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Archive for the ‘Tidløst’ Category

[Month of] June

Av Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953)

Rise up, and do begin the day’s adorning;
The Summer dark is but the dawn of day.
The last of sunset fades into the morning,
The morning calls you from the dark away.
The holy mist, the white mist of the morning,
Was wreathing upward on my lonely way.
The way was waiting for your own adorning
That should complete the broad adorned day.

Rise up, and do begin the day’s adorning;
The little eastern clouds are dapple grey:
There will be wind among the leaves to-day;
It is the very promise of the morning.
Lux Tua Via Mea: your light’s my way –
Then do rise up and make it perfect day.

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[Month of] May

Av Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953)

This is the laughing-eyed amongst them all:
My lady’s month. A season of young things.
She rules the light with harmony, and brings
The year’s first green upon the beeches tall.
How often, where long creepers wind and fall
Through the deep woods in noonday wanderings,
I’ve heard the month, when she to echo sings,
I’ve heard the month make merry madrigal.

How often, bosomed in the breathing strong
Of mosses and young flowerets, have I lain
And watched the clouds, and caught the sheltered song –
Which it were more than life to hear again –
Of those small birds that pipe it all day long
Not far from Marly by the memoried Seine.

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[Month of] April

Av Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953)

The stranger warmth of the young sun obeying,
Look! little beads of green begin to grow,
And hidden flowers have dated their tops to show
Where late such droughty dusts were rudely playing.
It’s not the month, but all the world’s a-maying!
Come then with me, I’ll take you, for I know
Where the first hedgethorns and white windflowers blow:
We two alone, that goes without the saying.

The month has treacherous clouds and moves in fears.
This April shames the month itself with smiles:
In whose new eyes I know no heaven of tears,
But still serene desire and between whiles,
So great a look that even April’s grace
Makes only marvel at her only face.

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[Month of] March

Av Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953)

The north-cast wind has come from Norroway,
Roaring he came above the white waves’ tips!
The foam of the loud sea was on his lips,
And all his hair was salt with falling spray.
Over the keen light of northern day
He cast his snow cloud’s terrible eclipse;
Beyond our banks he suddenly struck the ships,
And left them labouring on his landward way.

The certain course that to my strength belongs
Drives him with gathering purpose and control
Until across Vendean flats he sees
Ocean, the eldest of his enemies.
Then wheels he for him, glorying in goal
And gives him challenge, bellowing battle songs.

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[Month of] February

Av Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953)

The winter moon has such a quiet car
That all the winter nights are dumb with rest.
She drives the gradual dark with drooping crest,
And dreams go wandering from her drowsy star.
Because the nights are silent, do not wake:
But there shall tremble through the general earth,
And over you, a quickening and a birth.
The sun is near the hill-tops for your sake.

The latest born of all the days shall creep
To kiss the tender eyelids of the year;
And you shall wake, grown young with perfect sleep,
And smile at the new world, and make it dear
With living murmurs more than dreams are deep.
Silence is dead, my Dawn; the morning’s here.

 

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Av Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953)

It freezes- all across a soundless sky
The birds go home. The governing dark’s begun:
The steadfast dark that waits not for a sun;
The ultimate dark wherein the race shall die.

Death, with his evil finger to his lip,
Leers in at human windows, turning spy
To learn the country where his rule shall lie
When he assumes perpetual generalship.

The undefeated enemy, the chill
That shall benumb the voiceful earth at last,
Is master of our moment, and has bound
The viewless wind it-self. There is no sound.
It freezes. Every friendly stream is fast.
It freezes; and the graven twigs are still.

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Are they not similar to the infinite in that they cannot be squared, but can be found only through approaching them? And similar to the highest in that they are absolutely close to us and yet always sought – that they are absolutely understandable and yet not understood, that they are absolutely indispensable and yet are mostly dispensed with, and similar to higher beings in that they appear so childlike, so ordinary, so idle, and so playful?

Would we also love them if this were not the case? With women love came into being, and with love women—and therefore one cannot understand the one without the other. Anyone wanting to find women without love and love without women is like philosophers who looked at instinct without the object and the object without instinct—and did not see both at once in the concept of action.

– Novalis (1798), Teplitz Fragments/Teplitzer Fragmente nr. 17 & 18 –

ORIGINALVERSJONEN:

Haben sie [die Frauen] nicht die Aehnlichkeit mit dem Unendlichen, daß sie sich nicht quadriren, sondern nur durch Annäherung finden lassen? Und mit dem Höchsten, daß sie uns absolut nah sind, und doch immer gesucht – daß sie absolut verständlich sind und doch nicht verstanden, daß sie absolut unentbehrlich sind, und doch meistens entbehrt werden, und mit höhern Wesen, daß sie so kindlich, so gewöhnlich, so müßig und so spielend erscheinen?

