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A translation of eleven poems by John Keats and an introductory essay Miller, Hedwig 1977

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A TRANSLATION OF ELEVEN POEMS BY JOHN KEATS AND AN INTRODUCTORY ESSAY by HEDWIG MILLER B.A., University of British Columbia, 197$. A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF MASTER OF ARTS i n THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES (Dept. of Comparative Literature, University of British Columbia) We accept this thesis as conforming to the required standard THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA September, 1977 © Hedwig Miller, 1977 In p r e s e n t i n g t h i s t h e s i s in p a r t i a l f u l f i l m e n t o f the r e q u i r e m e n t s f o r an advanced degree at the U n i v e r s i t y o f B r i t i s h C o lum b i a , I a g ree that the L i b r a r y s h a l l make i t f r e e l y a v a i l a b l e f o r r e f e r e n c e and s tudy . I f u r t h e r ag ree t h a t p e r m i s s i o n f o r e x t e n s i v e c o p y i n g o f t h i s t h e s i s f o r s c h o l a r l y purposes may be g r a n t e d by the Head o f my Department o r by h i s r e p r e s e n t a t i v e s . It i s u n d e r s t o o d tha t c o p y i n g o r p u b l i c a t i o n o f t h i s t h e s i s f o r f i n a n c i a l g a i n s h a l l not be a l l o w e d w i t h o u t my w r i t t e n p e r m i s s i o n . Department o f Comparative Literature The U n i v e r s i t y o f B r i t i s h Co lumbia 20 75 Wesbrook Place Vancouver, Canada V6T 1W5 D a t e September 7 t h , 1977 A B S T R A C T This thesis i s composed of two parts. Part one i s an essay on the theoretical aspects of translation, and part two i s a translation into German of the following poems by John Keatsj Ode to Apollo; Ode to Pan; Ode; Ode to Fanny; To—; Ode to Psyche; Ode on a Grecian Urn; Ode on Indolence; Ode on Melancholy; Ode to a Nightingale; To Autumn. The essay discusses the act, process and function of translation from both a/general and a particular point of view. I t states that translation i s a subjective act which can have no definite guidelines. Its closeness to, or deviation from, the original depends on how the translator perceives his responsibility. His sense of responsibility w i l l be determined by his notion as to the p r i o r i t i e s of content and form which he acknowledges as the outward manifestation of an inner essence which he wishes to capture. Whatever his p r i o r i t i e s or compromises may be, he must be free to choose as he pleases. For the sake of true communication, there i s a need and place for every type of translation. For the sake of creativity, there i s his need for personal discovery and growth. In the process of translating, he penetrates to a level of consciousness where his and the author's identities touch. There he receives the g i f t of 'essence' and brings back from their common meeting ground an intuition thereof. But the atmosphere through which he must pass—his subjectivity—colours the translation with i t s particular l i g h t . The translation can be only a personal i i i and subjective rendering of the original. His subjectivity-should be accepted as inevitable. In his function, the trans-la t o r i s a communicator of ideas and beauty, and indirectly he i s an interpreter and a man of letters. By becoming aware of l i t e r a r y and li n g u i s t i c differences, he comes i n touch with more universal questions which may lead him into other fie l d s of inquiry. He i s a practicing comparatist, and i f he has the power and understanding, he may do much to integrate knowledge and contribute to i t s advancement. Primarily, however, he Is a man of action. He learns to do by doing what he learns to doj but as a man of contemplation he also learns to know by learning how to think about his doings: the act, process and function of his actions. C O N T E N T S Essay Introduction 1 The Act—the theoretical approaches to translation 9 The Process--a*personal observation of the re-creative process • 25 The Function—the roles of the translator 36 The Action—a practical example.... 41 Conclusion. 51 Footnotes 53 Bibliography 57 Translations Ode to Apollo 60 Ode to Pan 64 Ode 68 Ode to Fanny 70 To— 74 Ode to Psyche 78 Ode on a Grecian Urn. 82 Ode on Indolence 86 Ode on Melancholy 90 Ode to a Nightingale 92 To Autumn 96 Bibliography 98 V I N T R O D U C T O R Y E S S A Y v i The Action of Translation: an Act, Process, and Function, 1 One learns to do by doing what one learns to do. (Aristotle's Ethics) I To c a l l this piece of writing an •introduction* i s to misname i t . I t i s really an afterthought. I t i s an attempt to bring to conscious-ness those processes of thought and action which determine the choices one makes when translating from one language into another. Such an attempt i s , i n fact, another process of learning, since forming thought, according to Carl Jung, i s but allowing the image of knowledge to rise from the depth of the unconsciousi knowing i s remembering. In the endeavour to learn about the act, process and function of translation, i t may be useful to l i s t e n to the memories of 'ancient 1 and 'modern* poets and writers who talk about their experiences. Most of them agree that translations are works of compromise, but they dis-pute over the nature of this compromisei Poetry, says one, should be translated into prose. No, says a second, i t should be translated into verse, for i n prose i t s very essence i s lost. By a l l means into verse, and into the form of the original, argues a third. Verse into verse, f a i r enough, says a fourth, but God save us from Homer i n English hexameters.! The compromise, i f ever possible, rises from a sense of confusion and a sense of defeat. Translators know from the beginning that they are doomed to f a i l , but also that they may have the opportunity to " f a i l 2 i n a manner that has i t s own splendor and i t s own promise", at least 2 for the optimist. Such an optimistic disposition may not only console but also encourage the translator because, after a l l , " i f one sort of poetry gets l e f t out, another i s sometimes added; and occasionally, i t seems to be true that what a translation adds 3 to i t s original i s , precisely, poetry." The pessimist would pre-dict that poetry i s untranslatable since "poetry i s the thing that, when a poem i s translated, gets l e f t out," an attitude which counsels the reader to approach a translations with the caution of "an attractive heiress tempted by the wooings of an oily-tongued 5 f l a t t e r e r , " or to acknowledge ultimate defeati What i s translation? On a platter A poet's pale and glaring head, A parrot's screech, a monkey's chatter And profanation of the dead. (Vladimir Nabokov) Optimistic or pessimistic, naive or cynical, these views, though