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Moesta et errabunda
Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)
Dis-moi ton coeur parfois s'envole-t-il, Agathe,
Loin du noir océan de l'immonde cité
Vers un autre océan où la splendeur éclate,
Bleu, clair, profond, ainsi que la virginité?
Dis-moi, ton coeur parfois s'envole-t-il, Agathe?
La mer la vaste mer, console nos labeurs!
Quel démon a doté la mer, rauque chanteuse
Qu'accompagne l'immense orgue des vents grondeurs,
De cette fonction sublime de berceuse?
La mer, la vaste mer, console nos labeurs!
Emporte-moi wagon! enlève-moi, frégate!
Loin! loin! ici la boue est faite de nos pleurs!
— Est-il vrai que parfois le triste coeur d'Agathe
Dise: Loin des remords, des crimes, des douleurs,
Emporte-moi, wagon, enlève-moi, frégate?
Comme vous êtes loin, paradis parfumé,
Où sous un clair azur tout n'est qu'amour et joie,
Où tout ce que l'on aime est digne d'être aimé,
Où dans la volupté pure le coeur se noie!
Comme vous êtes loin, paradis parfumé!
Mais le vert paradis des amours enfantines,
Les courses, les chansons, les baisers, les bouquets,
Les violons vibrant derrière les collines,
Avec les brocs de vin, le soir, dans les bosquets,
— Mais le vert paradis des amours enfantines,
L'innocent paradis, plein de plaisirs furtifs,
Est-il déjà plus loin que l'Inde et que la Chine?
Peut-on le rappeler avec des cris plaintifs,
Et l'animer encor d'une voix argentine,
L'innocent paradis plein de plaisirs furtifs?
Moesta et errabunda
Charles Baudelaire
Tell me, Agatha, does your heart sometimes soar,
Away from the ocean black of the blighted city,
Toward another ocean where splendor bursts forth,
As blue and bright and deep as virginity?
Tell me, Agatha, does your heart sometimes soar?
The sea, the wide-reaching sea, she eases our labors!
What demon conferred on the sea, hoarse singer,
Joined by the winds that immense organ roars,
This awesome burden of comfort-bringer?
The sea, the wide-reaching sea, she eases our labors!
Capture me, train, enrapture me, ship, away!
Far, far away! Mud forms from our tears here below!
—Does Agatha's sad heart sometimes truly say:
Far from remorse, malfeasance and woe,
Capture me, train, enrapture me, ship, away!
How distant you are, paradise scented sweet,
Where love and joy abound under bright blue skies,
Where all that one loves is worthy to be
Where the heart drowns itself in pure delight!
How distant you are, paradise scented sweet!
But the green paradise of childhood devotions,
The races, the songs, the kisses, the nosegay buds,
The violins behind the hills in humming motion,
With jugs of wine among the evening shrubs,
—But the green paradise of childhood devotions.
The chaste paradise full of furtive delights,
Is it more distant already than India and China?
May one recall it with plaintive cries,
Revive it with a silvery voice's pining,
The chaste paradise full of furtive delights?
(Transl. M. Holm)
~ . ~
Parting
Philip Booth (1925- )
. . . already I have
in mind the whole city,
not merely your building,
become a crater, a circle
surrounding nothing—
and cast out from it, from
the explosion, a shadow
lengthened into the actual
desert, time zones beyond
today's sunrise, where I
am already flying out
toward you, down to
that shadow's thin end,
down the map to where
you, not yet gone, have already
taken me with you, . . .
~ . ~
Desertion
Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)
So light we were, so right we were, so fair faith shone,
And the way was laid so certainly, that, when I'd gone,
What dumb thing looked up at you? Was it something heard,
Or a sudden cry, that meekly and without a word
You broke the faith, and strangely, weakly, slipped apart.
You gave in — you, the proud of heart, unbowed of heart!
Was this, friend, the end of all that we could do?
And have you found the best for you, the rest for you?
Did you learn so suddenly (and I not by!)
Some whispered story, that stole the glory from the sky,
And ended all the splendid dream, and made you go
So dully from the fight we know, the light we know?
O faithless! the faith remains, and I must pass
Gay down the way, and on alone. Under the grass
You wait; the breeze moves in the trees, and stirs, and calls,
And covers you with white petals, with light petals.
