Hans Christian Andersen: 'See, Hørren staaer saa slank og fri'

 

See, Hørren staaer saa slank og fri

 

See, Hørren staaer saa slank og fri,

Hvor blomstrer hele Flokken!

Hver Klokke der har Melodi,

Men uden Knevl er Klokken;

Du hører ei dens »ding, ding, dang!«

Nei, ikke nu – men først engang,

Naar Hørren ret har lidt og stridt,

Og ligger som Papiret hvidt; –

En Tonemester paa det slaaer,

En Fjer er Troldomsstaven,

Hvad Blomsten følte, synligt staaer,

I Klang det fra Papiret gaaer,

Liv svinger sig fra Graven.

 

 

See, how the flax stands slim and free

 

See, how the flax stands slim and free,

Its bell-shaped flower host swishing,

Each bell there has its melody,

The clanger though is missing;

You do not hear its ‘ding, ding, dong!’

No, silent must remain its song

Until the flax has fought its fight,

And as blank paper lies there white; –

A tonal wizard weaves his spell,

A feather touch his playing,

Each sensed tone held within its shell

As paper is a sounding bell

That from its grave comes swaying.

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'The Rose on the Coffin'

 

Rosen paa Kisten

 

See Sørgetoget gjennem Gyden gaaer,

Det er et deiligt Solskin, Lærken slaaer,

Paa Kistelaaget er en Rose lagt,

Den unge Brud til Graven bliver bragt.

 

I Gyden her, som Barn hun leged glad,

Ved Hyldetræet hist, som Brud hun sad,

Ved Stenten der de skiltes, da han gik,

Ved Stenten der om ham hun Dødsbud fik.

 

Hvad drømte Rosen vel i Knoppen nys,

Hvad drømte den ved Solens første Kys,

Og ved det sidste glødende Farvel,

Hvad drømmer den paa Kistens sorte Fjel.

 

 

Trykt som Nr. 4 af Fire Sange for een Syngestemme med Accompagnement af Pianoforte, komponeret af H. S. Løvenskjold Op. 23, Kjøbenhavn. (December 1849). 

 

 

The Rose on the Coffin

 

See rows of mourners passing down the lane,

The sun shines bright, larks trill with might and main,

A rose lies on the coffin lid so black,

The grave-bound young bride’s borne along the track.

 

In this same lane she played when just a child,

And by that elder sat as bride and smiled,

Here at the stile they parted when he left

Heard of his death, felt utterly bereft.

 

What did the budding rose dream in young bliss,

What did it dream when warmed by sun’s first kiss,

And at this last farewell, no longer hid,

What does it dream upon the coffin lid?

 

 

Printed as No. 4 of Four Songs for Singing Voice and Piano Accompaniment, composed by H. S. Løvenskjold, Op. 23, Copenhagen (December 1849).

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'The Blackthorn'

 

Slaaentjørnen

 

Vor Junker kom i Skoven, der Grethe han saae,

Hun gik og samled Jordbær, hun trak dem paa Straa,

De modneste de bedste, hvert af dem frisk og sødt.

»Ei Grethelil,« saa talte han: »det er jo heldigt mødt.

Jeg vil hjelpe med at plukke!

 

Det rødeste det bedste, jeg fandt denne Stund,

De sødeste meest friske, det groer paa din Mund,

Du veed ei selv din Rigdom, men Grethe jeg veed den,

Og derfor vil jeg hjelpe Dig, jeg er en ærlig Ven.

Jeg vil hjelpe med at plukke!«

 

I Skoven stod en Slaaentjørn, den hørte derpaa,

Før Junkeren det vidste i Tjørnen han laae,

Og Grethe løb, hun smilte, og sagde mange Tak!

Den Slaaentjørn havde Torne og alle Torne stak.

Jeg vil hjelpe med at plukke!

 

 

Trykt som Nr. 3 af Fire Sange for een Syngestemme med Accompagnement af Pianoforte, komponeret af H. S. Løvenskjold Op. 23, Kjøbenhavn. (December 1849). 