important to the c r i t i c , have to be ignored by the translator or else his services would no longer be required. Translation would neither be an act, nor process, nor function. The translator has to face and accept i n good humour his 'fallen' state. Since translation w i l l , by nature, d i f f e r from the original, i t i s a 'falling* away from the original, no matter how 'close' i t i s to the original, how good i t may be, or even how much better or different i t may seem as a poem i n i t s own right. A remark l i k e Richard Bentley*s on Pope's translation of The I l i a d t — " I t i s a pretty poem, Mr. Pope, 6 but you must not c a l l i t Homer" —has l i t t l e meaning since only Homer can be l i k e Homer. What Mr. Bentley rather wished to say was 3 that his own subjective sense of Homer differs from Pope's. In the defense of translation and "i r r i t a t e d by the buzz of theory," i t can 7 be said that i t "has the immense advantage of abundant, vulgar fact." With pens dipped i n 'original sin', l e t us accept, then, our 'fallen' state and embrace compromise with the freshness and o r i g i -nality of the child who i n good fai t h merely wishes to play well at the game of translation. Every child who play-acts assumes the role of a new personality, and every translator assumes, however, unconsciously, the identity of the writer whom he translates and "raises before the reader, 8 i n l i e u of the original work, a faqade." The facade i s an i l l u s i o n of the original poem and the original poem i s an i l l u s i o n erected by the poet around what may be called a 'supra-poem' within his own consciousness. This undefinable 'supra-poem', which e l i c i t s sensations, vague excitements, glimpses of truths and recognitions, i s what i s intuited as the 'essence* or the f i r e of the poem. This 'essence' i s the thing which i s the most satisfying to reach and to convey, but i s also most easily destroyedt I t i s not to be doubted that the f i r e of the poem i s what a translator should principally regard, as i t i s most l i k e l y to expire i n his managing.9 The 'essence' may express i t s e l f through numerous channels l i k e sounds, rhythms, diction, verse, sentiments, Images, fables, allegories (almost any verbal and non-verbal component of l i t e r a r y structure), just as the 'essence' of any 'person' may be expressed by a hat or a glove, a glance or a word by the child who acts these k roles. To Pope, the essence of Homer, for instance, l i e s more i n what Homer says than i n how he says i t . Therefore, Pope can writei I t i s the f i r s t grand duty of an interpreter to give his author entire and unmairaed no omission or contraction of fables, manners, sentiments]"; and for the rest, the diction and versification only are his proper province; since these must be his own, but the others he i s to take as he finds them. 1 0 An unimaginative transliteration i s as offensive to Pope as i s a 11 "rash paraphrase"! ... and I w i l l venture to say, there have not been more men misled i n former times by a servile dull adherence to the le t t e r , than have been deluded i n ours by a chimerical insolent hope of raising and improving their author. Pope i s concerned with translating what he perceives to be the essential quality, or message, of Homer, while he leaves the former to his own judgement. Dryden also knows about the unavoidable inadequacy inherent i n any attempt to translate from one language into another. In translating The Georgics, he observes that "the Sweetness and Rusticity of a 'Pastoral' cannot be so well exprest i n any other 13 Tongue as i n the Greek"; yet, he i s confident that an undefinably essential quality could be communicated. When talking about the proper style for the English version of The Georgics, he says that "the poet must lay out a l l his strength, that his words may be warm and glowing, and that every thing he describes may immediately Ik present i t s e l f , and rise up to the Reader's view." Such a 5 statement does not give any definite rules or guidelines as to how translating could be done. Dryden i s even more vague on the subject than i s Pope, and his judgement more strongly based on personal intuition. In comparison to Pope's and Dryden's vagueness, Matthew Arnold suggests that, instead of relying on personal judgement, the translator should test his translation against the judgement of the well-educated classical reader. I f the translation evokes i n the reader the same powerful emotional response as does the original, 15 then the translation could be considered successful. Matthew Arnold's view, however, i s based on the assumption that there exists a consensus of response i n classical scholars. This i s , of course, a fallacy which Arnold himself acknowledges indirectly i n his own writing. He advises against the use of archaic diction 16 which, i n his opinion, i s "alien to the simplicity of Homer"j yet, archaic diction seems the very essence of Homer for Hayman, whom Arnold c r i t i c i s e s i n his essay. Alexander Fraser-Tytler takes a more methodic approach on the subject of translating and lays down three basic rulest 1. ) That the Translation should give a complete transcript of the ideas of the original work. 2. ) That the style and manner of writing should be of the same character with that of the original. 3. ) That the Translation should have a l l the ease of original composition.I? These three rules, however, are just as vague and nebulous and fade at closer inspection. F i r s t , the d i f f i c u l t y i n translating 6 'ideas' i s that some ideas may be expressed and understood i n one language only, but not i n another. An 'idea' can only be communi-cated when there i s some basis for recognition and understanding rooted i n a particular experience of a culture. The second rule advises that the style and manner of writing should be identical with the one of the original. Unfortunately, since two languages are never identical, such a rule remains merely wishful thinking, especially i n the realm of poetryi No verse form i n any one language can be entirely identical with a verse form i n any other however similar their nomenclatures and however cognate their languages.18 Poetry i s a very condensed form of language within the tightest possible frame, as the German word "dichten" so well i l l u s t r a t e s . To adopt an equally tight frame (form) for the translation which has to use a language of a different kind of density i s l i k e trying on a wrong pair of shoes. By wanting to f i t the foot into the form of the glass slipper original, the translator finds himself either chopping off toes or padding uncomfortable hollows, because the foot that matches the slipper exists only i n fairy tales. But i n the process, he may become aware of the wider implications with regards to li n g u i s t i c and cultural