There it shall crumble, frail and fair, under the sun,
O little heart, your brittle heart; till day be done,
And the shadows gather, falling light, and, white with dew,
Whisper, and weep; and creep to you. Good sleep to you!
(1915)
~ . ~
Go From Me
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
VI
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life, I shall command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forbore—
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two.
(Sonnets from the Portuguese, 1850)
~ . ~
Parting at Morning
Robert Browning (1812-1889)
Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,
And the sun looked over the mountain's rim:
And straight was a path of gold for him,
And the need of a world of men for me.
(1845)
~ . ~
Farewell
John Clare (1793-1864)
Farewell to the bushy clump close to the river
And the flags where the butter-bump hides in forever;
Farewell to the weedy nook, hemmed in by waters;
Farewell to the miller's brook and his three bonny daughters;
Farewell to them all while in prison I lie—
In the prison a thrall sees naught but the sky. . . .
~ . ~
This Lime-Tree Bower, My Prison
Samuel Coleridge (1772-1834)
Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,
This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost
Beauties and feelings, such as would have been
Most sweet to my remembrance even when age
Had dimm'd mine eyes to blindness! . . .
~ . ~
it may not always be so
e. e. cummings (1894-1962)
it may not always be so; and i say
that if your lips, which i have loved, should touch
another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart, as mine in time not far away;
if on another's face your sweet hair lay
in such a silence as i know, or such
great writhing words as, uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;
if this should be, i say if this should be--
you of my heart, send me a little word;
that i may go unto him, and take his hands,
saying, Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face, and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.
~ . ~
My life closed twice
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
My life closed twice before its close—
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me
So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
~ . ~
Farewell Ungrateful Traitor
John Dryden (1631-1700)
Farewell ungrateful traitor,
Farewell my perjured swain,
Let never injured creature
Believe a man again.
The pleasure of possessing
Surpasses all expressing,
But 'tis too short a blessing,
And love too long a pain.
'Tis easy to deceive us
In pity of your pain,
But when we love you leave us
To rail at you in vain.
Before we have descried it,
There is no bliss beside it,
But she that once has tried it
Will never love again.
The passion you pretended
Was only to obtain,
But when the charm is ended
The charmer you disdain.
Your love by ours we measure
Till we have lost our treasure,
But dying is a pleasure,
When living is a pain.
~ . ~
La Figlia che Piange
T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
O quam te memorem virgo . . .
Stand on the highest pavement of the stair—
Lean on a garden urn—
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair—
Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise—
Fling them to the ground and turn
With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.
So I would have had him leave,
So I would have had her stand and grieve,
So he would have left
As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,
As the mind deserts the body it has used.
I should find
Some way incomparably light and deft,
Some way we both should understand,
Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.
She turned away, but with the autumn weather
Compelled my imagination many days,
Many days and many hours:
Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
And I wonder how they should have been together!
I should have lost a gesture and a pose.
Sometimes these cogitations still amaze
The troubled midnight and the noon's repose.
(1917)
~ . ~
Abschied
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832)
Zu lieblich ist's, ein Wort zu brechen,
Zu schwer die wohlerkannte Pflicht,
Und leider kann man nichts versprechen,
Was unserm Herzen widerspricht.
Du übst die alten Zauberlieder,
Du lockst ihn, der kaum ruhig war,
Zum Schaukelkahn der süßen Torheit wieder,
Erneust, verdoppeltst die Gefahr.
Was suchst du mir dich zu verstecken?
Sei offen, flieh' nicht meinem Blick!
Früh oder spät mußt' ich's entdecken,
Und hier hast du dein Wort zurück.
Was ich gesollt, hab' ich vollendet;
Durch mich sei dir von nun an nichts verwehrt;
Allein, verzeih' dem Freund, der sich nun von dir wendet
Und still in sich zurücke kehrt.
(1797)
~ . ~
Farewell
Goethe
Too appealing to break one's word,
Too trying the honored custom;
Pity, but one can speak no promise
That contradicts our heart.
You practice the old magic airs,
Again, you entice him, who was scarcely calm,
Onto the rocking skiff of sweet distraction,
Renew, by twice, the peril.
Why do you try to hide from me?
Be candid. Do not avoid my glance!
Early or late I had to find it out,
And here's that word of yours returned.
