1 (Sappho)

ποικιλόθρον' ἀθανάτ' Ἀφρόδιτα,
παῖ Δίος δολόπλοκε, λίσσομαί σε·
μή μ' ἄσαισι μηδ' ὀνίαισι δάμνα,
πότνια, θῦμον,

ἀλλὰ τυίδ' ἔλθ', αἴ ποτα κἀτέρωτα
τὰς ἔμας αὔδας ἀίοισα πήλοι
ἔκλυες, πάτρος δὲ δόμον λίποισα
χρύσιον ἦλθες

ἄρμ' ὐπασδεύξαισα· κάλοι δέ σ' ἆγον
ὤκεες στροῦθοι περὶ γᾶς μελαίνας
πύκνα δίννεντες πτέρ' ἀπ' ὠράνω ἴθε-
ρος διὰ μέσσω·

αἶψα δ' ἐξίκοντο· σὺ δ', ὦ μάκαιρα,
μειδιαίσαισ' ἀθανάτωι προσώπωι
ἤρε' ὄττι δηὖτε πέπονθα κὤττι
δηὖτε κάλημμι

κὤττι μοι μάλιστα θέλω γένεσθαι
μαινόλαι θύμωι· τίνα δηὖτε πείθω
.. σάγην ἐς σὰν φιλότατα; τίς σ', ὦ
Ψάπφ', ἀδικήει;

καὶ γὰρ αἰ φεύγει, ταχέως διώξει,
αἰ δὲ δῶρα μὴ δέκετ', ἀλλὰ δώσει,
αἰ δὲ μὴ φίλει, ταχέως φιλήσει
κoὐκ ἐθέλοισα.

ἔλθε μοι καὶ νῦν, χαλέπαν δὲ λῦσον
ἐκ μερίμναν, ὄσσα δέ μοι τέλεσσαι
θῦμος ἰμέρρει, τέλεσον, σὺ δ' αὔτα
σύμμαχος ἔσσο.


Richly-seated immortal Aphrodite,
Zeus's daughter, weaver of snares, I beg you,
do not lay my heart low with grief and sorrow,
goddess and lady,

but come here, if ever before you heard me,
heard my voice from far off and hearkened to it,
left your father's house and yoked up your golden
chariot; so you

came to me, and beautiful darting sparrows
drew you as you went with their quick wings whirring
over the black earth from the heavens down through
mid-air to meet me.

Suddenly you came, and then you, O blest one,
with a gentle smile on your deathless face, asked
what had happened this time, and why I'd called you
to help me this time,

and what I now most wanted in my maddened
heart to come to pass; “Whom shall I persuade to
be your darling this time? And who is it, my
Sappho, that wrongs you?

For if she flees, soon she will be pursuer;
if she spurns gifts, yet she will seek to give them;
if she does not love, she will soon be love-struck,
even unwilling."

Come to me once more, and from heavy trouble
free me, and accomplish what my heart longs to
be accomplished, and you yourself, O goddess,
be now my ally.

Le Vampire (Charles Baudelaire)

Toi qui, comme un coup de couteau,

Dans mon coeur plaintif es entrée;

Toi qui, comme un hideux troupeau

De démons, vins, folle et parée,

De mon esprit humilié

Faire ton lit et ton domaine;

— Infâme à qui je suis lié

Comme le forçat à la chaîne,

Comme au jeu le joueur têtu,

Comme à la bouteille l'ivrogne,

Comme aux vermines la charogne

— Maudite, maudite sois-tu!

J'ai prié le glaive rapide

De conquérir ma liberté,

Et j'ai dit au poison perfide

De secourir ma lâcheté.

Hélas! le poison et le glaive

M'ont pris en dédain et m'ont dit:

«Tu n'es pas digne qu'on t'enlève

À ton esclavage maudit,

Imbécile! — de son empire

Si nos efforts te délivraient,

Tes baisers ressusciteraient

Le cadavre de ton vampire!»


You who, like the bite of a blade,
Entered my heart deject and sad;
You who, like a ghastly brigade
Of demons, came bedecked and mad

To make my soul, bereft of pride,
Your bed of lust and your domain;
Loathsome thing to whom I'm tied
Like the convict to his chain,

Like the gambler to his dice,
Like the drunkard to his thirst,
Like the carrion to its flies—
Accurst be you, accurst!

