Written by
Rainer Maria Rilke |
Four Translations
Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.
Lay your shadow on the sundials
and let loose the wind in the fields.
Bid the last fruits to be full;
give them another two more southerly days,
press them to ripeness, and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.
Whoever has no house now will not build one
anymore.
Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long
time,
will stay up, read, write long letters,
and wander the avenues, up and down,
restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.
Translated by Galway Kinnell and Hannah Liebmann,
"The Essential Rilke" (Ecco)
Lord, it is time. The summer was too long.
Lay your shadow on the sundials now,
and through the meadow let the winds throng.
Ask the last fruits to ripen on the vine;
give them further two more summer days
to bring about perfection and to raise
the final sweetness in the heavy wine.
Whoever has no house now will establish none,
whoever lives alone now will live on long alone,
will waken, read, and write long letters,
wander up and down the barren paths
the parks expose when the leaves are blown.
Translated by William Gass,
"Reading Rilke: Reflections on the Problem of Translation" (Knopf)
Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by.
Now overlap the sundials with your shadows,
and on the meadows let the wind go free.
Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine;
grant them a few more warm transparent days,
urge them on to fulfillment then, and press
the final sweetness into the heavy wine.
Whoever has no house now, will never have one.
Whoever is alone will stay alone,
will sit, read, write long letters through the
evening,
and wander the boulevards, up and down,
restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.
Translated by Stephen Mitchell,
"The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke" (Random House)
Lord, it is time now,
for the summer has gone on
and gone on.
Lay your shadow along the sun-
dials and in the field
let the great wind blow free.
Command the last fruit
be ripe:
let it bow down the vine --
with perhaps two sun-warm days
more to force the last
sweetness in the heavy wine.
He who has no home
will not build one now.
He who is alone
will stay long
alone, will wake up,
read, write long letters,
and walk in the streets,
walk by in the
streets when the leaves blow.
Translated by John Logan,
"Homage to Rainer Maria Rilke," (BOA Editions)
Original German
Herbsttag
Herr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr gross.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren lass die Winde los.
Befiehl den letzten Fruchten voll zu sein;
gieb innen noch zwei sudlichere Tage,
drange sie zur Vollendung hin und jage
die letzte Susse in den schweren Wein.
Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blatter treiben.
-- Rainer Maria Rilke, Paris, Sept. 21, 1902
|
Written by
Robert Burns |
AGAIN the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driven,
And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer Heaven.
No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail;
I send you more than India boasts,
In Edwin’s simple tale.
Our sex with guile, and faithless love,
Is charg’d, perhaps too true;
But may, dear maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you.
|
Written by
Robert Burns |
FY, let us a’ to Kirkcudbright,
For there will be bickerin’ there;
For Murray’s light horse are to muster,
And O how the heroes will swear!
And there will be Murray, Commander,
And Gordon, the battle to win;
Like brothers they’ll stand by each other,
Sae knit in alliance and kin.
And there will be black-nebbit Johnie,
The tongue o’ the trump to them a’;
An he get na Hell for his haddin’,
The Deil gets na justice ava.
And there will be Kempleton’s birkie,
A boy no sae black at the bane;
But as to his fine Nabob fortune,
We’ll e’en let the subject alane.
And there will be Wigton’s new Sheriff;
Dame Justice fu’ brawly has sped,
She’s gotten the heart of a Bushby,
But, Lord! what’s become o’ the head?
And there will be Cardoness, Esquire,
Sae mighty in Cardoness’ eyes;
A wight that will weather damnation,
The Devil the prey will despise.
And there will be Douglasses doughty,
New christening towns far and near;
Abjuring their democrat doings,
By kissin’ the —— o’ a Peer:
And there will be folk frae Saint Mary’s
A house o’ great merit and note;
The deil ane but honours them highly—
The deil ane will gie them his vote!
And there will be Kenmure sae gen’rous,
Whose honour is proof to the storm,
To save them from stark reprobation,
He lent them his name in the Firm.
And there will be lads o’ the gospel,
Muirhead wha’s as gude as he’s true;
And there will be Buittle’s Apostle,
Wha’s mair o’ the black than the blue.
And there will be Logan M’Dowall,
Sculdudd’ry an’ he will be there,
And also the Wild Scot o’ Galloway,
Sogering, gunpowder Blair.
But we winna mention Redcastle,
The body, e’en let him escape!
