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| Rigmor Voigt (1806-83) |
To brune Øjne
To brune Øjne jeg nylig saa,
i dem mit Hjem og min Verden laa.
Der flammed’ Snillet og Barnets Fred;
jeg glemmer dem aldrig i Evighed!
Two brown eyes
I saw two brown eyes the other day,
In them my home and my world both lay.
A genius blazed, childlike peace they wore;
I’ll never forget them for evermore!
Hun er saa hviid, min hjærtenskjær
Hun er saa hvid, min Hjertenskjær
Et mere Hvidt ei findes der;
Jeg elsker hende! – ei det skeer,
At jeg kan elske hende meer!
Nu er hun død, min Hjertenskjær,
Langt mere hvid, hun smiler der.
Nu er hun død, o Hjerte-Gru!
Og meer jeg elsker hende nu! —
She is so white, my heart’s most dear
She is so white, my heart’s most dear,
One whiter one will not find here;
I love her! May my thoughts dismiss
that I can love her more than this!
Now she is dead, my heart’s most dear,
Far whiter is her smile I fear!
Now she is dead, oh horror! how
Much more it is I love her now! —
The Rose
You smile at me from your leaves' green seclusion,
As did the angel at the world’s first pair,
In morning dew the blooms bathe in profusion,
On your blooms though but one drop glistens there.
Is it a single tear the elf wept, sighing
Since you’re so lovely yet live but a while?
With youthful fulness, leaves half-closed, complying,
You stand and sweetly dream on earth’s fair isle.
What are you dreaming? Pain there has no meaning,
Your life is love, your soul a scent so rare,
A blessed poet’s heart is your whole being,
Which heaven sees where others see but air.
Martsviolerne
Sig Himlen hvælver saa reen og klar,
Iisblomster fryse paa Rudens Glar.
I Solens Flamme saa smukt de staae,
En Yngling kommer og seer derpaa.
Men som han paa de Blomster seer,
To Pige-Øine derude leer.
Saa skjønne Blomster han aldrig saae,
To Martsvioler saa smukke blaae.
Iisblomsten smelter ved Kindens Brand,
— Vor Herre hjelpe den unge Mand!
The March violets
The vaulted sky’s pure and clear again
Ice flowers of frost deck the window pane.
In flaming sun they spread out so fair
A young man comes and inspects them there.
But as he gazes at each fine flower
A girl’s two smiling eyes him devour.
He’s never seen flowers of such deep hue,
Two fine March violets of perfect blue.
The ice flowers melt from his cheeks aglow,
– May God the poor man some mercy show!
Kommer aldrig igjen
Alt farer hen som Vinden,
Her er ei blivende Sted.
Snart svinder Rosen paa Kinden,
Smilet og – Taarerne med!
Hvorfor være bedrøvet?
Hen farer Sorg og Fortræd;
Alt farer hen som Løvet,
Tiden og Mennesket med!
Alt er Forsvinden – Forsvinden,
Ungdom, dit Haab og din Ven.
Alt farer hen som Vinden
Og kommer aldrig igjen!
Never comes back again
All like the wind is fleeting,
No place will always endure
Cheeks’ rosy hue starts receding,
Smiles and tears lessen – for sure!
Why find sadness defeating?
Sorrow and harm won’t endure;
All like the leaves is fleeting
Time and mankind too – for sure!
All is retreating – retreating
Youth, every hope, every friend.
All like the wind is fleeting
And never comes back again!
SNEGLE-SPYT
Den vaade, sorte Snegl ved Rosen sad
og ærgred sig; ham Godtfolks Tale stødte:
De kalde Rosen smuk, fy, jeg maa spytte!
Nu har jeg sat mit Mærke paa dens Blad.
SNAIL SPIT
Beside the rose the snail sat, wet and dark
and highly vexed; folk’s praise offended it:
They call the rose most fair – that makes me spit!
On its green leaf I now have left my mark.
A masterpiece of compression! This has reduced the fairy tale 'The Snail and the Rosebush' to four lines.
Naar Alnaturen slumrer
Og Skoven staaer Vinterdragt
Naar Sneen fyger
Og hurtig stryger
Af Marken hen
Naar Boreas med sine Storme
Besøger Sjølunds skjønne Egne
Og De en Fugleskræmme skuer
Der ensom staaer paa nøgen Mark,
Da tænk paa mig!
Slagelse, den 4 Januari 1823
When all of Nature slumbers
And woods are in winter dress
When snow starts drifting
And swiftly sifting
Across the fields
When Boreas with its chill winds
Rakes over Sealand’s lovely regions
And you discern a distant scarecrow
That stands alone in some bare field,
Then think of me!
Slagelse, 4th January 1823
OMHOOG ZIEN NAAR DE ZON DE WATERROZEN
Omhoog zien naar de zon de waterrozen,
kinderlijk, alsof ’t Rafaëls englen waren;
grauw slib en wijde scheemringen bewaren,
die hier de dood stilde tot smartelozen.
Opzuigt de bliksemstorm het meer tot hozen:
dan staan in blauw doorschijnende pilaren
de doden: hun zwarte ogengaten staren
boven hun grijns om macabre apotheozen.
Naar Brahmans zonlicht bloeien mijn gedachten;
scheemringen, koel, van zielegronden brachten
rust aan mijn smart om wensen, lang gebroken:
vlaag van herinn’ring woelt uit grauw vergeten
’t verleden op bij flits van plotsling weten –
’t herrijst, ’t herrijst; mijn dode wensen spoken.