I have finished what I should;
I will hinder you no more;
Only, excuse the friend who shuns you now
And shrinks quietly into himself.
(Transl. M Holm)
~ . ~
Farewell
Goethe
To break one's word is pleasure-fraught,
To do one's duty gives a smart;
While man, alas! will promise nought,
That is repugnant to his heart.
Using some magic strains of yore,
Thou lurest him, when scarcely calm,
On to sweet folly's fragile bark once more,
Renewing, doubling chance of harm.
Why seek to hide thyself from me?
Fly not my sight—be open then!
Known late or early it must be,
And here thou hast thy word again.
My duty is fulfill'd to-day,
No longer will I guard thee from surprise;
But, oh, forgive the friend who from thee turns away,
And to himself for refuge flies!
(Transl. Edgar Alfred Bowring)
~ . ~
Abschied
Heinrich Heine (1797-1856)
Wie schienen die Sternlein so hell,
So hell herab von der Himmelshöh'.
Zwei Liebende standen auf der Schwell',
Ach, Hand in Hand: "Ade!"
Die Blümlein weinten auf Flur und Steg,
Sie fühlten der Liebenden Weh,
Die standen traurig am Scheideweg,
Ach, Herz an Herz: "Ade!"
Die Lüfte durchrauschen die Waldesruh',
Aus dem Tal und von der Höh'
Wehn zwei weiße Tücher einander zu:
"Ade, ade, ade!"
Farewell
Heine
How brightly shone the starlets,
So brightly from heaven's reach.
Two lovers stood on the doorstep,
Oh, hand in hand: "Farewell!"
On meadow and path, the flowers wept,
Keen to the lovers' ache,
Who sadly stood at the cleft of ways
Oh, heart to heart: "Farewell!"
Breezes rustle the forest peace.
Valley to height, two white hand-
kerchiefs flutter each to each:
"Farewell, farewell, farewell!"
(Transl. M Holm)
~ . ~
Eve of St. Agnes
John Keats (1795-1821)
(excerpt)
. . . 'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:
"This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!"
'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:
"No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.—
Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?
I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;—
A dove forlorn and lost with sick unprunèd wing."
"My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dyed?
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest
After so many hours of toil and quest,
A famish'd pilgrim,—sav'd by miracle.
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.
"Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land,
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:
Arise—arise! the morning is at hand;—
The bloated wassaillers will never heed:—
Let us away, my love, with happy speed;
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,—
Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,
For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee."
She hurried at his words, beset with fears,
For there were sleeping dragons all around,
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears—
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.—
In all the house was heard no human sound.
A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door;
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,
Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar;
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.
They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;
Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,
With a huge empty flaggon by his side:
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:—
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;—
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.
And they are gone: aye, ages long ago
These lovers fled away into the storm.
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,
Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old
Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.
~ . ~
Ode to a Nightingale
John Keats
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. . . .
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. . . .
~ . ~
Farewell and Adieu
Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)
Farewell and adieu to you, Harwich Ladies,
Farewell and adieu to you, ladies ashore!
For we've received orders to work to the eastward
Where we hope in a short time to strafe 'em some more. . . .
The first thing we did was to dock in a minefield,
Which isn't a place where repairs should be done;. . . .
The next thing we did, we rose under a Zeppelin,
With his shiny big belly half blocking the sky.
But what in the—Heavens can you do with six-pounders?
So we fired what we had and we bade him good-bye.
Farewell and adieu, etc.
(1914-18)
[Larkin]
~ . ~
The Ship of Death
D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930)
I
Now it is autumn and the falling fruit
and the long journey towards oblivion.
The apples falling like great drops of dew
to bruise themselves an exit from themselves.
And it is time to go, to bid farewell
to one's own self, and find an exit
from the fallen self. . . .
VII
We are dying, we are dying, so all we can do
is now to be willing to die, and to build the ship
of death to carry the soul on the longest journey.
A little ship, with oars and food
and little dishes, and all accoutrements
fitting and ready for the departing soul. . . .
IX
And yet out of eternity a thread
separates itself on the blackness,
a horizontal thread
that fumes a little with pallor upon the dark. . . .
Wait, wait! even so, a flush of yellow
and strangely, O chilled wan soul, a flush of rose.
A flush of rose, and the whole thing starts again.
X
The flood subsides, and the body, like a worn sea-shell
emerges strange and lovely.