 

 

The Blackthorn

 

Our young lord spied young Grethe out on his forest walk,

Her strawberries once picked, she was threading on a stalk,

The ripest and the best, and with each one fresh and sweet.

‘Oh, Gretchen,’ he remarked: ‘how delightful we should meet.

I will help you with your picking!

 

The reddest and the best I found a while ago,

The sweetest and the freshest, on own your lips they grow,

You fail to see your treasure, but Grethe, it I spy,

And that is why I’ll help you, an honest friend am I.

I will help you with your picking!’

 

Close by there grew a blackthorn, it heard all that was said

Before the young lord knew it, the blackthorn was his bed,

And Grethe ran off smiling, and said my thanks to you!

The blackthorn it was prickly, its thorns pierced through and through.

I will help you with your picking!

 

 

Printed as No. 3 of Four Songs for Singing Voice and Piano Accompaniment, composed by H. S. Løvenskjold, Op. 23, Copenhagen (December 1849). 

Hans Christian Andersen: Danish version of Fiorentini's poem on the death of Princess Gwendoline Borghese Talbot (1817-1840)

 

Sonnet ved Fyrstinde Borgheses

og hendes tre Børns Død

 

(Efter Fiorentini)

 

En Paradisets Blomst af Troen bragt

Til Temsens Bred og plantet der i Solen

Skjød herligt frem. Dens Duft, dens Yndes Magt

Dens Glands, sligt findes ei hos Vaarviolen!

 

Men Kjærligheden planted’ Blomsten om

Den Blomst, som gjorte alle Hjerter glade,

Den plantedes ved Tiberen i Rom,

En himmelsk Duft gik fra dens rene Blade.

 

Og Duften steeg –; vi hørte Engle sige:

„Den Blomst er ei for noget jordisk Sted,

I Lysets Have blomstrer kun dens Lige!”

 

En Engel saae vi da til Jorden stige,

Og rive Blomsten op: tre Skud gik med,

Tre unge Skud – de groe nu i Guds Rige.

 

A Danish version of Fiorentini’s ‘La Morte della Principessa Guendalina Borghese Talbot’.

Printed for the first time and with the above title ’Rome, 1st January 1841’,

 

 

Sonnet on the death of Princess Gwendoline Borghese

and of her three sons

 

(Based on the poem by Fiorentini)

 

Down to Thames banks by faith conveyed, a Flower

Of Paradise there in the sun then planted

Did greatly thrive. Sweet scent, exquisite power

And sheen unmatched by violets it was granted!

 

But Love found this fair flower another home,

All hearts delighting and with joy enthusing,

In soil down by the Tiber’s banks in Rome,

From its pure petals scent divine diffusing.

 

Its fragrance rose –; and we heard angels say:

‘This flower on earth should never have to grow,

But in Life’s Garden does its like hold sway!’

 

An angel we then saw to earth descend

And pull the plant up, with three shoots in tow,

Three shoots so young – who now God’s angels tend.

 

Here is the original poem:

 

La Morte della Principessa Guendalina

Borghese Talbot

 

(seguita da quella di tre suoi Figli.)

 

Presso al Tamigi un Fior di Paradiso

La Fè piantò con somma cura un giorno;

Bello ci crebbe in quel suol più d’un narciso:

Tanto era in suo candor di grazie adorno!

 

Quindi la Carità, fiammante in viso

Del Tebro il trapiantò nel bel soggiorno,

E qui destava in tutti amore e riso

Per la fragranza che spandea d’intorno.

 

Ma il grato olezzo anche su in cielo ascese,

Onde averlo fra loro ebber desio

L’Alme ch’ivi si stanno al gaudio intese.

 

Allora a un divin cenno Angiol partio

Che svelto il Fior con tre germogli, il rese

All’amor de’ beati, e in grembo a Dio.

 

 

Sonnet on the Death of Princess Gwendoline

Borghese Talbot

 

(followed by that of her three sons)

 

Close to the Thames a flower of Paradise

One day by faith was planted with great care;

There finer than narcissi it did rise:

And, with great grace adorned, was passing fair.