To the swift sword I did sue
To win for me my liberty,
And conjured faithless poison too
To aid in my timidity.

Alas! the poison and the blade
Both did scornfully respond:
"You are not worthy to be made
Free from your accurséd bond,

Besotted fool! Should we contrive
To make you nevermore her slave,
Your burning kisses would revive
Your vampire's carcass from the grave!"

58 ("The New Sappho")

῎Υμμες πεδὰ Μοίσαν ἰ]οκ[ό]λπων κάλα δῶρα, παῖδες,
σπουδάσδετε καὶ τὰ]ν φιλἀοιδον λιγύραν χελύνναν·

ἔμοι δ᾽ἄπαλον πρίν] ποτ᾽ [ἔ]οντα χρόα γῆρας ἤδη
ἐπέλλαβε, λεῦκαι δ’ ἐγ]ένοντο τρίχες ἐκ μελαίναν·

βάρυς δέ μ’ ὀ [θ]ῦμος πεπόηται, γόνα δ’ [ο]ὐ φέροισι,
τὰ δή ποτα λαίψηρ’ ἔον ὄρχησθ’ ἴσα νεβρίοισι.

τὰ <μὲν> στεναχίσδω θαμέως· ἀλλὰ τί κεν ποείην;
ἀγήραον ἄνθρωπον ἔοντ᾽ οὐ δύνατον γένεσθαι.

καὶ γἀρ π[ο]τα Τίθωνον ἔφαντο βροδόπαχυν Αὔων
ἔρωι φ . . αθεισαν βάμεν’ εἰς ἔσχατα γᾶς φέροισα[ν,

ἔοντα [κ]άλον καὶ νέον, ἀλλ’ αὖτον ὔμως ἔμαρψε
χρόνωι πόλιον γῆρας, ἔχ[ο]ντ’ ἀθανάταν ἄκοιτιν.


You, girls, make haste to reap the lovely gifts
of the sweet Muses with their violet breasts,
and the clear-singing lyre.

My own once tender skin is now grown parched,
withered by age, and all my flowing hair
has turned from black to white;

my spirit sinks in heaviness; my knees
no longer bear me up, though once I danced
as lithely as a fawn.

So often I lament these things; but what
can one do? To be human, not grow old—
it is impossible.

For rosy-armed Aurora, so they say,
once bore away Tithonus for her love,
off to the wide world's end;

and beautiful and young as he was then,
yet grizzled age in time seized hold of him,
clasping his deathless wife.

Odes 4.11 (Horace)

Est mihi nonum superantis annum
plenus Albani cadus, est in horto,
Phylli, nectendis apium coronis,
est hederae uis

multa, qua crinis religata fulges,
ridet argento domus, ara castis
uincta uerbenis auet immolato
spargier agno;

cuncta festinat manus, huc et illuc
cursitant mixtae pueris puellae,
sordidum flammae trepidant rotantes
uertice fumum.

Vt tamen noris quibus aduoceris
gaudiis, Idus tibi sunt agendae,
qui dies mensem Veneris marinae
findit Aprilem,

iure sollemnis mihi sanctiorque
paene natali proprio, quod ex hac
luce Maecenas meus affluentis
ordinat annos.

Telephum, quem tu petis, occupauit
non tuae sortis iuuenem puella
diues et lasciua tenetque grata
compede uinctum.

Terret ambustus Phaethon auaras
spes et exemplum graue praebet ales
Pegasus terrenum equitem grauatus
Bellerophontem,

semper ut te digna sequare et ultra
quam licet sperare nefas putando
disparem uites. Age iam, meorum
finis amorum

(non enim posthac alia calebo
femina), condisce modos, amanda
uoce quos reddas; minuentur atrae
carmine curae.


There is in my cellar a jug of Alban--
more than nine years aging--and in the garden,
Phyllis, there is parsley for weaving garlands,
there are abundant

ivy leaves to bind back your shining hair; the
whole house laughs with silver, and the blest altar
bound with sacred greenery begs the touch of
sacrificed lamb's blood.

All the household's running about in tumult
here and there, the lads and the maidens mingled,
and the dancing flames to the heights are shaking
soot-blackened smoke plumes.

But so you might know the occasion for this
call to joys: we herald the Ides of April,
happy day that cuts into halves the month of
ocean-born Venus;

day I hold in rightful regard, more sacred
almost than my own natal day, for from this
morning my Maecenas adds up his flowing
years as they pass by.

