Tuesday, 17 June 2025

Wilhelm Müller: 'Der Leiermann'


 

Der Leiermann

 

Drüben hinterm Dorfe 

Steht ein Leiermann, 

Und mit starren Fingern 

Dreht er was er kann.

Barfuß auf dem Eise 

Schwankt er hin und her; 

Und sein kleiner Teller 

Bleibt ihm immer leer.

Keiner mag ihn hören, 

Keiner sieht ihn an; 

Und die Hunde knurren 

Um den alten Mann.

Und er läßt es gehen 

Alles, wie es will, 

Dreht, und seine Leier 

Steht ihm nimmer still.

Wunderlicher Alter,

Soll ich mit dir gehen? 

Willst zu meinen Liedern 

Deine Leier drehn?

 

 

The Hurdy-Gurdy Man

 

Past the village stands a 

Hurdy-gurdy man,

And with rigid fingers

Plays as best he can.

Barefoot on the ice he

Staggers to and fro, 

And his small plate’s empty –

Nothing there to show.

No one wants to listen, 

No one looks his way, 

Dogs snarl round the old man

Each and every day.

And he lets things happen

Any way they will,

Churns his hurdy-gurdy,

It is never still.

Strange old man, I wonder,

Shall I go with you?

Will your hurdy-gurdy 

Play to my songs too?



Monday, 16 June 2025

Ludwig Tieck: 'Herbstlied'

 

 

Herbstlied

 

Feldeinwärts flog ein Vögelein

Und sang im muntern Sonnenschein

Mit süßem, wunderbarem Ton:

Ade, ich fliege nun davon.

Weit, weit, reis ich noch heut.

 

Ich horchte auf den Feldgesang,

Mir ward so wohl und doch so bang.

Mit frohem Schmerz, mit trüber Lust

Stieg wechselnd bald und sank die Brust.

Herz, Herz, brichst du vor Wonn’ oder Schmerz?

 

Doch als ich Blätter fallen sah,

Da sagt ich: Ach, der Herbst ist da,

Der Sommergast, die Schwalbe, zieht,

Vielleicht so Lieb' und Sehnsucht flieht

Weit, weit, rasch mit der Zeit.

 

Doch rückwärts kam der Sonnenschein,

Dicht zu mir drauf das Vögelein,

Es sah mein tränend Angesicht

Und sang: Die Liebe wintert nicht.

Nein, nein! Ist und bleibt Frühlingsschein.

 

 

Autumn Song

 

Into the fields a small bird flew

And in glad sunshine it anew

Did sing with sweet and wondrous tone:

Farewell, for I will soon be gone:

Away I’m bound today.

 

Its outdoor song I listened to,

I felt so glad, yet fearful too.

With cheerful pain, with joy oppressed

First rose, then sank my heaving breast.

Oh heart, does bliss or pain so smart?

 

Yet when I saw the leaves all fall,

I said: Ah, autumn’s cruel call,

The swallow, summer’s guest, departs,

As love perhaps and longing hearts

So fast, their time won’t last.

 

The sunshine though returned again

And right up close the small bird came,

It saw my face so full of tears

And sang: Love does not winter here.

Oh no! It’s always springtime’s glow.

 


 

 

Sunday, 15 June 2025

Adam Oehlenschläger: 'Der er et yndigt land'


Der er et yndigt land

 

Der er et yndigt land,

det står med brede bøge

//: nær salten østerstrand; ://

det bugter sig i bakke, dal,

det hedder gamle Danmark,

//: og det er Frejas sal. ://

 

Dér sad i fordums tid

de harniskklædte kæmper,

//: udhvilede fra strid; ://

så drog de frem til fjenders mén,

nu hvile deres bene

//: bag højens bautasten. ://

 

Det land endnu er skønt;

thi blå sig søen bælter,

//: og løvet står så grønt, ://

og ædle kvinder, skønne mø'r

og mænd og raske svende

//: bebo de danskes øer. ://

 

Hil drot og fædreland!