differences which his d i f f i c u l t i e s reveal. To the third rule, that the translation should have the ease of the original composition, one can only nod i n agreement whilst searching with baffled bewilder-ment for the 'ease' i n the original and the means by which to express such 'ease' easily. Ease of expression i s easiest when 7 coming from a sense of spontaneity, a type of freedom which allows poetry to take shape through the medium of the original language i n a natural, organic way. The 'natural* ease of the original, however, means artful labour for the translation; a labour i n which spontaneity i s only too often put into the st r a i t jacket of conscious craftsmanship and into the limiting l i n g u i s t i c possibili-, ties of the new language. Any 'ease' which may evolve from such tight restraints, depends on the translator's own poetic or creative processes. Thwarted 'ease', a st i l t e d style—"Translationese"—is often the more frequent development. The art of translating can never really abide by any abstract 19 rules because i t i s basically an act of sympathy i n which the translator identifies with the poet. The translator, i n sympathy with the poet, keeps his tools sharp un t i l possibly "the great job, 20 the great moment j/the writing of his own poetry}, comes along;" The writer who can project himself into the exaltation of another learns more than the craft of words. He learns the stuff of poetry. I t i s not just the prosody he keeps alert, i t i s his heart. The act of translating, since i t i s an act of sympathy, operates through a paradox by which "the translation cannot be poetry i n i t s own right unless i t has been subdued to the imaginative process of i t s original; nor can i t be a fait h f u l translation 22 unless i t i s i n some sense an original poem." I t i s through such paradoxes that translation evolves. Translating i s , thus, primarily, a sympathetic probing into the original, allowing images, words, phrases, rhythms, the 'essence1 8 to emerge almost spontaneously by contact with the deeper level of communication between the author and translator during the process of re-creation. The impressionistic intuition from which translati springs w i l l lead him to the 'essential' quality of the particular work. Though a word-by-word transliteration can also be a useful guide into the poem, i t i s merely a 'dictionary' device, while the re-creation through impressionistically 'conveying1, tries to capture and express that which seems the most poetically 'Homeric' or 'Keatsian' within the work as experienced and understood by the individual translator. Translating i s clearly a game i n which subjectivity i s the rule, and a translation should be judged by these rules, by the c r i t i c as well as by the readers. No abstract guidelights illuminate the paths to a good translation, neither i n the past nor i n the present. One simply learns to do by doing what one learns to do with sympathy and care. For the purpose of establishing some order i n the large f i e l d of approaches to translation, basically three categories of trans-lations have been assumed to exist: the ' l i t e r a l ' , the 'equivalent and the 'free' translation. I t i s understood, however, that these are merely theoretical categories and that within each category there are variations and gradations which may well show character!s t i c s of the other categories. In practice, the f i e l d of trans-lati o n i s more complex than i t i s i n theory and often the three categories flow into one another i n an almost Imperceptible way. Even though these categories should not be understood to represent ri g i d pigeonholes, each translation exhibits, i n my view, a tendency toward one or the other category. By the same token, 9 there i s also no translator who could be called a ' l i t e r a l ' , •equivalent' or 'free' translator i n an absolute way. Translators, too, often mingle a l l three approaches; maybe not within the same translation but within the body of their composite work. For the purpose of this paper, then, and i n order to make a discussion of this large topic easier, I have, with a sense of reservation, accepted and made use of these three theoretical approaches to the act of translation. II Even though the act of translation i s a subjective endeavour, i t i s possible to discuss i t from a more objective point of view. Although the f i n a l grasping of the 'essence' of a particular poem may be an intuitive act, the understanding of what 'essence' means f a l l s into the realm of objective consideration. The reaching for a particular essence may be "an exercise ... potentially 23 unending," an "intuitive thrust into the centery" the concept of 'essence', however, i s amenable to more tangible discussion. Essence i n a poem i s that quality of thought and feeling which a particular unity of meaning and form tends to evoke. And since i t aims at the individual mind, the effect that 'essence' has on i t can also never be the same: No two human beings share an identical associative context. Because such a context i s made up of the tota l i t y of an individual existence, because i t comprehends not only the 10 sum of personal memory and experience but also the reservoir of the particular subconscious, i t w i l l d i f f e r from person to person. There are no facsimiles of sensi-b i l i t y , no twin psyches.2^ How the individual experiences 'essence' and the way he 'knows' i t , i s through the f i l t e r of his own consciousness which i s made up of his personal and his cultural past, present and future. "A poem, said Bradley i n 1901, i s the succession of experiences-sounds, images, thoughts, emotions—through which we pass when reading or listening impressionably and exerting our imaginations 25 i n the act of re-creations." There i s passivity and activity, sense impression and re-creation. Here already do we meet the unavoidable presence of the subjective. When supposedly passively listening to the poem, there are only certain sounds, images, thoughts and emotions we experience, namely those which we are capable of experiencing at that particular time. Others, not conducive to our momentary state of awareness, we f a i l to register, f i l t e r out or forget. In the second stage of experiencing a poem, namely the recreation of i t i n our mind, on both an intellectual and an emotional lev e l , Is thus based on 'false', i.e. subjective, premises. I t too must be 'false', i n the sense of being different or 'other' i n comparison with that intended by the poet or experienced by other readers. The re-created construct i s 'other' than the original. 'Essence", then, can only be a subjective construct, but while we are unaware of the subjective f i l t e r through which we experience 'essence' we are, i n retrospect—that i s , after the experience has made i t s i n i t i a l impact—aware of the two major manifestations of 11 'essence'i namely content and form. The one (content) stimulates our i n t e l l e c t which needs to understand what has been said, the other stimulates our aesthetic sensibility. Both are experienced subjectively and the evaluation given to them i s based on the 'colour' of the f i l t e r through which we perceived them originally and the 'colour' of our learning which we bring to bear on them. The translator who has accepted his 'fallen' state, his own unavoid-able subjectivity, has s t i l l to make an objective decision, namely whether In his translation he i s going to favour content or form, whichever way he may perceive them, simply because to give absolute justice to both i s impossible when dealing with two different languages. That decision, too, may be based on subjective con-sideration, namely whether his concerns l i e with understanding or with feeling, with intellectual or with sense experience. I t may also be based on outside considerations, the need or pressure of his society, the Zeitgeist of the epoch i n which he l i v e s . This i n turn may either favour intellectual understanding or intuitive feeling. The translation of 'essence' may be done i n a ' l i t e r a l ' , •equivalent*, or 'free' mode. I t may embrace word-by-word trans-l i t e r a t i o n , 'adequate equivalence', 'essential trans-conveyance', or any area i n between, and the choice hinges precisely on how 'essence' i s best served, where i t i s foundj i n the words themselves, the meaning behind the words, the symbols or the silences. Is the 'essence' essentially i n the content or i s i t i n the form, and when captured by the new language, i s i t best conveyed through content, feeling, both,or neither? 12 Assuming; for the sake of the argument, that the essence of a text l i e s predominantly i n i t s content (the intellectual idea of the work), and that understanding i t from an intellectual point of view i s more important than i t s aesthetic appreciation or the f e e l -ing which such an appreciation evokes, a decision s t i l l has to be made between the three modes of translation: l i t e r a l , equivalent, free. The choice depends entirely on which mode can best serve to keep intellectual content whole. The l i t e r a l translation f u l f i l l s i t s purpose when the two cultures and the two languages are so similar that no possible misunderstanding can arise (an unrealistic assumption), or for the sake of scholastic or li n g u i s t i c curiosity. I t i s not necessarily true that literalness i s "the refuge of the 26 unlearned, as well as the stronghold of the scrupulous." The l i t e r a l translation i s important to a sci e n t i f i c mind which wishes to investigate the relationship of the language to the mind and the perception of those who use i t now or at a previous time i n the same or a different culture. A l l kinds of li n g u i s t i c , socio-logical and philosophical data may be deduced from this type of translation or Interpretation. Other than that, however, there i s no merit i n a l i t e r a l translation and for most translators the choice i s one between 'adequate equivalence' and 'free translation', whichever one of the two can best carry content into the new language. Those who tend toward approximation via an adequate equivalence, make the silent presupposition that the content can best be conveyed by sticking closely to the symbols and imagery found i n the original. And often this i s the case, particularly when the two languages involved share common roots or a similar cultural 13 experience, as English and German do, for instance. Accepting the fact that, even when using the same symbols, an identical suggestion of meaning can never be accomplished due to the factor of individual subjectivity, an approximation can be achieved i n spite of that and despite the cultural subjectivity that the new language necessarily embraces. The translator silently trusts that, i n spite of that subjectivity, a commonly understood presence of meaning exists i n 27 the two different semantic systems. Although he brings forth many arguments against a definite graspable meaning, Steiner seems to feel that meaning s t i l l exists as a separate entity, an object apart from the subject, and that, without that trust, no translations could ever be made. Those who are trusting i n this respect, and feel the gap of meaning not widening when comparing equivalent symbols of two languages, w i l l choose to do a translation as close as possible to the original, leaving intact the arrangement and function of various images, symbols and metaphors. As stated before, this i s only possible i f the roots of both languages are intertwined and the contemporary usage suggests indeed an equi-valent content or idea, and, i n the case of poetry, suggests a set of equivalent connotations through which one may perceive that idea. When the two semantic structures, the two cultural f i e l d s of experience, however, separate either spatially or temporally (i.e. when they are removed from one another i n place or i n time), meaning may no longer be capable of being conveyed by the mere translation of the original constructs of symbols. I f the Bible had just been discovered, for instance, i t s many references to, and symbolic usages of, 'shepherds' and 'sheep' 14 and 'vines' and 'vineyards', would obscure i t s very meaning. I t i s not that we no longer know that there once existed an agrarian culture which spoke of i t s world i n terms of the things which i t saw as a part of i t s e l f , but rather that the impact and the immediate understanding of these symbols i s largely l o s t to people l i k e our-selves who no longer experience them. The many Interpretations of the Bible over which bloody wars had been fought, testify to the lack of definitive original meaning, or rather to the incapacity of succeeding cultures to make up their minds as to what that meaning may consist of. Is i t not justified i n such a case to. translate very freely? Where the 'idea' i s all-important, p a r t i -cularly when I t comes from the mouth of God, poetic licence i s almost unlimited. The translator's duty i s , i n fact, to ' f a l s i f y ' . His 'dishonesty' has the purpose of making the idea more tangible, more comprehensible. Yet, i s he not at the same time twisting the words of God? Can the translation s t i l l be considered to issue from God's own mouth? Is i t not sacrilegious to 'clarify' the idea by a l i b e r a l translation? Is i t not rather obscuring i t ? Is i t not taking one too many 'liberties'? One can easily see the contradictory situation i n which the translator may find himself. Whether he tends toward one pole of this contradiction or toward the other, w i l l depend on his individual sense of moral obligation which, whatever i t may be, can never be considered to be either absolutely right or wrong. For this reason, and i n f u l l innocence, Nida and Taper, can write a whole handbook on the principles of Bible translations. They quite unabashedly admit the need to be very free with one's translations, to elevate the idea (whatever 15 they understand by i t ) above a l l other considerations and aspects of the original text. They not only, with great optimism and with missionary zeal, "trust i n the coherence of the world" and the "presence of meaning" (Steiner), but believe also that anything can be expressed i n another language and be so understood. For them i t i s entirely possible to be objective! Unless one i s completely objective [which they believe they are i n choosing content above everything else] i n his handling of the message, i t i s easy for misconceptions about the nature of language, the task of the translator, and the ultimate purpose of the translation, to skew the results. 2° My own feeling i s less certain i n this respect. Translation can never be more than a modest approximation, an approaching of the idea. The attempt to create the least possibly misunderstanding, i s a l l that can be hoped for. Misunderstanding (misinterpretation, mistranslation) occurs because of the subjective f i l t e r , called the individual or cultural mind which can only understand approxi-mately. I would tend to sympathise with those who wish to leave i t up to the translator to decide whether such an approximation of content can best be achieved by a 'close 1 translation or a 'free' one. I f content takes precedence, and intellectual under-standing i s paramount, then I see no reason to jeopardise i t i n favour of the demands of 'formality'. The translator should then be free to be 'free'i We need our twentieth century version of The I l i a d and the Divine Comedy and the Bible even i f , and perhaps just because, our own original literature i s alien to 16 the very ideal of an Ilia d or Divine Comedy ... One ought to bring them into a l i v i n g dialectic with our inescapable contemporary values and existence.29 As long as this type of translation f u l f i l l s a need, the translator can do no wrong. Whether he i s right or wrong, morally speaking, or whether he puts himself outside the realms of ethical consider-ation, i s ultimately an unanswerable question, and an opinion favouring one over the other, i s again tinged by subjectivity. Just as i t i s possible to choose content over form, so i s i t possible to elevate form above content. Those who do so, see the 'essence1 of the work primarily i n the form. They are the aesthetically conscious, who either prize the aesthetic experience above a l l else or have found that the aesthetic character of the work i s also Its content. Such a content i s less intellectually graspable, but nevertheless can be understood on the level of feeling and intuition. Both mind and senses are capable of leading one to understanding. They are but two separate channels leading to knowledge. Preference of one over the other depends as much on the character of the perceived as on that of the perceiver. Those who wish to translate aesthetic form also find themselves facing the same decision as do those who want to trans-late content. The ' l i t e r a l i s t s ' want to preserve the original form because i t either s t i l l affects them, s t i l l speaks to them with a l i v i n g voice, or else they want to preserve something which i s 'quaint 1, much l i k e the collector of curiosities or antiques. The 'free' translator feels that the original impact to his senses would be lost, were he to translate l i t e r a l l y or approximately, 17 and he searches for a new way, or a way permissible by the new language which he struggles with, i n order to convey the same immediacy upon his senses which he experiences when reading the original. Both approaches have undoubtedly some merit. The translation of those who closely stick to the original form, keeping the original sensory impression as much as possible intact,may well,, together with those who stick to a l i t e r a l or approximate content (conveyed by imagery and symbols), be accused of creating translations which read l i k e translations. And this may well be a desirable thing. L. Forster compares the l i t e r a l or approximate translation to a coloured piece of glass through which the reader sees the original* The coloured glass i s a translation which aims at communicating the exotic quality of the original, i t s remoteness from us either i n time or i n s p i r i t or i n cultural setting. The 'clear glass* ('free' translation) ought to convey the impression that the text we are reading was thought and expressed directly i n our own contemporary language and uses the normal resources of that language for dealing with matters remote from us i n time or place. I f this aim i s not achieved, we are apt to say derogatorily that the book 'reads l i k e a translation'. The 'coloured glass' version i s intended to 'read l i k e a translation*; the reader must not be allowed to forget that what he i s reading i s foreign i n origin and that that i s one of i t s essential qualities. .... The 'clear glass' translation aims then at presenting us the foreign work i n a l l the freshness of a new contem-porary work. I f i t i s i n fact contemporary, no harm i s done. But i f i t i s an ancient classic, what then? Part of i t s quality for us i s the patina i t has acquired i n i t s passage down the ages. The translator who alms at conveying the impression Dante made on his contemporaries, not the impressions he makes on cultivated Italians today, i s discounting six hundred years of human activity. 30 18 In translating aesthetic form freely, the translator thrusts toward an 'aesthetic* center—experienced on the level of i n t u i t i o n — just as readily as does the one who tries to convey the original form. Both seek to express an 'essence', but their views as to how this i s best done differ. One, the approximator, cannot separate the form from his aesthetic impression while the other, the free translator, feels distinctly that there i s indeed a difference between those aspects of the work which affect his senses, and the sensory experience i t s e l f . Consequently, he would feel that an entirely new form (one of his invention) may well be as good a vehicle to express his experience as the original form i t s e l f . And, of course, the new language may simply not allow the same formalistic rendering and s t i l l create the same or similar sensory effect, i n which case he would have no other choice but to render the original form within the limits of his own discretion. "Every good translator i s aware of the limits of 31 his licence to make changes i n the poetic text" says B. Tlek, and even though he would only allow "motivated changes" which are the outcome of "sufficient