 

From where with flaming face Love it did bring

To Tiber’s banks where it did settle in

And all inspire with love and urge to sing,

Caused by the scent it spread from deep within.

 

Its scent ascended though to Heaven’s light,

And caused those there to wish all this to share,

Souls staring with great joy at such a sight.

 

An angel when thus bidden earthwards chased

To snatch the flower with three young shoots from there

To souls in bliss and to God’s warm embrace.

 

 (My own version of the original)

Marie Dauguet: 'Les heures fragiles'

 

Les heures fragiles

 

Le matin passe avec son manteau d’or liquide

Et ses pieds empourprés qui courbent les roseaux.

Couronné de glaïeuls et de bardanne humide,

Le matin lumineux se dresse au bord des eaux.

 

L'automne l’a paré. Ainsi que des coraux,

Les sorbiers ont garni de leurs graines acides

Sa ceinture, unissant aux grappes des sureaux

Leur beauté décevante et leurs pulpes arides.

 

Il fait triste, mon cœur, malgré le matin d’or,

Qui rôde ruisselant sous sa robe qu’il traîne,

Pendant que, possédé de son rêve, il promène

 

L’archet sur le rebec! Joignons à son accord

L’écho de nos baisers pour qu’un peu de survive

De notre amour mêlé à l’heure qui s'esquive.

 

 

The fragile hours

 

The morning passes with its cloak of liquid gold

And crimson feet that bend the reeds towards the ground.

With gladioli and with dew-decked burdock crowned,

At water’s edge the radiant morning gains its hold.

 

Autumn has dressed it thus. As rowans too have girt

Themselves with corals made of berries sharp and tart,

Uniting with the elders’ cluster-patterned skirt

Their beauty that deceives and arid, pulp-filled heart.

 

My heart is sad, despite the morning with its hoard

Of gold that rustling roams beneath the robe it trails,

While, by its dream possessed, its agile bow regales

 

With scales on the rebec! Let’s join with its accord

The echo of our kisses, so that our love may

In part survive, mixed with the hour that steals away.

Marie Dauguet: 'Aurore'

 

Aurore

 

Dans l’étable nuiteuse encor les bœufs s’ébrouent. 

Etirent lourdement leurs membres engourdis,

Réveillés tout à coup par un coq qui s’enroue 

Et dont le cri strident semble un poignard brandi. 

 

Trempé d’aube, dehors, le fumier resplendit 

Contre un mur délabré qu’une lucarne troue, 

Parmi des bois pourris, des socs, des vieilles roues, 

Et lance vers le ciel des parfums attiédis. 

 

Cernant une écurie ouverte au toit de mousse, 

Qu’emplit un vibrement nuageux d’ombre rousse, 

Du purin, noir brocard, s’étale lamé d'or, 

 

Où fouillent du grouin activement les porcs, 

Et dans la paille humide et qu’ils ont labourée 

Le soleil largement vautre sa chair pourprée.

 

 

Daybreak

 

In the nocturnal shed, cattle still sniff and snort,

Stretch sluggishly their heavy limbs as there they lie,

And all at once are roused by the hoarse cock’s report –

Just like a brandished dagger is its strident cry.

 

Drenched now with dawn, outside, the dung heap brightly gleams

Against a crumbling wall where one hatch forms a hole,

Amongst much rotten wood, blunt ploughshares, wheels half whole,

And throws towards the sky a scent that gently steams.

 

Around an open stable, roof with moss bedecked,

Filled by a cloudy quiver of shade’s russet specks,

Spreads – black brocade – some slurry, spangled with deep gold,

 

Where pigs are rooting actively through liquid mould,

And in the humid straw through which each snout has trawled

The sun, expansively, in purple flesh now sprawls.

Viggo Stuckenberg (1863-1905): 'Foraarsregn' (1901)

From the collection 'Sne' (1901)

 

Foraarsregn

 

Det regner over Mosen,

saa mildt og blødt, saa fint og tæt,

et Regnvejr graat af Grøde,

en Livsens Dug, der lindt og let

     mod Jordens Hjærte rinder.

