O Haupt voll Blut und Wunden,
Voll Schmerz und voller Hohn,
O Haupt, zum Spott gebunden
Mit einer Dornenkron,
O Haupt, sonst schön gezieret
Mit höchster Ehr und Zier,
Jetzt aber hoch schimpfieret:
Gegrüßet seist du mir!
O head, blood-streaked, sore wounded,
In pain and put to scorn,
To mockery unbounded
Decked with a crown of thorn,
O head, adorned but lately
With honours unsurpassed,
Now sworn and cursed at greatly:
I welcome you at last!
Wenn ich einmal soll scheiden,
So scheide nicht von mir,
Wenn ich den Tod soll leiden,
So tritt du denn herfür!
Wenn mir am allerbängsten
Wird um das Herze sein,
So reiß mich aus den Ängsten
Kraft deiner Angst und Pein.
When my time comes for parting,
Part not from me, I pray,
When pangs of death start smarting,
Close by my side then stay!
When fearfulness would seize me
And would my heart constrain,
From all these fears then free me,
Through Thine own fear and pain.
Årstiderne
Vasketøj vajer for vinden.
Småbørn får knopper på kinden.
Piger bli'r drillet
og fodbold bli'r spillet
for nu er det sommer i Danmark.
Dagene falder så dystre.
Skolebørn vil ikke lystre.
Tøj blir forældet
og tårer blir fældet
for efterår er det i Danmark.
Skilsmisser. Dødsfald. Romaner.
Hoste og nedfrosne planer.
Næsen blir dryppet
og tuden blir dyppet
for nu er det vinter i Danmark.
Blomster på eng og i potte.
Banket blir mangen en måtte.
Plæner blir sået
og digte forstået
for nu er det forår i Danmark.
The seasons
Washing can flap while its drying.
Young kids get spots that are trying.
Girls must take teasing
and football’s unceasing
for now it is summer in Denmark.
Days now seem shorter and gloomy.
Schoolkids unruly and rheumy.
Clothes get outdated
tears flow unabated
for now it is autumn in Denmark.
Deaths. New divorces. Long novels.
Plans in cold storage and snuffles.
Noses start dripping
and schnozzles start dipping
for now it is winter in Denmark.
Flowers bloom in meadows or vases.
Beating of mats all surpasses.
Paths are regravelled
and poems unravelled
for now it is springtime in Denmark.
Aube
Un invisible oiseau dans l’air pur a chanté.
Le ciel d’aube est d’un bleu suave et velouté.
C'est le premier oiseau qui s'éveille et qui chante.
Ecoute! les jardins sont frémissants d'attente.
Ecoute! Un autre nid s'éveille, un autre nid,
Et c’est un pépiement éperdu qui jaillit.
Qui chante le premier? Nul ne le sait. C’est l’aurore.
Comme un abricot mur, le ciel pâli se dore.
Qui chante le premier? Qu’importe? On a chanté.
Et c’est un beau matin de l'immortel été.
Dawn
A bird has sung above, in clear air, out of view.
The dawn sky has a sheen of smooth and velvet blue.
It is the first of all the birds to wake and sing.
Hark, hark! The waiting gardens quiver at its ring.
Hark, hark! Another nest awakes, and yet one more,
Their frenzied chirping notes gush forth and upwards soar.
Who sings first? There’s no knowing. Dawn comes as of old.
Like apricots that ripen, the pale sky turns gold.
Who sings first? It’s no matter. For there now is song –
Immortal summer’s lovely morning won’t be long.
L’aube paisible
L’harmonieux silence erre au fouillis des branches
Et dans l’immense paix d’un matin du dimanche,
Calme extatiquement,
Rien qu’un envol de cloche au fond du firmament.
L’aurore a suspendu sa luisante mantille
Sur le potager bleu où, traînant sa coquille,
S’attarde l’escargot
Zébrant d’argent mouillé les feuilles des pavots.
Les lierres enlacés aux murs qui les étayent,
Répandent leur parfum qu’exaspéra la nuit,
Et les pêchers s’éveillent
Déployant leur fraîcheur où l’abeille bruit.
Un chat muettement, plissant ses yeux de jade,
Glisse à travers les haricots et les salades.