interpretation", he leaves us to guess what kind of motivations would justify a change. Obviously, different people are motivated by different considerations and consequently perceive their responsibilities i n different ways. Some are concerned with understanding, others with aesthetic experience. The d i f f i c u l t i e s i n perceiving and expressing what seems the most 'essential' qualities of the work, rise from the subjective differences which l i e embedded not only within the people involved but within the languages themselves: 19 a l l natural language i s private...all communication, interpretation [translation] between privacies,32 and abide, hence, within the cultures to which these languages give expression. From an objective point of view, there i s merit to be found i n both modes of translation, 'close 1 and 'free*. The one which wishes to preserve the old as i t i s , has to be appreciated as much as the one which wishes "with a b i t of insight and freshness 33 to cut through the guff." The merit of the free translation l i e s i n i t s immediacy; that i s , i t can be understood more easily since i t i s expressed i n our contemporary language sparking contemporary connotations. I t speaks to us because i t grows from the l i v i n g s o i l of our language which has i t s roots i n our immediate world as we experience, feel, and know i t now. Since the experience i s more immediate and more easily understood, the effect on our mind i s fresh and capable of making a strong impact. We are made aware of the values, thoughts and sensibilities of another mind, and i f these mean anything to us now—removed from their originator i n either space, or time, or both—then the purpose of having created them i n the f i r s t place may well have been served. Language and the consciousness of man simply changes over the passage of time. Whether one change precedes the other (language influencing an altered consciousness or vice versa) i s an interest-ing question but as unanswerable as the one which asks whether the egg hatched the chicken or the chicken the egg. I t can easily be understood how and why 'free' translation lends i t s e l f so well to 'propaganda' purposes; and this i s not meant i n any derogatory 20 way. Some issues on an ethical or aesthetic level, deserve to be reiterated since they concern a l l of us at a l l times wherever we may be. Some universal considerations, which basically ask i n many different disguises the same question over and over again 'what i s that thing called man?', should not be forgotten amidst a l l the distractions and the fluctuations of opposing worldviews. What i s thus an advantage to the free translation, namely that i t attempts to promote understanding, i s also i t s disadvantage, because this way, we can only understand through the mind of the translator who has interpreted values, thoughts and sensibilities for usi "Si l e traducteur ne veut pas e"tre seulement un reproducteur, mais—bien plus—un partenalre de plein pouvoir et collaborateur des valeurs nouvel'les dans l a litterature du pays, 11 oppose a I'original son invention propres Isprit revSlateur ou e'sprit inventif. "3^ The translator has become a screen made up of his inventions and creations through which we perceive the original, and the screen may offer a more distorting view than our own subjectivity. The trust extended i n such a reading may well be foolish, considering the l i b e r t i e s taken i n the past with texts which did not conform to the moral standards of the translator as pointed out by G.H. McWil'liam i n his introduction to Boccaccio's Decameron, for instance. How, then, can those who cannot read the original and therefore must reach for the translation or who may not be so well acquainted with the cultural background from which the 21 original springs act i n such a dilemma? Whom should one trust? What translations or what translators should one select? Perhaps an eclectic approach may serve us well. Perhaps one should savour several 'free* and several 'close* translations i n order to get a more representative overview and f i n a l l y come closer to the 'essence' of the original. Then, perhaps, one may choose a favourite, one which f i t s one's own personality at one particular time i n one's l i f e . In comparison, one may find a 'close' translation to be incom-prehensible, particularly when one i s culturally, l i n g u i s t i c a l l y , psychologically too far removed from the original text. One may consider i t a mere curiosity, fascinating because of i t s 'exotic' quality but ultimately uninteresting, outdated and of l i t t l e value. However, a 'close' translation, even when i t risks misunderstanding, has a purpose to f u l f i l , namely to preserve the 'flavour', the "patina" of the original. This i s not only important to those who l i k e to feel the original pulsate through the translation, but also to those who wish to preserve the original culture, and the various manifestations thereof, i n the hope that one day the value i n them may again be perceived. I t i s an attempt to protect the past so that i t may one day l i v e again. The advocates of 'close' translations try to recapture the historical moment. They exhibit the same s p i r i t as those who wish to preserve such manifestations of cultural activity as classical ballet, opera or even a treasured recipe from grandma's kitchen. They hope that one day their flavours w i l l again delight mankind. And that may well be so. I t i s said 22 that a l l things are i n flux and yet remain the same. Languages, cultures, art, man, also undergo a constant change and yet within that change one cannot f a i l but observe a perpetual cycle, a forgetting and remembering, death and resurrection of a l l that i s within the reach of the s p i r i t of man and nature. Whether one chooses a 'free' or a 'close' approach, the d i f f i c u l t i e s i n translation of poetry are compounded i n comparison to any other genre since the unity of content and form i s the major characteristic of poetry. These two are quite inflexibly linked with one another! In a poem meaning and form are as indissoluble as soul and body, and the form cannot be reproduced. The effect of poetry i s a compound of music and suggestion; this music and this suggestion are intermingled i n words, to alter which i s to alter the effect35, or i n Bradley's words: a poem i s the succession of experiences, sounds, images, thoughts, emotions through which we pass when reading or listening impressionably and exerting our imaginations i n the act of re-creations. In such poetic experience 'meaning' and 'form' are not apprehended separately but operate together. 