He’d venture the gallows for siller,
An ’twere na the cost o’ the rape.
But where is the Doggerbank hero,
That made “Hogan Mogan” to skulk?
Poor Keith’s gane to hell to be fuel,
The auld rotten wreck of a Hulk.
And where is our King’s Lord Lieutenant,
Sae fam’d for his gratefu’ return?
The birkie is gettin’ his Questions
To say in Saint Stephen’s the morn.
But mark ye! there’s trusty Kerroughtree,
Whose honor was ever his law;
If the Virtues were pack’d in a parcel,
His worth might be sample for a’;
And strang an’ respectfu’s his backing,
The maist o’ the lairds wi’ him stand;
Nae gipsy-like nominal barons,
Wha’s property’s paper—not land.
And there, frae the Niddisdale borders,
The Maxwells will gather in droves,
Teugh Jockie, staunch Geordie, an’ Wellwood,
That griens for the fishes and loaves;
And there will be Heron, the Major,
Wha’ll ne’er be forgot in the Greys;
Our flatt’ry we’ll keep for some other,
HIM, only it’s justice to praise.
And there will be maiden Kilkerran,
And also Barskimming’s gude Knight,
And there will be roarin Birtwhistle,
Yet luckily roars i’ the right.
And there’ll be Stamp Office Johnie,
(Tak tent how ye purchase a dram!)
And there will be gay Cassencarry,
And there’ll be gleg Colonel Tam.
And there’ll be wealthy young Richard,
Dame Fortune should hing by the neck,
For prodigal, thriftless bestowing—
His merit had won him respect.
And there will be rich brother Nabobs,
(Tho’ Nabobs, yet men not the worst,)
And there will be Collieston’s whiskers,
And Quintin—a lad o’ the first.
Then hey! the chaste Interest o’ Broughton
And hey! for the blessin’s ’twill bring;
It may send Balmaghie to the Commons,
In Sodom ’twould make him a king;
And hey! for the sanctified Murray,
Our land wha wi’ chapels has stor’d;
He founder’d his horse among harlots,
But gied the auld naig to the Lord.
|
Written by
Robert Burns |
HAIL, thairm-inspirin’, rattlin’ Willie!
Tho’ fortune’s road be rough an’ hilly
To every fiddling, rhyming billie,
We never heed,
But take it like the unback’d filly,
Proud o’ her speed.
When, idly goavin’, whiles we saunter,
Yirr! fancy barks, awa we canter,
Up hill, down brae, till some mischanter,
Some black bog-hole,
Arrests us; then the scathe an’ banter
We’re forced to thole.
Hale be your heart! hale be your fiddle!
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
O’ this wild warl’.
Until you on a crummock driddle,
A grey hair’d carl.
Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,
Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune,
And screw your temper-pins aboon
A fifth or mair
The melancholious, lazy croon
O’ cankrie care.
May still your life from day to day,
Nae “lente largo” in the play,
But “allegretto forte” gay,
Harmonious flow,
A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey—
Encore! Bravo!
A blessing on the cheery gang
Wha dearly like a jig or sang,
An’ never think o’ right an’ wrang
By square an’ rule,
But, as the clegs o’ feeling stang,
Are wise or fool.
My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,
Wha count on poortith as disgrace;
Their tuneless hearts,
May fireside discords jar a base
To a’ their parts.
But come, your hand, my careless brither,
I’ th’ ither warl’, if there’s anither,
An’ that there is, I’ve little swither
About the matter;
We, cheek for chow, shall jog thegither,
I’se ne’er bid better.
We’ve faults and failings—granted clearly,
We’re frail backsliding mortals merely,
Eve’s bonie squad, priests wyte them sheerly
For our grand fa’;
But still, but still, I like them dearly—
God bless them a’!
Ochone for poor Castalian drinkers,
When they fa’ foul o’ earthly jinkers!
The witching, curs’d, delicious blinkers
Hae put me hyte,
And gart me weet my waukrife winkers,
Wi’ girnin’spite.
By by yon moon!—and that’s high swearin—
An’ every star within my hearin!
An’ by her een wha was a dear ane!
I’ll ne’er forget;
I hope to gie the jads a clearin
In fair play yet.
My loss I mourn, but not repent it;
I’ll seek my pursie whare I tint it;
Ance to the Indies I were wonted,
Some cantraip hour
By some sweet elf I’ll yet be dinted;
Then vive l’amour!
