Binsey Poplars

Binsey Poplars

Gerard Manley Hopkins

The poplars were felled in 1879. My Latin..
Binsey Poplars
My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled, Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun, All felled, felled, are all felled; Of a fresh and following folded rank Not spared, not one That dandled a sandalled Shadow that swam or sank On meadow & river & wind-wandering weed-winding bank. O if we but knew what we do When we delve or hew — Hack and rack the growing green! Since country is so tender To touch, her being só slender, That, like this sleek and seeing ball But a prick will make no eye at all, Where we, even where we mean To mend her we end her, When we hew or delve: After-comers cannot guess the beauty been. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve Strokes of havoc unselve The sweet especial scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet especial rural scene. [Campaigning against a housing estate that would have scarred the view of Highgate from Hampstead Heath, I wrote: 'Witan, the ancient council. Hurst, a wooded hill. Not since the Binsey Poplars, those Hopkins-harrowing topplers, Fell or were felled by the fiend of eld that wishes old England ill, And the trains stopped stopping at Adlestrop, and at Grantchester time stood still, Has anything worse been heard in verse, including, if you will, The nefarious, unhilarious, Dissolution of Halnaker Mill.' ...]
Binsey Poplars
o quantum amatae vos mihi populi! Titana textis frondibus obrui ~~vidi refrenarique in auris; ~~~~praecipites cecidistis omnes, haud una sospes caede trucissima. intactus ordo duplicis agminis ~~occisus, umbrosis puellas ~~~~vel pueros recreare alutis gnarus, per agros, flumina, flamina, ventos vagantes, litora, harundines ~~per prata procurvas, per undas ~~~~nantibus his, aliis caducis. o stirps molesti nescia criminis, prompta ad fodendum, scindere promptior! ~~~torquemus increscens, virescens ~~~~ dilaniamus, in omne damnum. rus tenue tactu, rus tenerum ambitu! levis videndi fixus acu globus: ~~ instanter, heu! non est ocellus. ~~~~sic etiam reparare nisi pala et securi, deruimus modo saltus amoenos : nesciet advena ~~quantum venustatis fuisset: ~~~~undecimus decimusve tantum stragi sat ictus: conficit eripit prospectum agrestem, gaudia rustica ~~dejecta: prospectum placentem ~~~~destruit egregium, placentem.
Classical Verse Challenge for April 2024.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Gerard Manley Hopkins...

A Year Later

Ein Jahr später

Otto Reinhards (1911-?)

Ein Jahr später
Es sind noch immer die gleichen Wellen, die gleichen Muscheln, was immer ich find. Es sind noch immer die gleichen Dünen, die Gräser, die Halme und auch der Wind. Es ist noch immer der Zug in den Wolken. Ein Hauch weht wieder durch mein Haar. Es sind noch immer die gleichen Brücken am Himmelsbogen wie damals es war.
A Year Later
Still the same waves And still the same mussels As ever I find. Still the same dunes And grasses and rushes And also the wind. Still the clouds pass. Again a breeze ruffles, Blows over my hair. Still the same bridges In high-vaulted heaven As ever were there.
Nothing else known of this poet. Painting by Hermann Seeger.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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All Things Pass

Vergänglichkeit

Hermann Hesse (1877-1962)

Vergänglichkeit
Vom Baum des Lebens fällt mir Blatt um Blatt, O taumelbunte Welt, wie machst du satt, wie machst du satt und müd, wie machst du trunken! Was heut noch glüht, ist bald versunken. Bald klirrt der Wind über mein braunes Grab, über das kleine Kind beugt sich die Mutter herab. Ihre Augen will ich wiedersehn, ihr Blick ist mein Stern, alles andre mag gehn und verwehn, alles stirbt, alles stirbt gern. Nur die ewige Mutter bleibt, von der wir kamen, ihr spielender Finger schreibt in die flüchtige Luft unsre Namen.
All Things Pass
Leaf after leaf, from life's tree, fall. Bright whirling world, you cloy, you pall. You pall and you tire, You make us drunken! Today's glowing fire Will soon be sunken. At my brown grave The wind shall blow; Over the babe Mother bends low. May my star be bright, The glance of her eyes! On all else be blight! All readily dies. The great Mother stays, From whom we came: On the winds she plays, As she scrawls our name.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Early Spring

Vorfrühling

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Vorfrühling
Härte schwand. Auf einmal legt sich Schonung an der Wiesen aufgedecktes Grau. Kleine Wasser ändern die Betonung. Zärtlichkeiten, ungenau, greifen nach der Erde aus dem Raum. Wege gehen weit ins Land und zeigens. Unvermutet siehst du seines Steigens Ausdruck in dem leeren Baum.
Early Spring
Stiffness, gone. And now a softness settles on the fields’ grey cover. Little streams try out new noises. Indeterminate caresses reach for Earth from somewhere over. Lanes run clear across the land. Spring is suddenly at hand: on the bare tree, see its traces.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Wind’s a Whistler

Es pfeift der Wind . . .

Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)

Es pfeift der Wind . . .
Es pfeift der Wind. Was pfeift er wohl? Eine tolle, närrische Weise. Er pfeift auf einem Schlüssel hohl, bald gellend und bald leise. Die Nacht weint ihm den Takt dazu mit schweren Regentropfen, die an der Fenster schwarze Ruh ohn End eintönig klopfen. Es pfeift der Wind. Es stöhnt und gellt. Die Hunde heulen im Hofe. Er pfeift auf diese ganze Welt, der große Philosophe.
The Wind’s a Whistler
The wind’s a whistler. His will be a melody mad and mental, all in a single dismal key, now bellowing, now gentle. Night weeps the pulse that he maintains, sends heavy raindrops pounding on the black peaceful window-panes, relentlessly resounding. A roaring, groaning sibilant, In all the world he’ll whistle. Let yard-dogs rant: he’s Newton, Kant, Socrates, Bertrand Russell.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Christian Morgenstern...

Ver hiemem indagat...

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.
Ver hiemem indagat...
ver 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.
For Swinburne as translator, see Victor Hugo, 'Penniless Children'

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Butterflies

Les Papillons

Gérard de Nerval (1808-55)

Les Papillons
I De toutes les belles choses Qui nous manquent en hiver, Qu’aimez–vous mieux? — Mois, les roses; — Moi, l’aspect d’un beau pré vert; — Moi, la moisson blondissante; Chevelure des sillons; — Moi, le rossignol qui chante; — Et moi, les beaux papillons! Le papillon, fleur sans tige, Qui voltige, Que l’on cueille en un réseau; Dans la nature infinie, Harmonie, Entre la plante et l’oiseau!… Quand revient l’été superbe, Je m’en vais au bois tout seul: Je m’étends dans la grande herbe, Perdu dans ce vert linceul. Sur ma tête renversée, Là, chacun d’eux à son tour, Passe comme une pensée De poésie ou d’amour! Voici le papillon faune, Noir et jaune; Voici le mars azuré, Agitant des étincelles Sur ses ailes D’un velours riche et moiré. Voici le vulcain rapide, Qui vole comme l’oiseau: Son aile noire et splendide Porte un grand ruban ponceau. Dieux! le soufré, dans l’espace, Comme un éclair a relui… Mais le joyeux nacré passe, Et je ne vois plus que lui! II Comme un éventail de soie, Il déploie Son manteau semé d’argent; Et sa robe bigarrée Est dorée D’un or verdâtre et changeant. Voici le machaon–zèbre, De fauve et de noir rayé; Le deuil, en habit funèbre, Et le miroir bleu strié; Voici l’argus, feuille–morte, Le morio, le grand–bleu, Et la paon–de–jour qui porte Sur chaque aile un œil de feu! * Mais le soir brunit nos plaines; Les phalènes Prennent leur essor bruyant, Et les sphinx aux couleurs sombres, Dans les ombres Voltigent en tournoyant. C’est le grand’paon à l’œil rose Dessiné sur un fond gris, Qui ne vole qu’à nuit close, Comme les chauves–souris; Le bombice du troëne, Rayé de jaune et de vert, Et le papillon du chêne Qui ne meurt pas en hiver! Voici le sphinx à la tête De squelette, Peinte en blanc sur un fond noir, Que le villageois redoute, Sur la route, De voir voltiger le soir. Je hais aussi les phalènes, Sombres, hôtes de la nuit, Qui voltigent dans nos plaines De sept heures à minuit; Mais vous, papillons que j’aime, Légers papillons du jour, Tout en vous est un emblème De poésie et d’amour! III Malheur, papillons que j’aime, Doux emblème, À vous pour votre beauté!… Un doigt, de votre corsage, Au passage, Froisse, hélas! le velouté!… Une toute jeune fille, Au cœur tendre, au doux souris, Perçant vos cœurs d’une aiguille, Vous contemple, l’œil surpris: Et vos pattes sont coupées Par l’ongle blanc qui les mord, Et vos antennes crispées Dans les douleurs de la mort!…
Butterflies
I Of all the fine treasure That winter forecloses, What gives the most pleasure? — For me, I say roses; — For me, fair green meadows; — The ripening harvest, Blonde tress of the furrows; — Nightingale’s melodies; — For me, brilliant butterflies! Butterfly, untethered flower, Leaping and cavorting, yet Captured in a cruel net. Nature’s world, infinity: Bud and bird in harmony! When proud summer comes to pass, I go lonely to the wood. There I lie in tallest grass, Lose myself in the green shroud: Watch above my upturned head Every one of them go by. Thoughts of love, of poetry! See the Monarch butterfly: Black and gold his livery… Purple Emperor in flight, Sparks of light Scurrying On his rich, shot–velvet wing. Red Admiral, he can speed Like a bird: Black and splendid is his wing, Poppy–ribbons blazoning. Brimstone Yellow flashes past, Lightning–fast; Pearl or brown Fritillary, All my field of sight is he: II He spreads like silken fan His mantle silver–sewn: With shifting gold And emerald He gilds his motley gown. Zebra stripe of Swallowtail, Black and tawny–yellow hue; Marbled White, black–draped and pale, Chequered Skipper, streaked with blue; Argus, dead leaf; Camberwell Beauty; Large Blue — rare, so rare; And the Peacock, brandishing, On each wing, Eye of fire! * Brown our fields, at fall of night. See the Moths’ Noisy flight: First a dusky Sphinx, in shade, Twists and turns his escapade. Here comes the Great Peacock Moth, Pink eyes on a grey back–cloth: Like the bats, the flittermice, It’s at nightfall that he flies. Privet Hawk–Moth, funny fellow, Stripes on grub of green and yellow; While the Oak Procession Moth Laughs at winter, cheating death. There’s a Sphinx displays a skull, White on black, piratical: In the byways he appals Villagers, as evening falls. Moths, grim guests of night, I hate: Which in our fields gyrate From seven till too late. But, my precious Butterflies, Fluttering in daylight skies, You are all a symbol of Poetry, a pledge of love. III Woe, my precious butterflies, Who symbolise: Woe betide your loveliness. Passing finger comes to bruise, To abuse Your velvet dress. Some young girl, Tender–hearted, smiling, sweet, Looks in mild surprise on you, Stabs your heart with needle through; And your feet She’ll curtail, Nip with pale Finger–nail, Your antennæ crimp and curl, With a pain that’s terminal!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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A night the sea was heard, and not seen

