Walther von der Vogelweide (c.1170-c.1230): 'Under der linden'

  

Under der linden

an der heide,

dâ unser zweier bette was,

dâ mugt ir vinden

schône beide

gebrochen bluomen unde gras.

vor dem walde in einem tal -

tandaradei!

schône sanc die nachtigal.

 

Ich kam gegangen

zuo der ouwe,

dô was mîn friedel komen ê.

da wart ich enpfangen

hêre frouwe,

daz ich bin sælic iemer mê.

kuster mich? wol tûsenstunt!

tandaradei!

seht, wie rôt mir ist der munt.

 

Dô het er gemachet

also riche

von bluomen eine bettestat.

des wird noch gelachet

innecliche,

kumt iemen an daz selbe pfat.

bî den rôsen er wol mac -

tandaradei!

merken, wâ mirz houbet lac.

 

Daz er bî mir læge,

wessez iemen,

– nu enwelle got – sô schamt ich mich.

wes er mit mir pflæge,

niemer niemen

bevinde daz wan er unt ich

und ein kleinez vogellîn!

tandaradei!

daz mag wol getriuwe sîn.

 

 

Under the lime tree,

heath-surrounded,

where such a blissful bed was ours,

you will in time see,

your eyes grounded,

much flattened grass as well as flowers.

near the wood and in a dale

tantanteray!

sweetly sang the nightingale

 

I came out walking

now converging

on where my love was gone before.

received such sweet talking,

blessed virgin,

that I am joyful ever more.

did he kiss me? thousandfold!

tantanteray!

see, my lips are red as gold.

 

To where he had crafted

out of flowers 

the finest bed on which to lie.

this is still laughed at 

at all hours,

should someone near this place pass by.

from the roses he can say –

tantanteray!

just where my fair head once lay.

 

Should someone discover

with me he lay

- may God forbid – ashamed I’d be.

that done by my lover

must secret stay 

for everyone save him and me

and a tiny little bird!

tantanteray!

trusted not to say a word.

J.A. Dèr Mouw: 'Spitsbogend zetten kerkhofpopulieren...'

Spitsbogend zetten kerkhofpopulieren

op zilvren voorjaarslucht hun diagrammen:

als ordinaten staan loodrecht de stammen,

waarom de lijnenfantazieën zwieren.

 

Ze staan als geel getong van ijle vlammen:

’t is of dood-zelf het Pinksterfeest wou vieren;

ze staan als lang orkest van reuz’ge lieren:

’t is of dood preludeerde in vlucht van gammen;

 

ze staan als sprok’ge groei van gouden veren,

uit dons van groen rijzend de grijze schachten:

 

’t is of, Phoenix, met nieuw ontvlamde krachten

het leven uit de dood terug wou keren.

 

Op eens – geruis, geruis. – Ik sta te wachten,

of ’t kerkhof vliegen gaat naar zonnesferen.

 

 

The churchyard poplars, gothic-arching, form

spring diagrams against the silver sky:

as ordinates the trunks, erect, stand high

and round them lines of fantasies all swarm.

 

They stand like yellow tongues of thin flame-trails:

it’s as if death itself’s observing Whitsun;

they stand, a giant-lyre orchestra now risen:

as if death were preluding flights of scales;

 

they stand like sheerest gauze of golden feathers

their green-down shafts of grey far upwards soar:

 

it’s as if Phoenix, flaring strength rewon,

would have life to return from death once more.

 

All at once – rustling – and I wonder whether

the churchyard’s flying off to realms of sun.

 

 

 

Ida Gerhardt: 'Georgica'

 

 

Georgica

 

Labor improbus

 

Ik ben een tuinman, niets dan dat,

met aarde en met mest bespat;

ik buig mij neer, ik richt mij op,

ik klem de schoffel en de schop.

 

Ik wied, ik volg mijn diepste wet

als ik de naakte zaailing zet;

ik richt mij op, ik buig mij neer.