 

Som smaa Krystaller perler

i Kabelejers gyldne Fang

de vædeblanke Draaber,

og Slaaentjørnens Tornehang

     i snehvidt Knopbrud skinner.

 

Det gule Græs, de spinkle,

de silkefine brune Rør

i Regnen lydløst bæver,

og Spindelvævets Sølverslør

     om Straa sig draabet vinder.

 

Det regner over Mosen,

saa stille gaaer den Dag sin Gang,

en enlig Smaafugl pipper

og løfter kvidrende sin Sang

     imedens Regnen rinder.

 

 

Spring rain

 

The rain falls on the marshes,

so fine and steady, mild and soft,

a rain that’s grey with growing,

a dew of life, that from aloft

     towards earth’s heart is streaming

 

Like crystal pearls so tiny

within marsh marigolds’ embrace

the droplets’ glossy moisture,

and blackthorn leaves with coated glaze

     midst snow-white buds are gleaming.

 

The yellow grass, the fragile,

the silky brown stems of the reeds

are silently aquiver,

and cobwebs’ silver veils like beads

     twine round the blades now greening.

 

The rain falls on the marshes,

the day so quietly moves along,

a single small bird’s cheeping

and now it chirps its springtime song

     while down the rain is streaming.

 

 

Klaus Høeck: 'In Nomine' (études australes, pp.347-351)

 

‘études australes’

 

 

and behind me stars

of glass and soda sparkle

behind my shoulder

 

that’s smoking with salt

behind my bedhead while i

am dreaming the stars

 

sparkle like crayfish

on the sea-bed of båring 

vig the stars sparkle

 

like lightships there up

in the springtime night while i

am falling asleep

 

 

 

i have gathered the

dead around me in a cir

cle as around a

 

maypole for a dance

and a conversation they

cannot take part in

 

all the dead members

of my family around

me like statues that

 

move almost imper

ceptibly whenever i

do not gaze at them

 

 

 

and behind me the

stars sparkle like electric

welding over fun

 

en from the lindø

shipyards behind me the stars

toll for my ears out

 

from the spit ene

bærodde as if strangers

were going to be

 

evening guests or an

unexpected word in my

most recent poem

 

 

 

the dead also look

at me (at any rate from

their carbonised pho

 

tographs turned pale by

purgatory) or maybe

it is the other

 

way around that i

only move (am moved) when the 

dead gaze at me and 

 

that i otherwise 

come to a complete standstill

in my memories?

 

 

 

and behind me the

stars plummet down cold and a

lien with sili

 

con from their orang

eries and from their enorm

ous celestial map

 

plunge into the realm

of my poems where they strike

my left foot or leave

 

behind them such words

as ‘carina’ or ‘puppis’

or as ‘canopus’

 

 

 

and behind me the

stars fall down from their winter

gardens fall down in

 

to ‘études australes’

from one star chart to anoth

er one and that is

 

the way the stars sound

then even harder and wild

er than emerald

 

that is the way the 

stars sound in grete sultan’s

interpretation

 

 

 

nobody becomes

a good person just by dy

ing it is unfor

 

tunately not that

simple just as nobody

becomes an evil

 

person just by liv

ing it is not that simple

everyone has to

 

do it by themselves

both parts of their own free will

it’s that difficult

 

 

 

and behind me the

stars cast out dice over the 

sky’s rough glass surface

 

like ice-cubes like the

coins in an I-ching throw

like the notes coming

 

from a steinway grand

piano like the sparks from

john cage’s pitu

 

itary gland like

crocodile tears like the last

words in the bible

 

 

 

i have gathered the

dead around me for life’s sake

(also the dead chaf

 

finches that flew in

to the window pane yester

day) life cannot un

 

equivocally 

determine itself as life

the dead define us

 

in a way they are

what makes us living without

death there is no life

 

 

 

and behind me the

stars chime with death and necess

ity behind me

 

the stars ring out for

god – what if i were not to

turn around would i

 

then not be transformed

into a pillar of salt

or into a stone

 

plinth would my poem then

not be transformed into a

mourning cherry-tree?