Calme extatiquement,
Le vieux jardin repose au mol égouttement
Des cloches dans l’espace. Et parmi sa glycine,
La maison qu’un trait rose au bord du ciel dessine,
Sur le verger dormant
Ouvre, aux frais angelus, portes et contrevents.
The peaceful dawn
Among the tangled branches sweet-toned silence strays
And in the vast peace of a Sunday morning haze,
Ecstatically calm,
Nothing but fleeting chimes at heaven’s outer arm.
Over blue kitchen gardens has Aurora draped
Her gleaming mantle where, trailing its own shell’s weight,
The snail rests for a time
From streaking leaves of poppies with its silver slime.
The twining ivy, held by walls no wind can shake,
Spills out its pungent scent that irked night constantly,
And now the peach trees wake,
Spreading their freshness out where bees hum noisily.
Quite silently a cat, with narrowed eyes of jade,
Slides through the lettuces and beans in total shade.
Ecstatically calm,
The age-old garden’s resting in the soothing balm
Of bells that drift through space. And midst wisteria,
Pink-traced against the sky, the house exterior
– While still the orchard snores –
Opens to this Angelus shutters and closed doors.
Le verger
La blancheur de ces fleurs follement entassées,
A travers les blancheurs grises du firmament,
Ton musical égouttement, blanche rosée,
Et les pas de la nuit au lointain s'enfuyant.
C'est l'aube, mais pourtant rien encor ne s'éveille:
A peine au fond du ciel de trembleuses lueurs;
Le verger faible et doux entre mes bras sommeille,
Je le sens tout entier incliné vers mon cœur.
Quand le printemps répand son immortel soupir
Et que la solitude et du silence abondent,
A cette heure surtout, mon affamé désir
Te recherche, beauté suprême, âme du monde;
Je te pénètre un peu. Je perçois des accents;
Mon oreille est plus claire en mon être... et je sens
Qu'un dieu repose en moi qui n'est pas encor né.
15 mai 1907.
The orchard
The whiteness of these madly heaped-up flowers, seen through
The greyish whiteness of the firmament’s new day,
Your musical soft-falling droplets of white dew,
And footsteps of the distant night that flees away –
Nothing is yet astir though dawn now gathers pace,
At heaven’s rim the trembling gleamings almost start;
The orchard, faint and soft, still sleeps in my embrace,
I feel it totally inclined towards my heart.
When spring spreads far and wide its great immortal sigh
And solitude and silence fully are unfurled,
Especially then, with famished strong desire do I
Seek you, beauty unrivalled, soul of the whole world;
I enter you just slightly. Accents are intense,
My ear is keener and my being… And I sense
A god lies deep within me that is not yet born.
15 May 1907.
De dag gaat open als een gouden roos
De dag gaat open als een gouden roos;
ik sta aan 't raam en zend mijn adem uit,
het veld is stil, en nauwlijks één geluid
breekt naar het koepelblauw bij tussenpoos.
En in mijn kamer, als een donkre doos,
waarvoor de parels hangen aan de ruit,
ga 'k heen en weer, tot waar mijn wandling stuit
en ik bij donkren wand stil peinzend poos.
Ik heb 't gevonden, het mensengeluk,
als moest ik worden vier en dertig jaar
eer ik het vond, en ging veel trachten stuk
in spannend worstlen en ijdel gebaar.
Maar zo zeker als daarbuiten de zon de
wereld befloerst, heb ik 't geluk gevonden.
The day’s unfolding like a golden rose
The day’s unfolding like a golden rose;
I send my breath out at the window-sill,
there’s scarcely any sound – the fields lie still –
that rises to the blue sky’s vaulted dome.
And in my boxlike room, completely black,
in front of which the pearls hang on the pane,
I pace the floor until I’m stopped again
and quietly muse when dark walls halt my track.
I’ve found it, human happiness, despite
it taking four and thirty years for me
to do so, and much searching failed outright
through tussles, gestures made quite needlessly.
As sure though as the world outside is dressed
in veils of sunlight, I’ve found happiness.
Feel like reading a story or tale by Hans Christian Andersen in English translation? There are 160+ waiting to be read here.
Vaaren
Fast hele Jordens Kreds udraaber Vaarens Pragt.