SUNWARD THE WATER-LILIES TURN THEIR EYES
Sunward the water-lilies turn their eyes,
childlike, like angels done by Raphaël;
in grey sludge and wide dusks retained, there dwell
those for whom death did painlessness devise.
And should a lightning storm’s induced osmosis
suck up the lake, the dead will all stand there
in clear blue columns: empty orbits stare
above their grin at grim apotheosis.
To Brahman’s sunlight my thoughts strive to flower;
dusks that rose coolly from the soul’s deep bower
made pain at broken wishes cease to taunt me:
from limbo’s grey a gust of memory
whirls up the past when in a flash I see –
they resurrect; dead wishes come to haunt me.
Dødsøieblikket
Wenn die unbekannte Hand den letzten Pfeil an das Haupt des Menschen sendet, so bückt er vorher das Haupt, und der Pfeil hebt bloß die Dornenkrone von Seinen Wunden ab.
Jean Paul. (Hesperus, 1795)
Hvad er det dog, som lyser? Det luttres for min Sands;
Jeg føler Øiet briste i denne Straaleglands.
Mit Hoved mat sig bøier for Kraften i min Aand,
Og mildt om Hjertet løsne sig alle snevre Baand.
I Døden faae vi Vinger, det troe vi jo som Smaa,
Ja Aanden den faaer Vinger, som Tankens overgaae!
I Stjernernes Systemer, i Midet paa vor Jord,
Jeg seer en Guddoms Fylde hvortil jeg ei har Ord.
En Evighed jeg skuer i Alt, selv i mit Bryst,
Og alle Taager synke bag Jordens kjendte Kyst.
I mine Brødres Hjerter nu først jeg læser ret,
Vel er’ vi alle Svage, men Ingen ganske slet.
O kunde vi herneden saa klart i Andre see,
Som i vort eget Indre, vi gjorde dem ei Vee.
I hver jeg mig gjenkjender, i Store, som i Smaa,
O, skal vi da i Døden hinanden først forstaae?
Jeg er saa let, saa salig, saa luttret i min Tro,
Jeg føler Kamp og Stræben, og dog en himmelsk Ro!
The moment of death
When the unknown hand shoots the last arrow at the person’s head, he bends his head forwards, and the arrow only lifts the crown of thorns off his wounds.
Jean Paul
What is it shines so strongly? My mind is purified;
I feel my eyes are breaking now its strong rays preside.
My weary head bends forwards caught by my spirit’s might
And gently my heart loosens the bonds that hold it tight.
In death we all gain wings and this children know full well,
The spirit gains wings also, which those of thought excel!
In stellar constellations, in dust mites here on earth,
I see divine abundance for which I have no words.
In all things gaze for ages, in my own breast the most,
And all mists sink down slowly behind earth’s well-known coast.
The hearts of fellow humans first now come into sight,
For though we all are weaklings, no one is bad outright.
Oh could we see in in others as clearly as we view
Our inner selves, our blind urge to hurt them we’d subdue.
I see myself in others, in those both great and small,
Oh, must death first take place ere we understand it all?
I am so light, by faith have been purified and blessed,
Prepared to fight and struggle, though full of heav’nly rest!
To see a German translation of this poem, go to here.
Det døende Barn
Moder, jeg er træt, nu vil jeg sove,
Lad mig ved Dit Hjerte slumre ind;
Græd dog ei, det maa Du først mig love,
Thi Din Taare brænder paa din Kind.
Her er koldt og ude Stormen truer,
Men i Drømme, der er Alt saa smukt,
Og de søde Englebørn jeg skuer,
Naar jeg har det trætte Øie lukt.
Moder, seer Du Englen ved min Side?
Hører Du den dejlige Musik?
Se han har to Vinger smukke hvide,
Dem han sikkert at vor Herre fik.
Grønt og Gult og Rødt for Øiet svæver,
Det er Blomster Engelen udstrøer!
Faar jeg ogsaa Vinger mens jeg lever,
Eller, Moder, faaer jeg naar jeg døer?
Hvorfor trykker saa Du mine Hænder?
Hvorfor lægger Du din Kind til min?
Den er vaad og dog som Ild den brænder,
Moder, jeg vil altid være Din!
Men saa maa Du ikke længer sukke,
Græder du, saa græder jeg med Dig,
O, jeg er saa træt! – maa Øiet lukke –
- Moder - see! nu kysser Englen mig!
The Dying Child
Mother, I am tired, I would be sleeping,
Close up to your heart let me expire;
Do not weep, be first this promise keeping,
Since your tears will course your cheeks like fire.
Here it’s cold, outside the storm is brewing,
Beauty though in dreams reigns unopposed,
And sweet angel children I’ll be viewing
When my tired eyes I at last have closed.
Mother, can you see the angel by me?
Can you hear the lovely music play?
Look, two wondrous white wings spread out widely ,
Only God provides such fine array .
Yellows, greens and reds seem to be snowing,
Flowers the angel strews before my eye!
Will while I’m still living wings start growing,
Or first, mother, when I come to die?
Why is it you press my hands so gently?
Why is it you lay your cheek to mine?
Though it’s moist it seems to burn intensely,
Mother, you for me need never pine!
So let not with sighs your heart be brimming,
I’ll weep too if you weep constantly,
Oh, I am so tired! – my eyes are dimming –
– Mother – look! the angel’s kissing me!
