Lonely
stands the castle, mirrored in the lake-chain in whose deep,
Limpid
water-bed, its shadow has for ages been asleep:
It is
rising in deep silence from the pine-trees of the glade,
While the
circling, rippling wavelets cover it with gloomy shade.
There,
behind the ogive windows, lend themselves unto one's view
Only long
and pleated curtains glistening like frozen dew,
While the
Moon, beyond the forests, quivers, reddens, waxes, nighs,
And
depicts a craggy summit or a tree-top on the skies.
All the
while, the oaks, gigantic sentries that around her stem
Watch her
rise with strict observance as she were a priceless gem.
Save that
snow-white swans that sailing from the clumps of rush,
Sovereigns
over the night-waters, guests to this all-sovereign hush,
Shake
themselves and cut the water, largely spreading out their wings,
Now into
effulgent furrows, now into vibrating rings.
Rustling
quaver the bulrushes when the ripples come and pass,
While a
drowsy cricket chirrups in the scented blooming grass.
Summer-like
were the air-odours and sense-soothing was the sough...
Near the
balcony, enraptured, sighed the knight and knit his brow.
Rife with
foliage was the bower, through its lattice-work hung out
Roses of
Shiraz and creepers, a variegated rout!
Evenfall,
the water's murmur, overwhelm him with their thrill,
His
guitar in nature's magic does its lovesick notes distill:
"Show
yourself again, fair lady, show yourself again, oh, just
As you
did, in long silk garment, covered all with silver dust.
I would
gaze at you a lifetime, ray-begirt as you stand there,
While
your hand, white as a lily, gently strokes your flaxen hair.
Come and
play with me, fair lady... with my fortunes..., throw to me
From your
fragrant-bodiced bosom the dead flower of the lea,
So that
it will touch and waken the guitar-strings, Ah, one might
Think
that snow has fallen lately, for the nights are strangely white;
Or I'll
get into the scented twilight of your bower and wax
Drunk
with the delightful perfume of the bedding-sheets of flax,
And, o
lithe and lissom mistress! Cupid, the light-hearted scamp,
Will with
his hand shade the lilac globe of the dim-lighted lamp!"
On the
floor the silk-gown rustled, rustled between vase and vase,
Or
between the blue lians, the red roses of Shiraz;
Most
angelic was the vision of the well-beloved, sailing
Mid the
flowers, smiling, laughing, bending down over the railing.
Down she
throws a rose and covers with both hands her lips, as though
She were
scolding him - but she just speaks to him so sweet and low.
Then she
slips into her chamber... footsteps, hark, descend in haste...
In the
doorway, mark, the lover puts his arm around her waist...
Hand in
hand they walk together - 'tis a charming sight to see.
He is
young and she is graceful, she is tall and so is he.
And the
boat, with its sails swelling on the mast at once awakes,
Leaves
behind the shady border for the offing of the lakes,
And
advances slowly under paddle-strokes both strong and tender,
Rocking
the uncounted beauties, the immeasurable splendour...
And the
moon, entire, spheric, rises in her gold attire
And from
one shore to another throws a magic bridge of fire,
As a
swift multiplication of minuscule waves ablaze,
She, the
gold-complexioned maiden, she, the dream of ageless haze
And the
greater is the clearness of her gentle light, the more
Seem to
grow the water's billows, ever larger seems the shore,
Ever
larger looms the forest, it approaches fast and faster
And so
does above the waters the moon-disk, the waters' master.
Lime-trees
with gigantic shadows, blossom-laden to the ground,
By the
wind are robbed of garlands, and the wind is water-bound.
Blossoms
rain over the maiden, her fair tresses to bedeck...
She puts
up her hands and, gently clasping them around his neck,
Backwards
tilts her head: "I should be much amazed if you stopped, mind!
Oh, how
thrilling-sweet is every word upon your lips, how kind!
Oh, how
high you are uplifting by your thoughts a wretched thrall,
When your
sorrow is my only ornament, my all in all
You are
love-lorn and I tremble; of your voice the music chimes
With a
long-forgotten story, a love-story of old times;
And your
dreams are all so mournful, and your eyes so full of dole
That
their moist profoundness cruelly ravages my inmost soul.
Give me
your black eyes, my darling, do not look with them sideway -
From
their fascinating darkness I shall never get away...
I shall
lose my eyesight gazing... Oh, just listen, do! There are
Hosts of
wavelets and each of them talks with a prophetic star!
The dark
forests are delirious; mirroring the sky above,
Their
blue waters speak and whisper tales of our fantastic love.