Bedrøveligt Beviis paa hvad saa tit er sagt:
At Smagen her til Lands (jeg mener paa vor Klode),
Om ei den værste, er i Sandhed ei den gode.
Ifald mig undes Lov, saa er det min Propos,
At vise, Vaaren ei fortiener Verdens Roes.
Kun Christen-Kierlighed mig, andet ei, indblæste
Den Lyst, at høvle lidt paa Smagen hos min Næste.
(Til Smagens Politur, jeg troer, man bruger Fiil;
Men høvle, syntes mig, faldt bedre i min Stiil.)
Jeg sielden noget troer, som troes af for mange;
Dog hørte jeg saa tit evindelige Sange
Om Maji-Dagens Lyst, at jeg det Indfald fik,
Engang til Floræ Eng at gaae – og see! jeg gik.
Jeg havde Østerport lagt nogle Skridt tilbage,
Og standsede, for ret ind i mit Bryst at drage
Den Balsom, som saa tit er liflig siungen om,
Og henrykt raaber jeg: Du Duft af Blomster, kom!
Du Zephyr, bring mig den paa silkebløde Vinger!
Da Æolus med Fart mig i mit Ansigt springer,
Vred, for jeg hilsede hans Fætter Zephyr mildt,
Og puster Støv, hvis Lugt fra Balsom let var skilt.
Min Skade lærte mig, at Vestenvinden blæser
Ei altid lige mildt paa Digter som paa Læser.
Men, skiønt jeg lidet godt hos Flora torde spaae
Af Maaden, som hun strax bød mig velkommen paa,
Min Fromhed gav mig Mod, trods Stormen frem at trænge,
I Haab, at, naar jeg gik opmærksom, langt og længe,
En Art af Skiønhed mig vel eengang forekom,
Som over Næstens Smag formildede min Dom.
I dette fromme Haab aftørrede jeg Støvet,
Ved hvilket nyligen mig Synet var berøvet,
Og saae den grønne Mark – den var – ja! Herre Gud!
Man veed, hvordan en Mark, naar den er grøn, seer ud.
Den meest nysgierrige, hvor lidt han end har Stunder,
Sig dog i Tide kan see mæt paa det Vidunder;
Sligt Syn mit Øie kun en slet Erstatning gav
For Støvet, som endnu det følte Svien af.
Dog tys! jeg synes nu den muntre Lærke høre,
Hvad Øiet tabte før, det vinder nu mit Øre.
Men hvad! jeg hører jo blot Klang, og intet meer,
Som naar man regelløs slaaer paa et stemt Klaveer.
Omsonst Køer, Faar og Sviin, som brøle, bræge, grynte,
Med Accompagnement den smukke Sang vil pynte.
Den første Stemme er de andre Stemmer værd;
Men for Musikens Skyld jeg staaer ei længer her.
Endnu var Næstens Smag et Skin af Bifald værdig;
Endnu til nyt Forsøg min Fromhed fandtes færdig. –
Spring
O’er nearly all the earth spring’s glory folk proclaim.
A sorry proof of what’s so oft said in the main:
That taste in this our land (our globe is here my meaning),
If not the worst, to reckon good is idle dreaming.
Should I be given leave, this then is my intent,
To show the world’s high praise of spring is praise ill spent.
Pure Christian love, nought else, might see me entertaining
The urge to give my neighbour’s taste a little planing.
(To polish taste, I think, one tends to use a file;
But planing seems to me to better fit my style.)
Seldom do I believe what’s done so by too many;
And yet such endless songs exist, they’re two a penny,
Which praise sweet days in May, that I, on pleasure bent,
Would make for Flora’s meadow – and behold! I went.
It did not take me long the East Gate to be leaving,
Soon after which I stopped, so I might deeply breathe in
The balsam whose delights are often sweetly sung,
And rapturously I cry: You scent of flowers, come!
Oh Zephyr, on your silken wings it here be bringing!
At which I have Aeolus in my visage springing,
Who wroth, since I his cousin Zephyr so did greet,
Blows dust, whose scent to tell from balsam’s were no feat.
The west wind does not blow, my hurt soon let me know it,
As gently on the reader as upon the poet.
But though I little good from Flora now dared hope,
Judged by the welcome with which I now tried to cope,
My piety gave me strength to advance though gales were swishing,
My hope, with due attention, was to go on wishing
For beauty of some kind perhaps to come my way
That could the verdict on my neighbour’s taste allay.