Würden wir sie auch lieben, wenn dies nicht so wäre? Mit den Frauen ist die Liebe und mit der Liebe die Frauen entstanden, und darum versteht man keins ohne das andre. Wer die Frauen ohne Liebe, und die Liebe ohne Frauen finden will, dem geht’s wie den Philosophen, die den Trieb ohne das Objekt und das Objekt ohne den Trieb betrachteten und nicht beide im Begriff der Aktion zugleich sahen.

– Novalis (1798), Teplitzer Fragmente Nr. 17 & 18 –

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Til skjebnegudinnene

En sommer til er alt hva jeg ber om nå
og så til sist en høst full av moden sang,
og la mitt hjerte så, med større
fattethet skilles fra strengespillet.

I Hades kan en sjel ikke finne fred
som ikke her har vunnet sin guddomsrett,
men har dét en gang lykkes meg, som
ligger meg sterkest på hjertet, diktet,

så la det komme, skyggenes stumme liv,
og også uten sang vil jeg gå dit ned
og uten klage. En gang har jeg
levet, som guder, og mer trengs ikke.

– Friedrich Hölderlin, An die Parzen (1798) –

ORIGINALVERSJONEN:

Nur Einen Sommer gönnt, ihr Gewaltigen!

Und einen Herbst zu reifem Gesange mir,

Daß williger mein Herz, vom süßen

Spiele gesättiget, dann mir sterbe.

Die Seele, der im Leben ihr göttlich Recht

Nicht ward, sie ruht auch drunten im Orkus nicht;

Doch ist mir einst das Heilge, das am

Herzen mir liegt, das Gedicht, gelungen,

Willkommen dann, o Stille der Schattenwelt!

Zufrieden bin ich, wenn auch mein Saitenspiel

Mich nicht hinab geleitet; Einmal

Lebt ich, wie Götter, und mehr bedarfs nicht.

– Friedrich Hölderlin, An die Parzen (1798) –

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Ta lyset fra mitt øye‏

Ta lyset fra mitt øye: jeg kan se deg,
og gjør meg døv: mitt øre kan fornemme deg,
og også uten føtter kan jeg tre deg
i møte — uten tunge når min stemme deg.
Bryt mine armer av: mitt hjerte griper deg,
som jeg med hånden fatter om det fjerne.
Du bandt mitt hjerte? Hjernens pulser slo.
Og har du med en brann fortært min hjerne,
så bærer jeg deg fortsatt på mitt blod.

* * * * * *

– Rainer Maria Rilke, “Lösch mir die Augen aus…”,

fra Das Buch von der Pilgerschaft (1901) –

ORIGINALVERSJONEN:

Lösch mir die Augen aus: ich kann dich sehn,

wirf mir die Ohren zu: ich kann dich hören,

und ohne Füße kann ich zu dir gehen,

und ohne Mund noch kann ich dich beschwören.

Brich mir die Arme ab, ich fasse dich

mit meinem Herzen wie mit einer Hand,

halt mir das Herz zu, und mein Hirn wird schlagen,

und wirfst du in mein Hirn den Brand,

so werd ich dich auf meinem Blute tragen.

* * * * * *

– Rainer Maria Rilke, «Lösch mir die Augen aus…»,

fra Das Buch von der Pilgerschaft (1901) –


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En kvinneskjebne

Slik kongen under jakten drikker vann
av et tilfeldig glass — som siden vil
bli oppbevart av glassets eiermann
og gjemt, som om det ikke mer var til,

slik løftet kanskje skjebnen undertiden
et liv mot munnens tørst og drakk av kruset,
et lite liv som fryktet for å knuse
klenodiet hun oppbevarte siden

og aldri brukte mer, og som ble gjemt
blant hennes kostbarheter, (det vil si:
blant ting som regnes for å ha verdi).

Men som en fremmed gjenstand, lånt og glemt,
stod tingen der og falmet under elden,
ble aldri kostbar og ble aldri sjelden.

– Rainer Maria Rilke,  Ein Frauenschicksal (1907) –

ORIGINALVERSJONEN:

So wie der König auf der Jagd ein Glas

ergreift, daraus zu trinken, irgendeines, –

und wie hernach der welcher es besaß

es fortstellt und verwahrt als wär es keines:

so hob vielleicht das Schicksal, durstig auch,

bisweilen Eine an den Mund und trank,

die dann ein kleines Leben, viel zu bang

sie zu zerbrechen, abseits vom Gebrauch

hinstellte in die ängstliche Vitrine,

in welcher seine Kostbarkeiten sind

(oder die Dinge, die für kostbar gelten).

Da stand sie fremd wie eine Fortgeliehne

und wurde einfach alt und wurde blind

und war nicht kostbar und war niemals selten.

– Rainer Maria Rilke,  Ein Frauenschicksal (1907) –

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