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Best Famous Transplant Poems

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Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Create an image from this poem

Three Odes To My Friend

 THESE are the most singular of all the Poems 
of Goethe, and to many will appear so wild and fantastic, as to 
leave anything but a pleasing impression. Those at the beginning, 
addressed to his friend Behrisch, were written at the age of eighteen, 
and most of the remainder were composed while he was still quite 
young. Despite, however, the extravagance of some of them, such 
as the Winter Journey over the Hartz Mountains, and the Wanderer's 
Storm-Song, nothing can be finer than the noble one entitled Mahomet's 
Song, and others, such as the Spirit Song' over the Waters, The 
God-like, and, above all, the magnificent sketch of Prometheus, 
which forms part of an unfinished piece bearing the same name, and 
called by Goethe a 'Dramatic Fragment.'

 TO MY FRIEND.

 [These three Odes are addressed to a certain 
Behrisch, who was tutor to Count Lindenau, and of whom Goethe gives 
an odd account at the end of the Seventh Book of his Autobiography.]

FIRST ODE.

TRANSPLANT the beauteous tree!
Gardener, it gives me pain;
A happier resting-place
Its trunk deserved.

Yet the strength of its nature
To Earth's exhausting avarice,
To Air's destructive inroads,
An antidote opposed.

See how it in springtime
Coins its pale green leaves!
Their orange-fragrance
Poisons each flyblow straight.

The caterpillar's tooth
Is blunted by them;
With silv'ry hues they gleam
In the bright sunshine,

Its twigs the maiden
Fain would twine in
Her bridal-garland;
Youths its fruit are seeking.

See, the autumn cometh!
The caterpillar
Sighs to the crafty spider,--
Sighs that the tree will not fade.

Hov'ring thither
From out her yew-tree dwelling,
The gaudy foe advances
Against the kindly tree,

And cannot hurt it,
But the more artful one
Defiles with nauseous venom
Its silver leaves;

And sees with triumph
How the maiden shudders,
The youth, how mourns he,
On passing by.

Transplant the beauteous tree!
Gardener, it gives me pain;
Tree, thank the gardener
Who moves thee hence!

 1767.









SECOND ODE.

THOU go'st! I murmur--
Go! let me murmur.
Oh, worthy man,
Fly from this land!

Deadly marshes,
Steaming mists of October
Here interweave their currents,
Blending for ever.

Noisome insects
Here are engender'd;
Fatal darkness
Veils their malice.

The fiery-tongued serpent,
Hard by the sedgy bank,
Stretches his pamper'd body,
Caress'd by the sun's bright beams.

Tempt no gentle night-rambles
Under the moon's cold twilight!
Loathsome toads hold their meetings
Yonder at every crossway.

Injuring not,
Fear will they cause thee.
Oh, worthy man,
Fly from this land!

 1767.

THIRD ODE.

BE void of feeling!
A heart that soon is stirr'd,
Is a possession sad
Upon this changing earth.

Behrisch, let spring's sweet smile
Never gladden thy brow!
Then winter's gloomy tempests
Never will shadow it o'er.

Lean thyself ne'er on a maiden's
Sorrow-engendering breast.
Ne'er on the arm,
Misery-fraught, of a friend.

Already envy
From out his rocky ambush
Upon thee turns
The force of his lynx-like eyes,

Stretches his talons,
On thee falls,
In thy shoulders
Cunningly plants them.

Strong are his skinny arms,
As panther-claws;
He shaketh thee,
And rends thy frame.

Death 'tis to part,
'Tis threefold death
To part, not hoping
Ever to meet again.

Thou wouldst rejoice to leave
This hated land behind,
Wert thou not chain'd to me
With friendships flowery chains.

Burst them! I'll not repine.
No noble friend
Would stay his fellow-captive,
If means of flight appear.

The remembrance
Of his dear friend's freedom
Gives him freedom
In his dungeon.

Thou go'st,--I'm left.
But e'en already
The last year's winged spokes
Whirl round the smoking axle.

I number the turns
Of the thundering wheel;
The last one I bless.--
Each bar then is broken, I'm free then as thou!

 1767.


Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Create an image from this poem

Original Preface

 I feel no small reluctance in venturing to give to the public a 
work of the character of that indicated by the title-page to the 
present volume; for, difficult as it must always be to render satisfactorily 
into one's own tongue the writings of the bards of other lands, 
the responsibility assumed by the translator is immeasurably increased 
when he attempts to transfer the thoughts of those great men, who 
have lived for all the world and for all ages, from the language 
in which they were originally clothed, to one to which they may 
as yet have been strangers. Preeminently is this the case with Goethe, 
the most masterly of all the master minds of modern times, whose 
name is already inscribed on the tablets of immortality, and whose 
fame already extends over the earth, although as yet only in its 
infancy. Scarcely have two decades passed away since he ceased to 
dwell among men, yet he now stands before us, not as a mere individual, 
like those whom the world is wont to call great, but as a type, 
as an emblem--the recognised emblem and representative of the human 
mind in its present stage of culture and advancement.