And in this pious hope, the dust brushed off or shaken
That recently my vision quite from me had taken,
I now beheld green fields – they were – Good Lord, I mean:
You know what fields all tend to look like when they’re green.
The highly curious man, whose time is soon outdated,
Can at such wonders though quite soon his gaze have sated;
My eyes’ poor substitute for such a sight was blurred
Since they still smarted from the dust they had incurred.
But hark! And can that be the merry lark I’m hearing,
What eye has just now lost may yet my ear be cheering.
What’s this?! It’s only sound I hear in this bird’s trill,
As if a tuned piano’s being struck at will.
In vain would cows, pigs, sheep with roaring, grunting, bleating
With their accompaniment the fine song be completing.
And every voice could call the other’s voice its peer,
But for the music’s sake I stand no longer here.
Still was my neighbour’s taste worth some show of kind favour;
Still from one more attempt my piety did not waver. –
Lappedykkeren
Med Halsens fuldendte Bøjning,
Næbbets slanke Lanse
sigter den paa mig, svajer
og følger, som vilde den danse,
den mindste af mine Bevægelser,
yndefuld, vagtsom og fin —
men Kroppen blir passivt staaende
lodret, som hos en Pingvin.
Den flyver ikke, som ventet –
en Olieplet paa dens Bryst
er mygt blevet infiltreret,
har lammet dens Evne, Lyst
til at kalde, parres og yngle,
svømme, flyve og dykke,
jage, fange, fortære —
hele dens Legemslykke;
har ramt den som dødelig Sygdom:
en Draabe, en flydende Kim,
og den mineralske Spedalskhed
klistrer dens Fjer som Lim.
Nedskrevet til et Vraggods
blandt Brædder og Dunke paa Sandet,
ubrugelig, kan ikke fiske,
droppet af Luften og Vandet,
paa Vej ned mod Kredsløbets Hades:
de langsomt svindende Ting —
vogter den ufravendt paa mig,
mens jeg gaar om den i Ring.
Syge lille Guddom,
fortabt paa de ensomme Flader,
endnu har Naturen, den vældige,
aldrig taalt Svækkelsens Grader
fra Fuldkommenhed ned til pur
Udslettelse – ingen Nød,
som ikke af vilde Dyr fordrer
genvunden Magt eller Død.
Derfor vil jeg ikke prøve
forgæves at rense din Krop,
for du vilde værge din Dødsro
med vild Angst, tog jeg dig op,
som skulde du leve! Nej Maanen
i Nat er dig mere fortrolig
og Skyerne, Luften og dét,
som du afventer rolig, rolig.
Og du vil synke: din sidste
fuldkomne Bevægelse – ned
og ligge uformelig henstrakt
paa dette tilfældige Sted.
The grebe
With the perfect curve of the neck,
the beak’s slender lance
it points at me, swaying
and follows, as if it would dance,
the smallest of my movements,
elegant, fine and alert –
but its body is that of a penguin,
held upright, passive, inert.
It does not fly as expected –
on its breast a stain of oil
has gently infiltrated,
has sapped its power and spoilt
its desire to call, to mate and breed,
to swim, to fly and dive,
to hunt, to catch, devour –
its joy at being alive;
has struck like a deadly disease:
a drop, a germ that’s afloat,
and the mineral leprosy
glues feathers to sticky coat.
Reduced to just jetsam
midst planks and cans in the sand,
no use at all, unable to fish
dropped by water, air and land,
on its way down to life-cycle’s Hades:
each slowly dwindling thing –
it watches my moves intently
as around it I walk in a ring.
Sick little deity,
lost on the lonesome expanses,
nature, the mighty, has never as yet
brooked impairment’s nuances
from perfection down to pure
obliteration; – no plight
that from wild beasts does not dictate
reasserted power or death outright.
Which is why I will not try in vain
to clean your body of slick,
for you would defend your last rest
with wild fear, were I to pick
you up as if you should live. No,
tonight’s moon’s a more intimate friend
and the clouds, the sky and what
you so calmly await as your end.
And you will sink down: your last
perfect movement – leaving no trace,
lie outstretched a shapeless form
in this fortuitous place.
