76 (Catullus)

Siqua recordanti benefacta priora voluptas 
    est homini, cum se cogitat esse pium, 
nec sanctam violasse fidem, nec foedere nullo 
    divum ad fallendos numine abusum homines, 
multa parata manent in longa aetate, Catulle, 
    ex hoc ingrato gaudia amore tibi. 
nam quaecumque homines bene cuiquam aut dicere possunt 
    aut facere, haec a te dictaque factaque sunt. 
omnia quae ingratae perierunt credita menti. 
    quare iam te cur amplius excrucies? 
quin tu animo offirmas atque istinc teque reducis, 
    et dis invitis desinis esse miser? 
difficile est longum subito deponere amorem, 
    difficile est, verum hoc qua lubet efficias: 
una salus haec est. hoc est tibi pervincendum, 
    hoc facias, sive id non pote sive pote. 
o di, si vestrum est misereri, aut si quibus umquam 
    extremam iam ipsa in morte tulistis opem, 
me miserum aspicite et, si vitam puriter egi, 
    eripite hanc pestem perniciemque mihi, 
quae mihi subrepens imos ut torpor in artus 
    expulit ex omni pectore laetitias. 
non iam illud quaero, contra me ut diligat illa, 
    aut, quod non potis est, esse pudica velit: 
ipse valere opto et taetrum hunc deponere morbum. 
    o di, reddite mi hoc pro pietate mea.


If a man takes delight in recollecting past
    good deeds, when he reflects that he is faithful,
And has betrayed no holy trust, nor has abused
    the gods in sacred pacts to cheat a mortal,
Then many joys remain in your long life, Catullus,
    stored up for you from this, your thankless love.
For anything that men can say or do that's good
    for someone else, all this you've said and done;
And all of this is lost, pledged to a thankless mind.
    Why, then, should you now torture yourself further?
Why not shore up your spirit, tear yourself away,
    and, since the gods don't wish it, don't be wretched?
It's hard to quickly do away with lasting love;
    it's hard, but still somehow you must achieve this.
This is your one salvation, you must conquer this,
    you must do this, impossible or not.
O gods, if you can pity, or if ever you
    have helped men in the throes of death itself,
Look on my wretchedness, and if I have lived purely,
    relieve me of this plague and pestilence!
It worms its way into my limbs, a deadly languor,
    and from my heart it drives out happiness.
I do not ask that she should love me in return,
    or should (impossible!) wish to be chaste,
But that I may be strong and cast off this disease.
    O gods, I have been faithful—grant me this.

30 (Catullus)

Alfene immemor atque unanimis false sodalibus,
iam te nil miseret, dure, tui dulcis amiculi?
iam me prodere, iam non dubitas fallere, perfide?
nec facta impia fallacum hominum caelicolis placent.
quae tu neglegis, ac me miserum deseris in malis;
eheu quid faciant, dic, homines cuive habeant fidem?
certe tute iubebas animam tradere, inique, me
inducens in amorem, quasi tuta omnia mi forent.
idem nunc retrahis te ac tua dicta omnia factaque
ventos irrita ferre ac nebulas aereas sinis.
si tu oblitus es, at di meminerunt, meminit Fides,
quae te ut paeniteat postmodo facti faciet tui.

Alfenus, heedless, false to your concordant fellows,
Oh, have you now no pity, monster, for your sweet friend?
Now you don’t stick at betraying and cheating me, you traitor?
The disloyal acts of deceitful men don’t please the gods.
These truths you disregard and leave me in wretched straits;
Tell me, what should men do, or wherein put their trust?
You wretch, you ordered me to give my soul to you,
And led me into love, as if all were safe for me.
And now you withdraw yourself and let all you said and did,
Worthless, blow with the winds and through the airy clouds.
Maybe you’ve forgotten, but the gods and Faith have not,
And they’ll make sure you pay for your bad deed in the end.

Fortschritt / Progress (Rainer Maria Rilke)

Und wieder rauscht mein tiefes Leben lauter,
als ob es jetzt in breitern Ufern ginge.
Immer verwandter werden mir die Dinge
und alle Bilder immer angeschauter.
Dem Namenlosen fühl ich mich vertrauter:
Mit meinen Sinnen, wie mit Vögeln, reiche
ich in die windigen Himmel aus der Eiche,
und in den abgebrochnen Tag der Teiche
sinkt, wie auf Fischen stehend, mein Gefühl.

Once more my deep life surges onward, louder,
as if its stream now ran through broader banks.
And things grow ever more akin to me,
and ever better seen all images.
I feel more intimate with what is nameless:
and with my senses, as with birds, I reach
into the windy heavens from the oak,
and in the splintered daylight of the pools
my feeling sinks, as if it stood on fishes.

Der Panther / The Panther (Rainer Maria Rilke)

Sein Blick ist vom Vorübergehn der Stäbe
so müd geworden, daß er nichts mehr hält.
Ihm ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe
und hinter tausend Stäben keine Welt.

Der weiche Gang geschmeidig starker Schritte,
der sich im allerkleinsten Kreise dreht,
ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte,
in der betäubt ein großer Wille steht.

Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhang der Pupille
sich lautlos auf — dann geht ein Bild hinein,
geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille —
und hört im Herzen auf zu sein.

His gaze is so exhausted with traversing
the bars that it retains no more. To him
it is as if there were a thousand bars,
a thousand bars without a world beyond.

The gentle tread, the sleekly powerful steps
revolving in the tiniest of circles,
are like a dance of strength around a center
in which a mighty will stands stupefied.

Once in a while the curtain of the pupil
lifts noiselessly — and then an image enters,
moves in through the taut stillness of the limbs —
and flickers out inside the heart.

Frühling / Spring (Heinrich Heine)

Die Wellen blinken und fließen dahin—
Es liebt sich so lieblich im Lenze!
Am Flusse sitzet die Schäferin 
Und windet die zärtlichsten Kränze.

Das knospet und quillt, mit duftender Lust—
Es liebt sich so lieblich im Lenze!
Die Schäferin seufzt aus tiefer Brust:
Wem geb' ich meine Kränze?

Ein Reiter reitet den Fluß entlang,
Er grüßet so blühenden Muthes!
Die Schäferin schaut ihm nach so bang,
Fern flattert die Feder des Huthes.

Sie weint und wirft in den gleitenden Fluß
Die schönen Blumenkränze.
Die Nachtigall singt von Lieb' und Kuß—
Es liebt sich so lieblich im Lenze!


The ripples flow glancing and glittering by—
In springtime how lovely is love!
The shepherdess sits on the riverbank
With the delicate garlands she wove.

The budding, the streaming, the fragrant joy—
In springtime how lovely is love!
The shepherdess sighs from deep in her breast:
To whom shall I give what I wove?

A horseman rides by the river's edge
And greets her, so blooming and brave;
She gazes after him longingly,
And far off sees his cap's feather wave.

She weeps and throws in the smooth-flowing stream
The beautiful garlands she wove.
The nightingale sings of desire and a kiss—
In springtime how lovely is love!

50 (Catullus)

Hesterno, Licini, die otiosi
multum lusimus in meis tabellis,
ut convenerat esse delicatos:
scribens versiculos uterque nostrum
ludebat numero modo hoc modo illoc,
reddens mutua per iocum atque vinum.
Atque illinc abii tuo lepore
incensus, Licini, facetiisque,
ut nec me miserum cibus iuvaret
nec somnus tegeret quiete ocellos,
sed toto indomitus furore lecto
versarer, cupiens videre lucem,
ut tecum loquerer simulque ut essem.
At defessa labore membra postquam
semimortua lectulo iacebant,
hoc, iucunde, tibi poema feci,
ex quo perspiceres meum dolorem.
Nunc audax cave sis, precesque nostras,
oramus, cave despuas, ocelle,
ne poenas Nemesis reposcat a te.
Est vemens dea: laedere hanc caveto.


Licinius, we were idle yesterday
and played around a good deal in my notebook,
since we'd agreed that we'd be hedonists.
So each of us was playing, writing verses,
just ditties in this meter and in that one,
taking our turns in merriment and wine.
I went away so fired up by this,
Licinius, by your charm and wittiness,
my wretched self found food no consolation
and sleep could lay no quiet on my eyes,
but frenzied, driven wild, I rolled all over
the bed and longed to see the next day's light
so I could talk to you and be with you.
But when my limbs were tired from all this effort
and lay half-dead, exhausted on my bed,
I wrote this for you, my delightful friend,
so that you'd understand my suffering.
Now careful not to be too bold, and don't,
I beg you, darling, scoff at my entreaties,
or Nemesis will make you pay for it.
She's a harsh goddess: cross her at your peril.

Sonnets to Orpheus I.7 (Rainer Maria Rilke)

Rühmen, das ists! Ein zum Rühmen Bestellter,
ging er hervor wie das Erz aus des Steins
Schweigen. Sein Herz, o vergängliche Kelter
eines den Menschen unendlichen Weins.

 Nie versagt ihm die Stimme am Staube,
wenn ihn das göttliche Beispiel ergreift.
Alles wird Weinberg, alles wird Traube,
In seinem fühlenden Süden gereift.

Nicht in den Grüften der Könige Moder
straft ihm die Rühmung Lügen, oder
daß von den Göttern ein Schatten fällt.

Er ist einer der bleibenden Boten,
der noch weit in die Türen der Toten
Schalen mit rühmlichen Früchten hält.


Praise, that is it! One appointed to praising,
he has sprung forth like the ore out of stone’s
silence. His heart—O ephemeral wine-press
of one of mankind’s inexhaustible wines.

His voice never fails him, to ash and dust crumbling,
when he is seized by example divine.
All things are vineyard, all things are grapes then,
ripe in the warmth of his passionate South.

Not in the tombs does the kings’ putrefaction
give his praises the lie, nor the fact that
there falls a shadow cast by the gods.

He is one of the heralds eternal,
who far within the dead’s silent doorways
still holds out vessels of praiseworthy fruits.