Among the infinitely varied effusions of Goethe's pen, perhaps 
there are none which are of as general interest as his Poems, which 
breathe the very spirit of Nature, and embody the real music of 
the feelings. In Germany, they are universally known, and are considered 
as the most delightful of his works. Yet in this country, this kindred 
country, sprung from the same stem, and so strongly resembling her 
sister in so many points, they are nearly unknown. Almost the only 
poetical work of the greatest Poet that the world has seen for ages, 
that is really and generally read in England, is Faust, the translations 
of which are almost endless; while no single person has as yet appeared 
to attempt to give, in an English dress, in any collective or systematic 
manner, those smaller productions of the genius of Goethe which 
it is the object of the present volume to lay before the reader, 
whose indulgence is requested for its many imperfections. In addition 
to the beauty of the language in which the Poet has given utterance 
to his thoughts, there is a depth of meaning in those thoughts which 
is not easily discoverable at first sight, and the translator incurs 
great risk of overlooking it, and of giving a prosaic effect to 
that which in the original contains the very essence of poetry. 
It is probably this difficulty that has deterred others from undertaking 
the task I have set myself, and in which I do not pretend to do 
more than attempt to give an idea of the minstrelsy of one so unrivalled, 
by as truthful an interpretation of it as lies in my power.

The principles which have guided me on the present occasion are 
the same as those followed in the translation of Schiller's complete 
Poems that was published by me in 1851, namely, as literal a rendering 
of the original as is consistent with good English, and also a very 
strict adherence to the metre of the original. Although translators 
usually allow themselves great license in both these points, it 
appears to me that by so doing they of necessity destroy the very 
soul of the work they profess to translate. In fact, it is not a 
translation, but a paraphrase that they give. It may perhaps be 
thought that the present translations go almost to the other extreme, 
and that a rendering of metre, line for line, and word for word, 
makes it impossible to preserve the poetry of the original both 
in substance and in sound. But experience has convinced me that 
it is not so, and that great fidelity is even the most essential 
element of success, whether in translating poetry or prose. It was 
therefore very satisfactory to me to find that the principle laid 
down by me to myself in translating Schiller met with the very general, 
if not universal, approval of the reader. At the same time, I have 
endeavoured to profit in the case of this, the younger born of the 
two attempts made by me to transplant the muse of Germany to the 
shores of Britain, by the criticisms, whether friendly or hostile, 
that have been evoked or provoked by the appearance of its elder 
brother.

As already mentioned, the latter contained the whole of the Poems 
of Schiller. It is impossible, in anything like the same compass, 
to give all the writings of Goethe comprised under the general title 
of Gedichte, or poems. They contain between 30,000 and 40,000 verses, 
exclusive of his plays. and similar works. Very many of these would 
be absolutely without interest to the English reader,--such as those 
having only a local application, those addressed to individuals, 
and so on. Others again, from their extreme length, could only be 
published in separate volumes. But the impossibility of giving all 
need form no obstacle to giving as much as possible; and it so happens 
that the real interest of Goethe's Poems centres in those classes 
of them which are not too diffuse to run any risk when translated 
of offending the reader by their too great number. Those by far 
the more generally admired are the Songs and Ballads, which are 
about 150 in number, and the whole of which are contained in this 
volume (with the exception of one or two of the former, which have 
been, on consideration, left out by me owing to their trifling and 
uninteresting nature). The same may be said of the Odes, Sonnets, 
Miscellaneous Poems, &c.

In addition to those portions of Goethe's poetical works which 
are given in this complete form, specimens of the different other 
classes of them, such as the Epigrams, Elegies, &c., are added, 
as well as a collection of the various Songs found in his Plays, 
making a total number of about 400 Poems, embraced in the present 
volume.

A sketch of the life of Goethe is prefixed, in order that the 
reader may have before him both the Poet himself and the Poet's 
offspring, and that he may see that the two are but one--that Goethe 
lives in his works, that his works lived in him.

The dates of the different Poems are appended throughout, that 
of the first publication being given, when that of the composition 
is unknown. The order of arrangement adopted is that of the authorized 
German editions. As Goethe would never arrange them himself in the 
chronological order of their composition, it has become impossible 
to do so, now that he is dead. The plan adopted in the present volume 
would therefore seem to be the best, as it facilitates reference 
to the original. The circumstances attending or giving rise to the 
production of any of the Poems will be found specified in those 
cases in which they have been ascertained by me.

Having said thus much by way of explanation, I now leave the book 
to speak for itself, and to testify to its own character. Whether 
viewed with a charitable eye by the kindly reader, who will make 
due allowance for the difficulties attending its execution, or received 
by the critic, who will judge of it only by its own merits, with 
the unfriendly welcome which it very probably deserves, I trust 
that I shall at least be pardoned for making an attempt, a failure 
in which does not necessarily imply disgrace, and which, by leading 
the way, may perhaps become the means of inducing some abler and 
more worthy (but not more earnest) labourer to enter upon the same 
field, the riches of which will remain unaltered and undiminished 
in value, even although they may be for the moment tarnished by 
the hands of the less skilful workman who first endeavours to transplant 
them to a foreign soil.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Hornet

 A red-hot needle
hangs out of him, he steers by it
as if it were a rudder, he
would get in the house any way he could
and then he would bounce from window
to ceiling, buzzing and looking for you.
Do not sleep for he is there wrapped in the curtain.
Do not sleep for he is there under the shelf.
Do not sleep for he wants to sew up your skin,
he want to leap into your body like a hammer
with a nail, do not sleep he wants to get into
your nose and make a transplant, he wants do not
sleep he wants to bury your fur and make
a nest of knives, he wants to slide under your
fingernail and push in a splinter, do not sleep
he wants to climb out of the toilet when you sit on it
and make a home in the embarrassed hair do not sleep
he wants you to walk into him as into a dark fire.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry