Wo, in welchen immer selig bewässerten Gärten, an welchen
Bäumen, aus welchen zärtlich entblätterten Blüten-Kelchen
reifen die fremdartigen Früchte der Tröstung? Diese
köstlichen, deren du eine vielleicht in der zertretenen Wiese
deiner Armut findest. Von einem zum anderen Male
wunderst du dich über die Größe der Frucht,
über ihr Heilsein, über die Sanftheit der Schale,
und daß sie der Leichtsinn des Vogels dir nicht vorwegnahm und nicht die Eifersucht
unten des Wurms. Giebt es denn Bäume, von Engeln beflogen,
und von verborgenen langsamen Gärtnern so seltsam gezogen,
daß sie uns tragen, ohne uns zu gehören?
Haben wir niemals vermocht, wir Schatten und Schemen,
durch unser voreilig reifes und wieder welkes Benehmen
jener gelassenen Sommer Gleichmut zu stören?
Thursday, December 24, 2009
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Translated by Robert Hunter:
ReplyDeleteWhere, in what blessed garden of eternally flowing waters,
on what trees, in the cups of which tenderly leafless flowers,
ripen those exotic fruits of consolation ?
Those delicious rarities, of which you may discover one,
in your meadow's trampled poverty. Often, in wonder,
you stand marveling at the size of the fruit,
over its soundness and unblemished exterior,
perfectly amazed that some careless bird or jealous worm
away beneath the root
has not deprived you of it. Are there indeed such trees,
where angels slide, tended mysteriously in slow degrees
by obscure hands, able, though not ours, to sate our hungers?
Could we ever, the lot of us but shadows and shades,
through any act of ours (too soon ripe- too soon decayed,)
disturb the calm composure of those blissful summers?
Translated by David Young:
ReplyDeleteIn what watered, ever-blissful gardens? On what trees?
From what flower-goblets, gently stripped of petals,
do these exotic fruits of consolation ripen? These
luscious fruits-you might find one in the trampled
meadow of your loss. And time and time again
you wonder: at the size of the fruit, its firm
well-being, the smoothness of its skin, and then
that some quick bird didn't beat you to it, or a worm
come jealous from below. Are trees, then,
angel-visited, strangely raised by slow and hidden
gardeners, that bear for us though we don't own them?
Haven't we ever been able, we shadows, we phantoms,
by our ripe-too-soon and withering behavior,
to shatter the calm of unruffled summer?
Translated by Google Translator:
ReplyDeleteWhere, in what always happy irrigated gardens, to which
Trees, leafless flower-cups from which tenderly
ripe fruits of the strange consolation? These
delicious, which you have a maybe in the trampled grass
find your poverty. Of a sudden the other
you wonder about the size of the fruit,
about their wholeness, about the sweetness of the dish,
and that the levity of the bird you not anticipated and not the jealousy
bottom of the worm. Is there, then trees, flown by angels,
and hidden slow growers so strangely drawn
that they take us, including without us?
Do we have never been able to, we are shadows and silhouettes,
by our premature and mature demeanor faded again
to disturb that calm equanimity the summer?
happy irrigated gardens
ReplyDelete