Hil hver en danneborger, 

//: som virker, hvad han kan! ://

Vort gamle Danmark skal bestå,

så længe bøgen spejler

//: sin top i bølgen blå. ://

 

 

There lies a pleasant land

 

There lies a pleasant land

with beech trees wide outspreading

//: near Baltic’s salty strand, ://

it winds and curves in hill and dell,

its name of old is Denmark,

//: and here does Freya dwell. ://

 

There sat in days of yore

the warriors clad in armour,

//: revived from times of war; ://

they rose again to smite the foe,

now here their bones lie resting

//:’neath wreaths of standing stones ://

 

Still beauteous is this land;

rich-veined with deep-blue waters 

//: and in full leaf it stands, ://

and noble women, maidens fair

and men and youths so eager

//: its isles as homeland share. ://

 

Hail king and fatherland!

Hail every heart that’s Danish

//: and serves as best it can! ://

Our ancient Denmark shall stand true,

as long as beech trees mirror

//: their crowns in waves of blue. ://

 

Saturday, 14 June 2025

Holger Drachmann: 'Ad kendte Veje'

 


AD KENDTE VEJE

 

O hvor hvert Fjed dog er gammeltungt,

       naar Vejen skal trædes tilbage;

       Trittet var let, saa tyveaarsungt,

       da det gik mod de dejlige Dage.

       Liden Fugl paa vor Vej

       havde travlt med at synge

       sin Elskovssang;

       i hver Bøgetræsgynge

       var Legen i Gang, —

       nu synges, nu leges der ej.

       Kun de susende Graner har endnu Røst,

       og det lyder som oprørt Vand;

              det tegner mod Høst.

 

Elskede! ak, den dobbelte Klang,

       som strider i denne Kalden:

       Sangfuglelatter fra korngul Vang

       og hulkende Skovvandes Falden!

       Nu er Sommeren væk

       og kun Høsten tilbage,

       en Middelhøst;

       kun en Afglans af Dage

       med kummerlig Trøst,

       et Billed med falmede Træk.

       Og jeg trykker det blegede Blad til min Mund.

       Der er dobbelt og stridende Lyst

              i Afskedens Stund.

 

Nej, jeg vil ej som den Klagende staa,

       naar Intet dog kan forandres;

       heller ad høstgule Gange gaa,

       naar Stierne dog skulle vandres.

       Der er Kraft i den Luft,

       som fra Granskovens Naale

       min Aande naa’r;

       gennem Høstsolens Straale

       et Farvevæld gaar,

       hver Blomst har forstærket sin Duft.

       Lad kun Vaaren forstumme; her spirer et Frø.

       Jeg har Sange i Hjertet endda;

              de kan aldrig dø.

 

 

DOWN WELL-KNOWN PATHS

 

Oh, how each footstep with lead seems hung,

       when the path must be trod till it’s ended;

       Light was each  step, so twenty-years young,

       when it led towards days that were splendid.

       A small bird as we passed

       was so busily singing

       its song of love;

       in each beech there was swinging

       and playing above, —

       songs and games did not last.

       Only pine trees now soughing have voice at all,

       and its sound’s that of water when rough;

              soon autumn will call.

 

Dearest one! ah, the double-edged plea

       that clashes in this strange calling:

       Songbirds’ gay laughter from corn-hued lea

       and woodland streams’ sad-sobbing falling!

       Now the summer is gone

       there’s but  autumn remaining,

       and autumn’s stalled;

       merely day’s image waning

       with solace now palled,

       a picture whose features once shone.

       And I press the wan leaf to my lips with a sigh.

       Double urges still clash when recalled

              at the hour of goodbye.

                                                                                                 

No, as lamenter I’ll not say adieu,

       since all has been laid out quite surely;

       nor will I tread paths of autumn hue,

       when star-paths lie right here before me.

       There’s a force in the air

       which as pine needles’ resin

       my mind sets on fire;

       and the autumn’s rays dress in

       a rainbow attire,

       each flower has a scent twice as rare.

       Let the spring remain silent; a seed time is nigh.

       All my heart’s songs will never expire:

              they refuse to die.

