Nähe des Geliebten / Nearness of the Beloved (Johann Wolfgang von Goethe)

Ich denke dein, wenn mir der Sonne Schimmer
vom Meere strahlt;
Ich denke dein, wenn sich des Mondes Flimmer
In Quellen malt.

Ich sehe dich, wenn auf dem fernen Wege
Der Staub sich hebt;
In tiefer Nacht, wenn auf dem schmalen Stege
Der Wandrer bebt.

Ich höre dich, wenn dort mit dumpfem Rauschen
Die Welle steigt.
Im stillen Haine geh' ich oft zu lauschen,
Wenn alles schweigt.

Ich bin bei dir; du seist auch noch so ferne,
Du bist mir nah!
Die Sonne sinkt, bald leuchten mir die Sterne.
O, wärst du da!

I think of you when sunlight's radiance shimmers

Upon the sea;

I think of you when moonlight's image glimmers

On brook and tree.

I see you yet, when on the distant ridges

A dust cloud trails;

Night shrouds the path, and on the narrow bridges

The traveler quails.

I hear you yet, when with a hollow moaning

Waves crest and spill.

In quiet groves I listen in the gloaming,

When all is still.

I am with you; though far, because you love me,

To me you're near!

The sun has set; soon stars will shine above me.

Would you were here!

Schubert's musical setting

Ständchen / Serenade (Ludwig Rellstab)

Leise flehen meine Lieder
Durch die Nacht zu dir;
In den stillen Hain hernieder,
Liebchen, komm zu mir!

Flüsternd schlanke Wipfel rauschen
In des Mondes Licht;
Des Verräters feindlich Lauschen
Fürchte, Holde, nicht. 

Hörst die Nachtigallen schlagen?
Ach! sie flehen dich,
Mit der Töne süßen Klagen
Flehen sie für mich. 

Sie verstehn des Busens Sehnen,
Kennen Liebesschmerz,
Rühren mit den Silbertönen
Jedes weiche Herz. 

Laß auch dir die Brust bewegen,
Liebchen, höre mich!
Bebend harr’ ich dir entgegen!
Komm, beglücke mich!

Softly now my songs are calling

Through the night to thee:

Here within this quiet forest,

Darling, come to me!

Slender treetops rush and whisper

In the moonlight clear;

The betrayer's hateful spying,

Sweetheart, do not fear!

Hark, the nightingales are singing—

Ah, they plead for me!

The sweet sorrow of their voices

Pleads my cause to thee.

They can feel the bosom's longing,

Know the pangs of love;

Every tender heart their silver

Songs have power to move.

Darling, hear me—let their music

Stir within thy breast!

Trembling I await thine answer;

Come and make me blest!

Schubert's musical setting

31 (Sappho)

φαίνεταί μοι κῆνος ἴσος θέοισιν
ἔμμεν' ὤνηρ, ὄττις ἐνάντιός τοι
ἰσδάνει καὶ πλάσιον ἆδυ φονεί-
σας ὐπακούει

 καὶ γελαίσας ἰμέροεν, τό μ' ἦ μὰν
καρδίαν ἐν στήθεσιν ἐπτόαισεν·
ὠς γὰρ ἔς σ' ἴδω βρόχε', ὤς με φώναί-
σ' οὐδ' ἒν ἔτ' εἴκει,

 ἀλλά κὰμ μὲν γλῶσσα †ἔαγε†, λέπτον
δ' αὔτικα χρῷ πῦρ ὐπαδεδρόμηκεν,
ὀππάτεσσι δ' οὐδ' ἒν ὄρημμ', ἐπιρρόμ-
βεισι δ' ἄκουαι,

 κὰδ' δέ ἴδρως κακχέεται, τρόμος δὲ
παῖσαν ἄγρει, χλωροτέρα δὲ ποίας
ἔμμι, τεθνάκην δ' ὀλίγω 'πιδεύης
φαίνομ' ἔμ' αὔτᾳ.

That man seems to me happy as the blessed

gods, whoever sits by your side and listens

closely to your sweet conversation and your

laughter so lovely,

oh, it sets the heart in my breast to quaking,

for the very moment that I behold you,

in that instant, I can no longer speak one

word—I am struck dumb,

and my tongue is broken, and sudden fire

runs beneath my skin, quick and keen and tingling,

darkness takes my eyes, I am blinded, and my

ears fill with ringing,

sweat pours down my body, and then a trembling

seizes me completely, and I turn pallid,

paler than dry grass, and it seems to me I

stand at death's threshold.