And the little ship wings home, faltering and lapsing
on the pink flood,
and the frail soul steps out, into the house again
filling the heart with peace.
Swings the heart renewed with peace
even of oblivion.
Oh build your ship of death. Oh build it!
for you will need it.
For the voyage of oblivion awaits you.
~ . ~
Fare Well
Federico García Lorca (1898-1936)
If I die,
leave the balcony open.
The little boy is eating oranges.
(From my balcony I can see him.)
The reaper is harvesting the wheat.
(From my balcony I can hear him.)
If I die,
leave the balcony open!
~ . ~
Tristia
Osip Mandelstam (1891-1938)
I have studied the Science of departures,
in night's sorrows, when a woman's hair falls down.
The oxen chew, there's the waiting, pure,
in the last hours of vigil in the town,
and I reverence night's ritual cock-crowing,
when reddened eyes lift sorrow's load and choose
to stare at distance, and a woman's crying
is mingled with the singing of the Muse.
Who knows, when the word 'departure' is spoken
what kind of separation is at hand,
or of what that cock-crow is a token,
when a fire on the Acropolis lights the ground,
and why at the dawning of a new life,
when the ox chews lazily in its stall,
the cock, the herald of the new life,
flaps his wings on the city wall?
I like the monotony of spinning,
the shuttle moves to and fro,
the spindle hums. Look, barefoot Delia's running
to meet you, like swansdown on the road!
How threadbare the language of joy's game,
how meagre the foundation of our life!
Everything was, and is repeated again:
it's the flash of recognition brings delight.
So be it: on a dish of clean earthenware,
like a flattened squirrel's pelt, a shape,
forms a small, transparent figure, where
a girl's face bends to gaze at the wax's fate.
Not for us to prophesy, Erebus, Brother of Night:
Wax is for women: Bronze is for men.
Our fate is only given in fight,
to die by divination is given to them.
(Transl. from the Russian)
~ . ~
Daphnis and Chloe
Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)
Daphnis must from Chloe part:
Now is come the dismal Hour
That must all his Hopes devour,
All his Labour, all his Art.
Nature, her own Sexes foe,
Long had taught her to be coy:
But she neither knew t' enjoy,
Nor yet let her Lover go.
But, with this sad News surpriz'd,
Soon she let that Niceness fall;
And would gladly yield to all,
So it had his stay compriz'd. . . .
For, Alas, the time was spent,
Now the latest minute's run
When poor Daphnis is undone,
Between Joy and Sorrow rent.
At that Why, that Stay my Dear,
His disorder'd Locks he tare;
And with rouling Eyes did glare,
And his cruel Fate forswear.
As the Soul of one scarce dead,
With the shrieks of Friends aghast,
Looks distracted back in hast,
And then streight again is fled. . . .
Ah my Chloe how have I
Such a wretched minute found,
When thy Favours should me wound
More than all thy Cruelty?
So to the condemned Wight
The delicious Cup we fill;
And allow him all he will,
For his last and short Delight.
But I will not now begin
Such a Debt unto my Foe;
Nor to my Departure owe
What my Presence could not win. . . .
Gentler times for Love are ment:
Who for parting pleasure strain
Gather Roses in the rain,
Wet themselves and spoil their Sent.
Farewel therefore all the fruit
Which I could from Love receive:
Joy will not with Sorrow weave,
Nor will I this Grief pollute. . . .
But hence Virgins all beware.
Last night he with Phlogis slept;
This night for Dorinda kept;
And but rid to take the Air.
Yet he does himself excuse;
Nor indeed without a Cause.
For, according to the Lawes,
Why did Chloe once refuse?
~ . ~
Departure
Edna St Vincent Millay (1892-1950)
It's little I care what path I take,
And where it leads it's little I care;
But out of this house, lest my heart break,
I must go, and off somewhere.
It's little I know what's in my heart,
What's in my mind it's little I know,
But there's that in me must up and start,
And it's little I care where my feet go. . . .
But dump or dock, where the path I take
Brings up, it's little enough I care;
And it's little I'd mind the fuss they'll make,
Huddled dead in a ditch somewhere.
"Is something the matter, dear," she said,
"That you sit at your work so silently?"
"No, mother, no, 'twas a knot in my thread.
There goes the kettle, I'll make the tea."
B
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