mollita labella, ~~ arboreae molles dissiluere comae : nec latet ille sequens Bacchantem divus amandam, ~~ nec patet adsiduo tecta puella deo. delapsi crines, hedera et delapsa puellae : ~~ cumque superciliis lumina clara latent: labitur et vitis: pectus nudatur anhelum : ~~ occultant nitidum tegmina nulla sinum. sub pede procumbunt oneroso palmite vites: ~~ ipsa hedera haere nti baccare membra capit, membra corusca et turbantes animalia plantas, ~~ seu lupus insequitur, seu cita cerva fugit.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Algernon Swinburne...

Spring is sprung!

Wenn der holde Frühling lenzt...

Friederike Kempner (1836-1904)

A much-derided poet
Wenn der holde Frühling lenzt...
Wenn der holde Frühling lenzt Und man sich mit Veilchen kränzt Wenn man sich mit festem Mut Schnittlauch in das Rührei tut kreisen durch des Menschen Säfte Neue ungeahnte Kräfte - Jegliche Verstopfung weicht, Alle Herzen werden leicht, Und das meine fragt sich still: "Ob mich dies Jahr einer will?"
Spring is sprung!
Spring is sprung! When spring arrives  Scrambled eggs are crowned with chives,   People’s heads have violets on, There’s good cheer for everyone. Rampant in these veins of ours, Novel unsuspected powers! Halts and hindrances depart, Lightness reigns in every heart… In my heart the question grows: ‘This year, will some man propose?’

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Can You Know?

Kannst du wissen?

Christian Wagner (1835-1918)

Kannst du wissen?
Kannst du wissen, ob von deinem Hauche Nicht Atome sind am Rosenstrauche? Ob die Wonnen, die dahingezogen, Nicht als Röslein wieder angeflogen? Ob dein einstig Kindesatemholen Dich nicht grüßt im Duft der Nachtviolen?
Can You Know?
Particles that you have breathed, Were they to the rose bequeathed? Joys that from those channels flew, Came as rosebuds back to you? From those lungs, a childish waft Now your violet sleeping-draught?

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Birdling in Birdlime

Vogel auf dem Leim

Wilhelm Busch (1832-1908)

Vogel auf dem Leim
Es sitzt ein Vogel auf dem Leim, er flattert sehr und kann nicht heim. Ein schwarzer Kater schleicht herzu, die Krallen scharf, die Augen gluh. Am Baum hinauf und immer höher kommt er dem armen Vogel näher. Der Vogel denkt: Weil daß so ist und weil mich doch der Kater frißt, so will ich keine Zeit verlieren, will noch ein wenig quinquillieren und lustig pfeifen wie zuvor. Der Vogel, scheint mir, hat Humor.
The Birdling in Birdlime
A birdling, trapped by birdlime, sat and flapped in vain. A bold black cat, sharp-clawed, bright-eyed, sneaked up and neared, little by little, the luckless bird. The bird considered: Well, that's that: I'll soon be eaten by the cat! No time to waste, I'll trill some more, and pipe as gaily as before. …A bird – here's how I look at it – of spirit, character, and wit!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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