En tuinman ben ik en niets meer.

 

Ga ik met donker stram naar huis,

de pijn spaart schouderblad noch kruis.

Ik waak nog als ik rusten mag.

Mijn land, mijn land: het is kort dag.

 

Delft straks uw spa voor mij de wig,

vergeet waar ik geborgen lig.

Voorbij mijn moeite, nood en pijn

moet er een tuin van sterren zijn.

 

 

Georgica

 

Labor improbus

 

I am a gardener, nothing more,

with earth and muck bespattered sore;

I stretch up tall, I bend down low

I tightly clasp my spade and hoe.

 

I weed, observe my deepest law

when planting seedlings frail and raw:

I bend down low, I stretch up tall.

A gardener am I, that is all.

 

I go home stiffly in the shade,

pain racks both groin and shoulder blade.

I still keep watch when rest I may.

My land, my land: brief is the day.

 

Prepare for me a wedge of ground,

forget where I lie safe and sound.

Past trouble, need and pain must be 

a garden strewn with stars for me.

 

Nils Ferlin: 'Stjärnorna kvittar det lika'

 

 

Stjärnorna kvittar det lika

 

Man kan inte räkna dem alla

sägner och sånt man hör...

Det sägs att en stjärna ska falla

var gång när en människa dör.

 

Lyhörd i nätternas kyla

och vindarnas frusna musik

hundarna hörde jag yla,

som hundarna yla för lik,

 

änkorna hörde jag skrika

och barnen snyfta för bröd –

Stjärnorna kvittar det lika

om någon är född eller död.

 

 

Stars do not care even mildly

 

Don’t count on six out of seven,

legends and such may be lies...

It’s said that a star falls from heaven

each time here on earth someone dies.

 

Clearly through nights’ coldness straying

with winds’ music frozen anew

dogs in the dark I heard baying,

as dogs around corpses can do,

 

widows I heard wailing wildly

and children sobbing for bread –

Stars do not care even mildly

if someone is born or is dead.

 

 

Lars Gustafsson: 'Stjärnhimmel i mars, sedd från Isaac Newton's rum i Trinity College, Cambridge'

 

Stjärnhimmel i mars, sedd från Isaac Newton’s rum

i Trinity College, Cambridge

 

Stjärnorna framträder, en efter en,

så som de alltid har varit.

Outtömlig sorlar gårdens springbrunn.

Dagg faller i mjuka gräset,

tills varje droppe är ett teleskop.

Lycka över allt som rör sig i vårnatten,

vind från avlägsna fält, rakt genom

detta stora ur som vi bebor,

för ännu några år av tid.

Och alla himlens stjärnor roterar outsägliga

inne i sin lycka.

 

 

Starry sky in March, seen from Isaac Newton’s room

in Trinity College Cambridge

 

The stars come out, one by one,

just as they always have been.

Inexhaustible the quad’s fountain plashes.

Dew falls in the soft grass,

until each drop is a telescope.

Joy over all that moves in the spring night,

wind from distant fields, straight through

this great clock which we inhabit

for yet a few more years of time.

And all of heaven’s spheres rotate ineffable

within their joy.

 

Hjalmar Gullberg: 'Stjärnfiskaren'

 

STJÄRNFISKAREN

 

Jag fiskar åt min älskade, utsträckt på balkongen,

drivande med strömmen i skymningshavet,

hennes hår kring min panna är mitt doftande nät.

Flämtande röda dyker redan de första

stjärnornas evighetsfiskar ur svindlande djup…

Jag seglar med min älskades kyss på pannan,

mitt nät är tungt av silverblänkande stim.

 

 

THE STARFISHER

 

I fish for my beloved, outstretched on the balcony,

drifting with the current in the twilight sea,

her hair around my forehead is my scented net.

Flickering red the first eternity-fish of the stars

are already plunging from dizzying depths…

I sail with my beloved’s kiss on my forehead

my net is heavy with silver-glittering shoals.

