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?

Lars Gustafsson: 'Etyder' (V)

 

 

                                                                 V.

 

Epilogue for those who are perplexed

 

Come tired old body

come tired soul!

The lantern’s faint gleam leads us

on from room to room.

But of the reality that we found

this staircase which we see

is no more than a negligible part.

 

 

                                                                                       oOo

 

Lars Gustafsson: 'Etyder' (IV)

 

                                                              IV.

 

At a poet’s grave

He drank darkness

Darkness and silence

From the silence the faint clicking

of the death-watch could be heard

He breathed calmly

And finally saw himself freed

from the torment of being someone else

And finally free,

free to be no one and everyone

 

 

Maestro A. said

 

When you have discovered

that the organ’s deep pedal point

you sense

furthest down there

in the cellar vault of

your own existence 

is not the keynote of fear

but is affinity

with every string

that vibrates –

do not attempt to make

wisdom out of this insight

For then it disappears.

The great white song

 

For a moment the world was whole

And this freedom existed

 

Like a lone bird above the roofs

I don’t know where

 

I have been away a long time now

The flowers in the window are drooping

 

But one of them lives on

more resplendent than ever

 

The one you planted in my heart

You water it forever with your song