Odes 4.7 (Horace)

Diffugere nives, redeunt iam gramina campis 
arboribusque comae; 
mutat terra vices et decrescentia ripas 
flumina praetereunt; 

Gratia cum Nymphis geminisque sororibus audet 
ducere nuda choros. 
immortalia ne speres, monet annus et almum 
quae rapit hora diem. 

frigora mitescunt zephyris, ver proterit aestas 
interitura, simul 
pomifer autumnus fruges effuderit, et mox 
bruma recurrit iners. 

damna tamen celeres reparant caelestia lunae; 
nos ubi decidimus, 
quo pius Aeneas, quo Tullus dives et Ancus, 
pulvis et umbra sumus. 

quis scit an adiciant hodiernae crastina summae 
tempora di superi? 
cuncta manus avidas fugient heredis, amico 
quae dederis animo. 

cum semel occideris et de te splendida Minos 
fecerit arbitria, 
non, Torquate, genus, non te facundia, non te 
restituet pietas; 

infernis neque enim tenebris Diana pudicum 
liberat Hippolytum, 
nec Lethaea valet Theseus abrumpere caro 
vincula Pirithoo.


The snows have fled, and now the grass returns
To fields and leaves to trees;
The earth is changing seasons, and the rivers
Flow ebbing past their banks;

The sister Graces and the Nymphs now dare
Naked to lead the dance.
"Hope not to cheat death," warn the year and hour
That steals the kindly day.

 The frosts melt with the west winds, summer drives
The spring away, to die
When fruitful autumn pours its harvest out;
Soon sluggish cold returns.

Yet the swift moons repair their heavenly hurts;
But when we have gone down
Where good Aeneas, Tullus, Ancus are,
We are but dust and shadow.

 Who knows if the gods above will add tomorrow
To the total of your days?
All gifts will slip from your heir's greedy hands
That you gave to your own dear soul.

 When once you die and Minos has declared
His noble judgement on you,
Not birth, nor eloquence, nor faith, Torquatus,
Will ever bring you back.

Diana has not freed from Hades' shades
The chaste Hippolytus,
And Theseus cannot tear the chains of Lethe
From dear Pirithoos.

Odes 1.5 (Horace)

Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa 
perfusus liquidis urget odoribus 
 grato, Pyrrha, sub antro? 
 cui flavam religas comam, 

simplex munditiis? heu quotiens fidem 
mutatosque deos flebit et aspera 
  nigris aequora ventis 
  emirabitur insolens, 

qui nunc te fruitur credulus aurea, 
qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem 
 sperat, nescius aurae 
 fallacis! miseri, quibus 

intemptata nites! me tabula sacer 
votiva paries indicat uvida 
 suspendisse potenti 
 vestimenta maris deo.

Who woos you on a bed of roses?

What slim boy bathed in perfumes, Pyrrha,

In a delightful cave? For whom

Do you bind up your flaxen hair,

Artfully artless? Ah, how often

Will he bewail the faithless gods

And marvel at the seas all harsh

With black winds, unaccustomed sight;

The boy who now so trustingly

Enjoys you, golden, hopes you will

Be ever clear and lovable,

Pays no mind to the fickle breeze!

Unhappy those for whom you shine

Unproved! The sacred wall attests:

A shipwrecked sailor, I hung up

My sodden clothes for the sea-god.

Sonnets to Orpheus I.3 (Rainer Maria Rilke)

Ein Gott vermag's. Wie aber, sag mir, soll
ein Mann ihm folgen durch die schmale Leier?
Sein Sinn ist Zweispalt. An der Kreuzung zweier 
Herzwege steht kein Tempel für Apoll. 
Gesang, wie du ihn lehrst, ist nicht Begehr, 
nicht Werbung um ein endlich noch erreichtes; 
Gesang ist Dasein. Für den Gott ein Leichtes. 
Wann aber sind wir? Und wann wendet er
an unser Sein die Erde und die Sterne?
Dies ists nicht, Jüngling, daß du liebst, wenn auch
die Stimme dann den Mund dir aufstößt,—lerne
vergessen, daß du aufsangst. Das verrinnt.
In Wahrheit singen, ist ein andrer Hauch.
Ein Hauch um nichts. Ein Wehn im Gott. Ein Wind.

A god can do it. But, tell me, how is
a man to follow him through the narrow lyre?
His mind is split in two. Where two heart-paths
are crossed, there stands no temple to Apollo.
Song, as you teach it, is not mere desire,
not wooing something finally attained;
song is existence. For the god, a trifle.
But when do we exist? And when does he
direct the earth and stars upon our being?
It is not that you love, boy, even if
your voice forces your mouth wide open—learn
to unlearn what you sang. That slips away.
True singing is another kind of breath.
A nothing-breath. A gust in God. A wind.