 

 

Thursday, 12 June 2025

Hans Christian Andersen: 'See de andre unge Ørne flyve'


 

Mandag [Slagelse,14. November 1825]

Kom daarlig fra mine Lexer og jeg troede dog jeg kunde dem. Mismod — jeg kan ikke giøre det bedre, nu bliver han vred vranten mod mig jeg taber Modet og alt gaaer galt, o de[t] bliver til Intet, jeg skal aldrig blive til Noget. —

 

See de andre unge Ørne flyve

Op mod Solen bades i dens Straaler

Medens Mængden undrende beseer det.

Herligt synge de fra Klippens Tinde

Om den svundne Old og om Naturen

Men jeg sidder fængslet her bag Muren

Dybt i Støvet uden Kraft og Vinge

Kan man ei mod Lyset svinge,

Tør ei synge skiøndt min hele Siæl

Higer mod det reene Gude væld.

Mange, mange seer jeg ile frem

Men ak ikke jeg tør følge dem!

 

 

Monday [Slagelse, 14 November 1825]

My homework test went off badly – and I thought I knew it all. Am completely discouraged – I can’t do any better, now he’ll be angry with me and I’ll lose courage and everything will go wrong, Oh, it will all come to nothing, I’ll never become anything. –

 

See the other eagles upwards soaring

Up to sun’s bright rays where they are bathing

While the crowd below in wonder watches.

Splendidly they sing from cliff-face summits

Of past ages and of nature’s raptures,

While I sit here, walled in, as if captured,

In the dust, unable to be winging,

One can never up to light be swinging

Dare not sing though I with all my soul

Yearn for realms divine to make me whole.

Many, many I see forwards shoot,

But, alas, don’t dare to follow suit!




Wednesday, 11 June 2025

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Hvad er det vel vi kalde Poesie?'

 


Hvad er det vel vi kalde Poesie?

 

(Baggrund til Vignetterne)

 

Hvad er det vel vi kalde Poesie?

En skuffet Drøm, nu det Uendelige!

Det Enkelte, det Heles Harmonie,

Vi jo med dette lille Ord udsige.

Vort Liv, ja jeg og Du, kort alle vi

Er’ Poesie!

 

Det stolte Fjeld, der over Skyen gaaer,

Hvor Fossen larmer over knuste Graner,

Hvor Gemsejægeren ei Spidsen naaer,

Hvor Tanken svinder og Guds Storhed aner;

Hiin herlige Natur saa høi og fri

Er Poesie!

 

I Gruben ved det blege Lampeskjær,

Den stille Bjergmand sidder med sin Stræben,

Han tænker trofast paa sin Hjertenskjær,

Og gamle Sange tone ham fra Læben.

Den hele Scene, Hjertets Drømmerie,

Er Poesie!

 

I Røg og Damp den vilde Kampplads staaer,

Her brænder Byen, hist man stormer Skandsen,

Dødskuglen gjennem Heltehjertet gaaer,

Imens det drømmer stolt om Laurbærkrandsen.

Selv dette røg omhylte Malerie,

Er Poesie!

 

See Slaveskibet! dybt i Rummet her

De lænkebundne, solgte Brødre sukke;

Nu er det Havblik, tyst – hvad pladsker der?

Et Liig, nu eet – og Bølgerne sig lukke.

Dødskysset da, som gjør den Fangne fri,

Er Poesie!

 

Naar hun, hvem Hjertet fast sig klynger ved,

Som er din Tanke og din hele Stræben,

Naar hun forstaaer din dybe Kjærlighed,

Og hendes Haandtryk siger meer end Læben,

Hvad da Du føler, fængslet, men dog fri,

Er Poesie!

 

Hver Barnets Drøm om Jordens Herlighed,

Den Gamles Minder, mens hun dreier Rokken,

Den glemte Qvindes stille Huuslighed,

Der sysler hjemme, tro, med Børneflokken,

Den Vildes Glæde ved et Speils Magie,

Er Poesie!

 

Naar Vennen Du betroer Din bittre Vee,

Og klynger Dig til ham med trofast Hjerte,

Dit varme Du faaer kun et høfligt De,

Din Tillid selv forvandler sig til Smerte,

Selv det, naar han Dig fornem gaaer forbi,

Er Poesie!