Faites mes baissemains respectueuses,
To sentimental sister Susie,
And honest Lucky; no to roose you,
Ye may be proud,
That sic a couple Fate allows ye,
To grace your blood.
Nae mair at present can I measure,
An’ trowth my rhymin ware’s nae treasure;
But when in Ayr, some half-hour’s leisure,
Be’t light, be’t dark,
Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure
To call at Park.ROBERT BURNS.Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786.
|
Written by
Edgar Lee Masters |
They would have lynched me
Had I not been secretly hurried away
To the jail at Peoria.
And yet I was going peacefully home,
Carrying my jug, a little drunk,
When Logan, the marshal, halted me,
Called me a drunken hound and shook me,
And, when I cursed him for it, struck me
With that Prohibition loaded cane --
All this before I shot him.
They would have hanged me except for this:
My lawyer, Kinsey Keene, was helping to land
Old Thomas Rhodes for wrecking the bank,
And the judge was a friend of Rhodes
And wanted him to escape,
And Kinsey offered to quit on Rhodes
For fourteen years for me.
And the bargain was made. I served my time
And learned to read and write.
|
Written by
Robert Burns |
WILLIE WASTLE dwalt on Tweed,
The spot they ca’d it Linkumdoddie;
Willie was a wabster gude,
Could stown a clue wi’ ony body:
He had a wife was dour and din,
O Tinkler Maidgie was her mither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wad na gie a button for her!
She has an e’e, she has but ane,
The cat has twa the very colour;
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller:
A whiskin beard about her mou’,
Her nose and chin they threaten ither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wadna gie a button for her!
She’s bow-hough’d, she’s hein-shin’d,
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter;
She’s twisted right, she’s twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka quarter:
She has a lump upon her breast,
The twin o’ that upon her shouther;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wadna gie a button for her!
Auld baudrons by the ingle sits,
An’ wi’ her loof her face a-washin;
But Willie’s wife is nae sae trig,
She dights her grunzie wi’ a hushion;
Her walie nieves like midden-creels,
Her face wad fyle the Logan Water;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wadna gie a button for her!
|
Written by
James Thomson |
1. Fareweel, ye bughts, an' all your ewes,
An' fields whare bIoomin' heather grows;
Nae mair the sportin' lambs I'll see
Since my true love's forsaken me.
CHORUS.
Nae mair I'll hear wi' pleasure sing
The cheerfu' lav'rock in the Spring,
But sad in grief now I maun mourn,
Far, far frae her, o'er Logan-burn.
2. Alas! nae mair we'll meetings keep
At bughts, whan herds ca' in their sheep;
Nae mair amang the threshes green
We'll row, where we hae aften been.
CHORUS
3. Nae mair for me , ye vi'lets blaw,
Or lilies whiter than the snaw;
Nae mair your pleasures I can bear,
While I am absent frae my dear.
CHORUS
4. I ken the cause of my hard fate;
In courtin' her I was too blate;
I never kiss'd my lass at a'
But when we met an' gaed awa'.
CHORUS
5. Oh could my tears again bring back
The days now past, I'd no' be slack
For ev'ry kiss she got before
I wad gie to her now a score.
CHORUS
6. O fortune I wad you favour me
In some snug corner her to see.
My heart I wad to her reveal,
An' in her arms my pardon seal.
CHORUS
|
Written by
Robert Burns |
O LOGAN, sweetly didst thou glide,
That day I was my Willie’s bride,
And years sin syne hae o’er us run,
Like Logan to the simmer sun:
But now thy flowery banks appear
Like drumlie Winter, dark and drear,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
Again the merry month of May
Has made our hills and valleys gay;
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
The bees hum round the breathing flowers;
Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye,
And Evening’s tears are tears o’ joy:
My soul, delightless a’ surveys,
While Willie’s far frae Logan braes.
Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush:
Her faithfu’ mate will share her toil,
Or wi’ his song her cares beguile;
But I wi’ my sweet nurslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Pass widow’d nights and joyless days,
While Willie’s far frae Logan braes.
O wae be to you, Men o’ State,
That brethren rouse to deadly hate!
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn,
Sae may it on your heads return!
How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow’s tear, the orphan’s cry?
But soon may peace bring happy days,
And Willie hame to Logan braes!
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