36 To elevate one above the other—content above form or vice v ersa— means to do violence to the poem i n one way or another. The sacrifices made through tearing them apart are great. Yet, the principles of purpose, need and viewpoint (as discussed earlier), and the notion of r e l a t i v i t y developed therefrom, ought also to 23 apply to the translation of poetry since poetry, too, i s communication. However, they do not or, at least, not to such a degree. Content alone can never assume omnipotence and neither can form, otherwise the poem, when translated, can no longer be experienced as a poem. This may, or may not, be important. I t may be possible to transcend genre, perhaps even discipline, i n order to move toward that deeper center which, according to Stelner, can only be intuited. It i s conceivable, for instance, that not only words lose their meaning as time progresses, but also language per se. What form would a translation of Ode"To Autumn" need to take i n a wordless, visually oriented era as predicted by Marshall McLuhan? We would then only be capable of grasping the meaning and essence through visual and auditory effects. In other words, the Ode could be 'translated' only into an audio-visual form i f i t were going to continue to l i v e . Would that mean i t would cease to exist? Obviously, the original form and the particular sensory and aesthetic experience which accompanies i t would have to be totally abolished. Whether this 'translation' could s t i l l be called a translation i s disputable, but words—the naming of things—by that time, may anyhow signify nothing. My understanding i s that one has to work out of the matrix of one's culture as i t exists at one particular time, that one has to choose from among the many compromises possible (the various gradations on the continuum between content and form) those which correspond to one's own personality and worldview grown out of a particular cultural Zeitgeist. There are no ultimate rules. The translator i s a mediator, an arbiter between "two privacies" on both a personal and cultural level. He needs to be flexible, but only within the 2k limits which the two cultural settings and their respective languages allow at that particular time. He w i l l need to trust his own intuition which w i l l allow him to recognise whether he must, or how far, he may deviate from the original. The amount of tact and sensi-t i v i t y used i n such an endeavour w i l l determine his success not only as a translator but as a person of integrity who tries to contribute to the process of human understanding. Every translation w i l l wear the translator's personal finger-prints and w i l l testify to the translator's integrity and his right to make his own decisions. And i n this integrity, however widely i t may vary from person to person, he must seek his fulfillment and be content with i t . There i s no right or wrong approach to trans-lation. There i s no right or wrong translator, only good or bad translations. These ought to be judged as independent works as well as translations i n the li g h t of the decisions, the particular compromise which the translator has deliberately chosen. One may disagree with his approach but one should not pass judgement on the strength of one's own biases. The translator ought to be, perhaps, just l i k e the reader, eclectic i n his approach switching from ' l i t e r a l ' to 'close' to 'free' whenever he feels the need to do so. He should have as much freedom as he feels necessary to have. He should enjoy as much 'licence' as the poet, provided he keeps some loyalty to the lat t e r . Only then can the translator be spontaneous. Only then can the 'ease' of translation which Alexander Fraser-Tytler envisions be achieved. There w i l l always be need for many different types of translations. Perhaps some 25 great l i t e r a r y works deserve—even need—to be translated over and over again. Let the translator be not only an arbiter but a diplomat, not only an informer but a teacher, not only a teacher but a creator and his own needs as well as those of the original poet w i l l , thus, best be served. I l l Accepting then the fact of a necessity for 'subjectivity', l e t me investigate by self-consciously reflecting on my own personal way of translating-—by observing the semi-conscious process of re-creation»-how this subjectivity operates i n making the translator aware of the original and how i t shapes his creative response. Taking for granted that "the very texture of what he sees i s a composite of what he has been taught to want to see and to be 37 afraid of seeing," how then does he become aware of the original? How does he come to see the intricacies and the essence of the work to be translated? Steiner speaks of "Einfiihlung", of "aggression", "penetration", "incorporation" when he tri e s to explain how the translator dives into the 'center* and re-emerges with a translation i n his hands. Undoubtedly these are a l l present. Or, better s t i l l , they are the aspects or stages of a form of 39 hypnosis under which the translator's own creative energies are released. The original work serves an as impetus which extinguishes the boundaries between the sensibilities of the original author and oneself. In that sense i t can be said that both come to share 26 the same space, the same center, the same consciousness. They have come to an intimate understanding. The only objectivity rests i n that center, whether i t i s called Einluhlung, or aggression, or penetration, or incorporation, one i s absorbed by the other for but the brief span of time which i s necessary to kindle the trans-lator's own creative torch. The common center upon which one touches, however, can only be f e l t , whatever 'essence' therein, grasped only intuitively: The complete penetrative grasp of a text « . . i s an act whose realization can be precisely f e l t but i s nearly impossible to paraphrase or systematize and the 'supra poem* which begins to take shape at that point, on the level of vague sensations, feelings, flashes of visual images, i s already one step out of this center and begins again to assume the colouring of one's own subjectivity. There are two movements then: the thrust toward the center and the re-emergence from i t . The thrust i s one which requires Einfuhlung, which i s both an act of aggression but also of sub-mission: There i s a strain of femininity i n the great interpreter, a submission, made active by intensity of response, to the creative presence. ...'inscape' (Einfuhlung) i s both a li n g u i s t i c and an emotive act.