Jeppe Aakjær: 'Nu er dagen fuld af sang'

 

Nu er dagen fuld af sang,

 

Nu er dagen fuld af sang,

og nu er viben kommen,

bekkasinen natten lang

håndterer elskovstrommen.

Plukke, plukke dugget strå,

plukke, plukke siv ved å,

plukke, plukke blomster.

 

Engen er nu gyldengul

af tunge kabbelejer,

søndenvinden byder op,

og dueurten nejer.

Plukke, plukke dugget strå,

plukke, plukke siv ved å,

plukke, plukke blomster.

 

Dammen ligger dagen ud

med brudelys i hænde,

rækker højt de ranke skud,

at solen må dem tænde.

Plukke, plukke dugget strå,

plukke, plukke siv ved å,

plukke, plukke blomster.

 

Nu vil mø med silkestik

på brudelinet sømme.

Den, som ingen bejler fik,

hun ta'r sig én i drømme.

Plukke, plukke dugget strå,

plukke, plukke siv ved å,

plukke, plukke blomster.

 

Ræk mig en forglemmigej

og sidst en krusemynte,

sådan slutter vi vor leg

så glad, som den begyndte.

Plukke, plukke dugget strå,

plukke, plukke siv ved å,

plukke, plukke blomster.

 

 

Now the day is full of song

 

Now the day is full of song

and now the curlew’s calling,

hear the snipe that all night long 

its love-drum beats till morning.

Gather, gather grass with dew,

gather, gather reeds anew,

gather, gather flowers.

 

Marigolds with heavy stance

have formed a golden meadow,

when the south wind calls a dance

the willow herb will follow.

Gather, gather grass with dew,

gather, gather reeds anew,

gather, gather flowers.

 

And the pond, till day is late,

has flowering rush to light it,

holds up high each stem so straight

to let the sun ignite it.

Gather, gather grass with dew,

gather, gather reeds anew,

gather, gather flowers.

 

Now young maids with stitches fine

their wedding gowns are seaming.

She who for a groom must pine

will find hers when she’s dreaming.

Gather, gather grass with dew, 

gather, gather reeds anew,

gather, gather flowers.

 

Hand me a forgetmenot

and mint ere our game’s over,

then we will, as like as not,

end up as if in clover.

Gather, gather grass with dew,

gather, gather reeds anew,

gather, gather flowers.

 

 

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.

 

The Danish composer Niels W. Gade wrote Fünf Gesänge (1846) to music by the German poets Emanuel Geibel and Ludwig Tieck. This one by Tieck is No. IV.

 

 

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.

Olav Aukrust (1883-1929): 'Ei naki grein'

 

Ei naki grein

 

Ei naki grein med blodraud bær

og ei som bladrik blømer,

på kvar sin måte fagre er

for den som kjærleg dømer.

 

Den eine gjev ein ange, ho,

der ljuv ho ligg og blømer.

Den andre gjev sitt hjarteblod

når lauv og haustvind rømer.

 

Den eine skin og strålar, ho,

den andre brenn og mognar

og gjev til sist sitt hjarteblod;

der tung av bær ho bognar.

 

                                         *

 

Eg gav deg den med blomar på.

Eg gjev deg den med bæri.

Kven rikast er vil du få sjå

litt lenger fram på ferdi.

 

 

A naked branch

 

A naked branch with berries red

and one that’s in full blossom,

are lovely both, it can be said,

to eyes that kindly gloss them.

 

The one’s sweet scent comes from the bud,

as blossoming it lies there.

The other gives its own life’s blood

in autumn winds, and dies there.

 

The one is capped with radiant hood,

the other ripens blazing,

and lastly gives its own life’s blood

with berries heavy laden.

 

                                         *

 

I gave you that with blossoms on.

I give you that with berries.

And you will surely see anon

which should the more be cherished.