 

Siberien med Taage, Iis og Snee,

Omslutter ham, der stred for Frihedsfaner,

Alene, i det grændseløse Vee,

Hans Liv henvisner mellem dunkle Graner,

Hans Drøm om Frihed – Ørknens Dyr er' frie – !

Er Poesie!

 

Der staaer en Klippe i det salte Hav,

Fra Skibet mangen Pilgrim den bestiger,

Man seer et Træ, en Skildvagt og en Grav,

Hvert Blik faaer Liv, men Læben intet siger.

Den dybe Stilhed her, er Melodie,

Som Poesie!

 

Musikkens Toner, Ungdoms glade Dands,

En Verden i et Frø og i en Stjerne,

Selv Graven med sin visne Blomsterkrands,

Vort Hjertes Higen mod et ukjendt Fjerne,

Mit Liv og hvad jeg fandt deri,

Er Poesie!

 

Jeg følte mig som Ørnen, stærk og fri,

Min unge Sjæl var gladest blandt de Glade,

Men Hjertets bedste Drøm var nu forbi,

Og Livets Træ staaer uden Blomst og Blade.

Mit Kald som Digter – Hjertets Melodie –

Var Poesie!

 

 

What is this thing which we call poetry?

 

(Background to The Vignettes)

 

What is this thing which we call poetry?

A downcast dream, and now eternity!

One thing or everything’s pure harmony

This tiny word expresses cogently.

Our life, yes you and me, all those we see

Are poetry!

 

The mountain proud that o’er the high clouds reigns,

Where falls o’er splintered pines cascade and thunder,

Whose peak the chamois hunter never gains,

Where thoughts subside, God’s greatness sensed in wonder:

The glory of all Nature high and free

Is poetry!

 

Deep underground, beside his lamp’s pale light,

The quiet miner rests a moment from his labour,

His dear beloved is his faithful thoughts’ delight,

And old songs murmured are his only neighbour.

The scene entire, the heart’s deep reverie

Is poetry!

 

The battlefield’s a hell of smoke and fears,

The barricades are stormed, the city’s blazing,

The hero’s heart the deadly bullet sears,

While in his mind on laurel wreaths he’s gazing.

Even this painting, smoke-filled though it be,

Is poetry!

 

See the slave ship! Down in the hold below

The fettered, sold poor brothers sit there sighing;

Now all is still, becalmed –  what’s splashing though?

A corpse, one more – the waves then slowly dying.

The kiss of death, that sets the captives free

Is poetry!

 

When she, to whom your heart clings oh so tight,

Who is your sole thought and your whole endeavour,

When she your deep love understands aright,

Her handshake tells you more than lips could ever –

What you then feel, a captive and yet free,

Is poetry!

 

Each small child’s dream of earth’s great majesty,

And what the crone while spinning is recalling,

The wife’s unnoticed domesticity,

Who minding children sees as her true calling,

The wild man’s joy at mirrors’ wizardry,

Is poetry!

 

When he whom you entrust your bitter woe,

And with a faithful heart you warmly cling to,

Responds with cold politeness that’s mere show,

Your very trust transforms itself to sting you,

The fact he passes by, fine as can be,

Is poetry!

 

Siberia, with thick fog, ice and snow, 

Envelops him who fought ’neath freedom’s banner,

Alone in an unending, boundless woe

Midst dark pines his life ends in tragic manner.

His dream of freedom – wasteland beasts are free –!

Is poetry!

 

A rock stands steadfast in the salty sea,

And pilgrims from the ship climb up this island;

A tree, a sentry and a grave you see,

Each gaze gains life, but lips remain quite silent.

The stillness here is purest melody,

Like poetry!

 

The sound of music, youth’s dance full of glee,

The world a seed or stars contains within it,

The grave itself with wreaths’ now withered leaves,

Heart’s longing for the unknown it cannot limit,

My life and what it offered me,

Are poetry!

 

I felt just like an eagle, strong and free,

My young soul joyous with like-minded equals,

My heart’s best dream though was mere fantasy,

The tree of life stands bare and has no sequel.

My call as writer – heart’s pure melody –

Was poetry!