Une Nuit Qu’On Entendait la Mer Sans la Voir

Victor Hugo (1802-85)

Une Nuit Qu’On Entendait la Mer Sans la Voir
Quels sont ces bruits sourds? Ecoutez vers l’onde Cette voix profonde Qui pleure toujours Et qui toujours gronde, Quoiqu’un son plus clair Parfois l’interrompe… — Le vent de la mer Souffle dans sa trompe. Comme il pleut ce soir! N’est–ce pas, mon hôte? Là–bas, à la côte, Le ciel est bien noir, La mer est bien haute! On dirait l’hiver; Parfois on s’y trompe… — Le vent de la mer Souffle dans sa trompe. Oh! marins perdus! Au loin, dans cette ombre Sur la nef qui sombre, Que de bras tendus Vers la terre sombre! Pas d’ancre de fer Que le flot ne rompe. — Le vent de la mer Souffle dans sa trompe. Nochers imprudents! Le vent dans la voile Déchire la toile Comme avec les dents! Là–haut pas d’étoile! L’un lutte avec l’air, L’autre est à la pompe. — Le vent de la mer Souffle dans sa trompe. C’est toi, c’est ton feu Que le nocher rêve, Quand le flot s’élève, Chandelier que Dieu Pose sur la grève, Phare au rouge éclair Que la brume estompe! — Le vent de la mer Souffle dans sa trompe.
A night the sea was heard, and not seen
What’s this rough sound? Hark, hark at the waves, this voice profound that endlessly grieves nor ceases to scold, and yet shall be drowned by one louder, at last: The sea-tempests wield their trumpet-blast. How it rains tonight! Does it not, my guest? All down the coast, the sky without light and the sea storm-tossed! ’Tis winter, we railed, yet we falsely guessed… The sea-tempests wield their trumpet-blast. O sailors lost! From the raft of doom in the distant gloom, what cries are cast to the shores that loom! Anchor-chains yield to the surging crest. The sea-tempests wield their trumpet-blast. O helmsmen, fools! The storm in your sails with furious tooth rips up your cloth! The stars are concealed! Jack pumps and bales, Jem looks to the mast… The sea-tempests wield their trumpet-blast. It is you, your blaze that the helmsman craves in the towering waves, you lamp on the strand that the Lord displays, red rescuing brand that is doused in mist! The sea-tempests wield their trumpet-blast.
Victor Hugo, ‘Les Voix Intérieures’

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Au Rossignol

Ode to a Nightingale

John Keats (1795-1821)

Let’s see whether he needed the letter E. First verse by HARRY GUEST; TIMOTHY ADÈS wrote the rest.
Ode to a Nightingale
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains          My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains          One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,          But being too happy in thine happiness, —                 That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees                         In some melodious plot          Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,                 Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been          Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green,          Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South,          Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,                 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,                         And purple-stained mouth;          That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,                 And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget          What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret          Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,          Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;                 Where but to think is to be full of sorrow                         And leaden-eyed despairs,          Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,                 Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee,          Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy,          Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night,          And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,                 Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;                         But here there is no light,          Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown                 Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,          Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet          Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;          White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;                 Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;                         And mid-May's eldest child,          The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,                 The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and, for many a time          I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,          To take into the air my quiet breath;                 Now more than ever seems it rich to die,          To cease upon the midnight with no pain,                 While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad                         In such an ecstasy!          Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain —                    To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!          No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard          In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path          Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,                 She stood in tears amid the alien corn;                         The same that oft-times hath          Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam                 Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell          To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well          As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades          Past the near meadows, over the still stream,                 Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep                         In the next valley-glades:          Was it a vision, or a waking dream?                 Fled is that music :— Do I wake or sleep?
Au Rossignol
My mind hurts and a drowsy poison pains My soul as though of opium I had drunk Or, quaffing a dull drug down to its drains An hour ago, to Pluto’s lands had sunk. ‘Tis not through craving for thy happy lot But finding too much joy in all thy bliss – O thou, light-flying dryad of this wood, In a harmonious plot Of mossy boughs which shift as shadows kiss. Thy full throat sings: May harbours all that’s good. O, for a draught of vino! that has lain Cooling for months a long way down in ground, Tasting of Flora’s country, lush with rain, Occitan song, and sunlit dancing round! O for a glassful of that sunny South, Full of Parnassian blushful vrai grand cru, With strings of air-drops bubbling at its brim, Staining maroon my mouth; That I might drink, and slip away with you, All lost to all, in wildwoods dark and dim. I’d slip away, dissolving. Soon forgot, What you among your arbours had not known, Our worry and our quinsy and our hot Flush of folk sitting for a mutual groan, Our palsy, shaking sad gray hairs, not many, Our youth grown pallid, dying, phantom–slight: For but to think is to drink draughts of sorrow, Look black as antimony; Girls can’t maintain two lustrous orbs of sight; If Cupid sighs, it’s only till tomorrow. Away! away! for I will fly to you, Not riding out with Bacchus’ jaguars, But (blind-man’s buff!) on lyric wings, although My brain is numb, and jolts and jams and jars. Look, now I’m with you! It’s a kind, soft night; With luck, Milady Moon is holding court, And, round about, a throng of starry Fays; No, it’s too dark: no light But what from skyward airily is brought Through branchy gloom and winding mossy ways. I cannot scan what’s budding at my foot, Nor what soft balsam hangs upon your boughs, But in this fragrant dark, I try to moot Such aromatics as this month allows To grass, to shrub, to fruiting blossom wild; Sunk in its fronds, fast fading violot; Hawthorn, triantaphyll dawn–drunk with musk, May’s coming first-born child, And pastoral non-hybrid, which is not A murmurous haunt of gnats at dog–star’s dusk. Dark auscultation! and again! for oft I am half amorous of R.I.P., In many musing stanzas call him, soft, To lift in air my faint vitality: This opportunity I shouldn’t miss, To pass away at midnight without pain, Whilst thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such high flights of bliss! Still wouldst thou sing, and I’d auscult in vain To thy contakion, at last a clod. Thou wast not born to croak, immortal Bird! No hungry propagations grind you down; That song I track this passing night occurr’d In days long past to tyrant, king and clown: On top of that — who knows? — it found a path To Ruth, athirst for Moab’s distant turf, Who stood distraught amid th’ un-British corn; And on occasion hath Charm'd magic miradors that look on rough Hazardous floods, in goblin lands forlorn. Forlorn! That actual word purports to toll, To toil yours truly back to John from you! Addio! This fancy tricks us nicht so wohl As what — fallacious fay! — it’s thought to do. Addio! Addio! Thy soulful singing faints Away, past paddocks and a placid brook, Climbing a hill; and now it sinks down, boring Into low-lying haunts: A vision? Or a waking think–and–look? All’s tacit: — Am I vigilant, or snoring?
Said at Poet in the City Drop–In, Daunts Piccadilly Bookshop, March 2015

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by John Keats...

Moonlit Night

Mondnacht

Joseph von Eichendorff (1788-1857)

Mondnacht
Es war, als hätt’ der Himmel Die Erde still geküßt, Daß sie im Blütenschimmer Von ihm nur träumen müßt'. Die Luft ging durch die Felder, Die Ähren wogten sacht, Es rauschten leis’ die Wälder, So sternklar war die Nacht. Und meine Seele spannte Weit ihre Flügel aus, Flog durch die stillen Lande, Als flöge sie nach Haus.
Moonlit Night
It seemed the gallant heaven Gave earth a silent kiss, That she so bright with flowers Must only dream of this. The breeze amid the harvest Caressed the waving corn. The woodland whispered softly, The starry midnight shone. My soul spread wide her pinions, No longer fain to roam, Flew through the silent landscape As one who heads for home.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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