Telephus, whom you are pursuing--that boy
far above your station--is in the clutches
of a lusty rich girl who holds him bound in
pleasure's glad shackles.

Burning Phaethon warns against greedy hopes, and
Pegasus, who balked at Bellerophon, his
earthbound rider, offers to us a weighty
lesson in this vein:

that you always follow the fitting path, and
think it wrong to hope more than is permitted;
shun unequal matches. But come now, lovely
last of my lovers

(after this no woman shall heat my blood), and
learn a verse or two, then with your enchanting
voice recite them; so dark and gloomy cares in
song will diminish.

Abschied von einem Freunde / Parting from a Friend (Franz Schubert)

Lebe wohl, du lieber Freund!
Ziehe hin in fernes Land,
Nimm der Freundschaft trautes Band,
Und bewahr's in treuer Hand!
Lebe wohl, du lieber Freund!

Lebe wohl, du lieber Freund!
Hör in diesem Trauersang
Meines Herzens innere Drang,
Tönt er doch so dumpf und bang.
Lebe wohl, du lieber Freund!

Lebe wohl, du lieber Freund!
Scheiden heisst das bitt're Wort,
Weh, es ruft Dich von uns fort
Hin an den Bestimmungsort.
Lebe wohl, du lieber Freund!

Lebe wohl, du lieber Freund!
Wenn dies Lied dein Herz ergreift,
Freundes Schatten näher schweift,
Meiner Seele Saiten streift.
Lebe wohl, du lieber Freund!


Fare thee well, O dearest friend!
Hence unto a distant land
Take my friendship's close-knit band,
Cherish it with loyal hand.
Fare thee well, O dearest friend!

Fare thee well, O dearest friend!
Hear how in sad melodies
My heart's pain revealéd is;
Yet they sound so sore amiss.
Fare thee well, O dearest friend!

Fare thee well, O dearest friend!
Parting--of all words bitterest--
Calls thee forth, belovéd best,
From us to a place of rest.
Fare thee well, O dearest friend!

Fare thee well, O dearest friend!
When this song comes to thine ear,
Thy friend's shadow lingers near;
My soul's strings are sounded clear.
Fare thee well, O dearest friend!


*Note: This is the only one of Schubert's many lieder whose text was apparently written by the composer himself, a melancholy farewell song for his friend Franz von Schober.

Mut / Courage (Wilhelm Müller)

Fliegt der Schnee mir ins Gesicht,
Schüttl' ich ihn herunter.
Wenn mein Herz im Busen spricht,
Sing' ich hell und munter.

Höre nicht, was es mir sagt,
Habe keine Ohren;
Fühle nicht, was es mir klagt,
Klagen ist für Toren.

Lustig in die Welt hinein
Gegen Wind und Wetter!
Will kein Gott auf Erden sein,
Sind wir selber Götter!


When snow flies against my cheek,
Off I brush it lightly.
When in my breast my heart would speak,
Blithe I sing and brightly.

I hear not what it sighs to me;
For that I have no ears.
I feel not what it cries to me;
Foolish are all tears.

Out into the world in mirth,
With wind and storm at odds!
If there's no God upon the earth,
Then we ourselves are gods!


Hear the musical setting from Franz Schubert's Winterreise

Liebes-Lied / Love-Song (Rainer Maria Rilke)

Wie soll ich meine Seele halten, daß
sie nicht an deine rührt? Wie soll ich sie
hinheben über dich zu andern Dingen?
Ach gerne möchte ich sie bei irgendetwas
Verlorenem im Dunkel unterbringen
an einer fremden stillen Stelle, die
nicht weiterschwingt, wenn deine Tiefen schwingen.
Doch alles, was uns anrührt, dich und mich,
nimmt uns zusammen wie ein Bogenstrich,
die aus zwei Saiten eine Stimme zieht.
Auf welches Instrument sind wir gespannt?
Und welcher Geiger hat uns in der Hand?
O süßes Lied.

How should I keep my soul in check, so that
it does not touch your soul? How should I lift it
up over you and on to other things?
Ah, gladly would I shelter it away
with anything that has been lost in darkness,
in some place strange and silent, that does not
tremble in answer when your depths resound.
Yet everything that stirs us, you and me,
takes us together like a single bow
that with a stroke draws from two strings one voice.
Upon what instrument have we been strung?
What violinist holds us in his hand?
O sweet the song.