Both the
stars that tremble coldly, peeping through the clumps of pine,
And the
earth, the lake, the heavens, all are but your friends and mine.
You may
surely leave the rudder, you may surely drop the oar,
For the
stream will drift us quickly ever farther from the shore,
And
wherever it will lead us, anywhere, we cannot miss -
Be it
life or death eternal - the eternity of bliss!"
Fancy,
wild imagination, when you are alone with me,
You drift
me so oft to woodlands, to a lake or to the sea!
Have you
ever seen the unseen lands to memory so dear?
When
exactly did this happen? In what century, what year?
Now it is
out of the question to seek heaven in her eyes,
To caress
the little idol as you wish, in your own wise.
To
enclasp her round her shoulders, mouth to mouth and chest to chest,
And with
just your eyes to ask her: "Do you love me? Don't you jest?"
Well,
reach out your hand - the door-clutch will spring out through much
impatience.
Here's an
aunt and there's an uncle, a real congress of relations.
Turn your
head aside demurely, in the carpeting take cover...
What, in
this our world is there not a shelter for a lover?
Each of
these Egyptian mummies in his armchair stiffly lingers,
While you
clench your hands together, drum, envenomed, with your fingers,
Count the
hairs of your moustache, idly roll a cigarette,
And in
matters gastronomic prove that you are no cadet.
Such a life
has made me weary... not because I've drained its glass,
But
because its dregs are bitter, all is bitter prose, alas!
What? to
hallow a vain instinct with so many a vain tear,
The blind
urge which so distempers feathered flocks two times a year?
You are
not alive - another prompts you, it is he who lives,
He who
laughs your laughs (the broadest), frolics, whispers, takes and gives,
For your
lives, with no exception, are like waves that ebb and surge,
Everlasting
is the River - he alone's the demiurge.
Don’t you
feel that your affection is an elfish changeling? Fools!
Don't you
feel that you see wonders in the cheapest works and tools?
Don't you
see it is from nature that such ardent love proceeds?
That this
love was meant to cradle lives that are but hatred's seeds?
Don't you
see that your great laughter turns to weeping in your sons,
That it
bears the blame if Cain's genealogy still runs?
Oh, the
stupid show of puppets mimicking our words, to tell,
parrot-like,
no end of fables, jokes and stories, a pell-mell
With no
sense to them... Thereafter on the stage an actor climbs,
Speaks to
his most precious ego, says a thousand thousand times
What he
used to say for ages, what new ages will not miss,
Till the
sun is sunk for ever in the fathomless abyss.
When
among the clouds and deserts the moon glides along and sports,
Why
should you at her heels follow with your world of serious thoughts?
Miss your
footing every minute on the icy, snow-bound lanes,
Peep at
the lit lamps and candles through the glossy window-panes,
And then
see how she is followed by a swarm of ne'er-do-wells,
How she
smiles to everybody as is fit for mesdemoiselles?
Hear the
spurs that click, the dresses rustling, swishing up and down,
While the
hes twist their moustaches and the shes now wink, now frown?
When her
amorous transactions she can close with a mere glance,
Why, dead
cold, the butt of Cupid, at her gate attendance dance?
Wherefore,
like an adolescent, love her dearly against reason,
When she
is as chill and freakish as the show'ry April season?
In one
clasp lose all possession of your wits - and that for good! -
And from
top to toe caress her and admire her as you would
Paros
marbles or the pictures painted by Coreggio's hand,
When
she's stone-cold and coquettish? You are crazy, understand!
Yes... I
once dreamt of a lady that my sweetheart true could be,
Dreamt
that oft, over my shoulder, she would gently look at me,
That I'd
feel her magic presence, she would know I am her friend,
That our
poor life would resemble a romance without an end.
Look for
her again? What should I look for? It's the same old song,
Thirst
for everlasting silence dinning in my ears too long,
But the
organs are all broken and the old song is heard still
In
half-intermitted burstings like, at nigh, those of a rill,
In the
dark there still effulges, now and then, some purer beam
From a
Carmen Saeculare which had also been my dream.
But the
notes of most "creators", joining in a frantic fling,
Whistle,
rattle and at random push each on the string.
Harsh and
cold rings the unfinished yet perpetual refrain,
With my
thoughts the winds play havoc, desolated burns, my brain.
Where's
the gift of lucid verses which in earlier days I had?
Ah! the
organs are all broken, the maestro is stark mad!
*
English
version by Leon Levitchi
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