A slight change of pace - Thucydides at Gettsyburg

This isn't precisely in line with my other posts, but I hope it might be interesting to readers nevertheless. Rather than translating a foreign-language poem into English, I've translated an English masterpiece into Greek: Lincoln's Gettysburg Address as a Thucydidean funeral oration. Obviously, some of the concepts in the speech needed to be adapted ("nation" becomes "city-state," for example, and "four score and seven" becomes "four score and eight" in the Greeks' inclusive count of years), and in emulating Thucydides' style I have also borrowed and adapted some of his iconic phrases, so the speech is by no means translated word for word; I've included an English back-translation of my Greek for this reason.

The original text

ὀγδοήκοντα μὲν καὶ ὀκτὼ ἔτη ἐστὶν ἀφ' οὗ οἱ ἡμέτεροι πρόγονοι νέαν τε πόλιν καινήν τε πολιτείαν κατεστήσαντο ἐπὶ ταύτῃ τῇ γῇ, κρίνοντές τε τὸ ἐλεύθερον μέγιστον καὶ ἀξιοῦντες πάντας ἀνθρώπους κατὰ φύσιν ἐξισοῦσθαι. ἐν δὲ τῷ νῦν πολέμῳ πεῖραν ποιούμεθα εἰ οὐ μόνον ἥδε ἡ πόλις, ἣν οἱ πατέρες ἡμῖν μέχρι τοῦδε παρέδοσαν, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἡτισοῦν ἐλευθέρα καὶ ἰσόνομος πολιτεία δυνατή ἐστι πολὺν χρόνον ὑπομένειν. μεγάλης δὲ μάχης ἐνθάδε γενομένης ξυνερχόμεθα ἐν τῷδε τῷ πεδίῳ, ὅπως καθιερῶμεν τὸν τάφον τῶν κοινῇ τὰ σώματα ἐπιδόντων· δίκαιον γὰρ τοῖσδε καὶ πρέπον δὲ ἅμα τοιούτῳ τρόπῳ τιμᾶσθαι.
ἡμεῖς δὲ αὐτοὶ οὐχ οἷοί τ' ἐσμὲν οὔτε τιμᾶν οὔτε κοσμεῖν λόγῳ τοῦτον τὸν τάφον, ὃν ἔργῳ ἡ τῶν μαχεσαμένων ἀρετὴ ἤδη ἐς τὰ μάλιστα ἐκόσμησεν· οὐ γὰρ οἱ ἔπειτα μεμνήσονται τῶν ἐνταῦθα λεχθέντων μᾶλλον, ἀλλ᾽ ἡ τῶνδε ἀνδραγαθίας δόξα αἰείμνηστος καταλείψεται. οὓς νῦν ἡμεῖς ζηλώσαντες καρτερῶμεν τε καὶ ἐπιτελῶμεν τὸ ἔργον τὸ ὑπὸ τῶνδε γενναίως ὑπηργμένον· ζῶντες τε γὰρ διδασκόμεθα ὑπὸ τῶν ἀποθανόντων ἐρασταὶ γενέσθαι τῆς πατρίδος, πρὸς ἣν ἔδειξαν εὐσεβέστατοι ὄντες, καὶ ἀξιοῦμεν τούσδε μὴ ἀχρείως τεθνάναι, ἀλλὰ τὸ ταύτης τῆς πόλεως ἐλεύθερον αὖθις κατασταθήσεσθαι καὶ τήν δημοκρατίαν μήποτε ἀπολεῖσθαι.

It is fourscore and eight years since our forebears established a new state and a novel form of government on this earth, judging that freedom is the greatest of all and considering that all men are by nature equal. Now in this war we are testing whether not only this city, which our fathers have handed down to us up to the present time, but any free and fair government can long endure. A great battle has happened here, and we come together on this field in order to consecrate the tomb of those who sacrificed their bodies for the common good, for it is right and fitting too that they be honored in such a way.
But we ourselves cannot honor this tomb, nor adorn it with speech; the virtue of those who fought has already adorned it most highly in deed. For posterity will not remember the things that were said here, but the glory of their bravery will remain eternal in memory. Now, emulating them, let us stand firm and complete the task these men have nobly begun; for we the living learn from the dead to become lovers of the country to which they showed themselves most loyal, and we consider that they did not die in vain, but that the liberty of this city will be established once more and that democracy will never be destroyed.