^I It i s an act of penetration and also incorporation, and i t i s achieved through some form of hypnotic interaction. In translating poetry, 27 this process of hypnosis can be most readily f e l t and the translator i s not the only one who i s affected by i t . Any reader of the original who feels moved by what he reads has come under the hypnotic spell (or suggestion) of what he has read. It i s merely a question of degree. The translator allows himself simply to l e t the work play upon his nervous system more thoroughly, to d r i f t deeper into a form of hypnotic trance, and possibly reach further down than the average reader. That does not mean that he, therefore, under-stands the work better on the intellectual level, i.e. "comes up" with a better analysis (although this may sometimes be the case), but that he has f e l t the 'essence' of the work s t i r 'sympathetically' his very being. He wants to become l i k e the author whom he trans-lates. The f i r s t step i n translating, then, i s to read the work over and over again, to allow i t to take over the imagination u n t i l i t has become a part of oneself and one has become a part of i t , or i n H. Be'iloc's words: f i r s t , to read your original until you have thoroughly got inside i t , u n t i l you are part of i t , as i t were, or at least clothed with it.^2 No concentration i s required at this time, merely a l e t t i n g go, an emptying of the mind, so that the sounds and rhythms and images may affect one deeply. Poetry i s a better 'hypnotiser' than prose, but i s not as good or as fast as music or the sounds of nature (the surging of the sea, the rippling of water, the rustling of leaves). It i s this incantatory effect created by the repetitive 28 arrangements of sounds and rhythms (meter, rhyme, assonances, a l l i t e r -ations, regular pauses, etc.) which exert this hypnotic pressure. Sounds and silences follow one another i n a repetitive rhythmic pattern, affect the mind and the sensibilities and force breathing and heartbeat from their neutral and relaxed paths into a new realm of consciousness; Speech rhythms obviously punctuate our sensation of time-flow and may well have synchronic relations with other nervous and somatic beats. Speech which i s deliberately metrical, and even the slackest prose has elements of syn-copation, w i l l play with or against this temporal matrix.^3 Physiologically and mentally a new order has been achieved. We experience the excitement which this new order elicit,s, as the magical effect of the poem. The more 'regular' the pulsebeat of the poem, the more hypnotic the effect w i l l be, and the faster the listener w i l l succumb to the power or magic of the poem. The hypnotic effect prepares the mind for the message which i t is.about to receive. The listener, or the translator, does not actually breathe i n accordance with the rhythm of the poem (although musicians have been found to do so when playing music) but he i s forced into the same situation as the spectator who watches the dancer and finds himself tapping the floor. The urge to join the dance, the power which music and poetry have over the body, may manifest i t s e l f by the tapping of the foot, the nodding of the head, or an unobserv-able inner rhythmic surging. In a l l cases there i s a readiness— a dance within—which s t i r s the impulses to respond to what one sees and hears and to yield to the influence of what i s beyond 29 oneself. I t i s for this reason that any r i t u a l , whether religious, p o l i t i c a l or private, uses steady repetitive rhythm i n i t s ceremony, either through the medium of the spoken word, the sound of music, the steady gait, or the stylised movement. Felt rhythmical repetition, whether man-made or natural, tends to evoke the need to yield to and incorporate these rhythms as part of the act of becoming one with the a l l , or yielding to an all-encompassing power, whether i t i s God, Self, a cosmic consciousness, or merely the consciousness of the original writer. This hypnosis by the work usually leads to a 'sympathetic' self-identification with the writer. Often i t does this on a subtle, semi-conscious level. The translator may say that 'the translation writes i t s e l f , or that he feels himself to be 'taken over by the original writer', or that he has become 'possessed by the s p i r i t of the original', 'obsessed and possessed' by i t . A l l these are part of the process of diving into the center. I t may not just be on a sensory level that hypnosis takes place. The more intellectual reader w i l l search into the background of the writer whom he trans-lates, w i l l want to know about his l i f e , his personality, his friends, his society and his culture i n general. The idea of acquainting himself with a l l of the poet's work, and his l i f e , and the period i n which he lived, serves not only the purpose of under-standing and hence f a c i l i t a t i n g a more 'correct' translation, but primarily helps the translator i n his necessary process of self-identification. It i s hypnosis via the intellect. The choice of road, whether sensory or intellectual, or both, depends on the type of work and on the personality of the translator. Only he himself 30 knows how he can be inspired, and inspiration comes at no other time than at the moment of mental relaxation, under the hypnotic effect of the original. After the i n i t i a l act of hypnosis which i s essentially passive— though sometimes, when busily gathering research data, appears to be active—the active part, the task of concentration, begins. I t i s at this time, namely when the deepest level of hypnosis i s achieved that the text i n the other language has become almost materially thinner, the l i g h t seems to pass unhindered through i t s loosened fibres. For a spell, the density of hostile or seductive 'otherness' i s d i s s i p a t e d . ^ At that precise moment the 'supra-poem' makes i t s appearance. From then on, a new state of mind, namely concentration, takes over. The mind i s no longer entirely passive since nox* i t i s required to focus on that new image which presents i t s e l f out of nowhere as i t seems, i n the form of vague sensations, excitements, feelings, snatches of dreamlike images which rise and f a l l . I t i s as i f one tried to remember the face of a long l o s t friend. One recognises a hazy outline but the features remain indistinct. Concentration helps to crystallise that image and l e t i t take i t s own shape at i t s own time. One sits and:merely waits with one's mind focused on the yet undefined sense of the supra-poem until the sensations manifest themselves i n definite visual or auditory images and a word or sentence presents i t s e l f to express that image. This process i s l i k e the gradual crumbling of a wall behind which a new 31 scenery reveals i t s e l f . I t i s as i f a v e i l were, for one brief moment, removed from one's eyes. Then,gradually, a more definable shape emerges into the open, into consciousness. One i s able to hold on to It for a longer period, grasp i t s details and write them down, and test the words over and over again against that image unt i l they match exactly, that i s , evoke exactly, the same sensations and feelings f e l t at the primary recognition. I t i s a continual merging and re-emerging, a grasping and alternate letting go, as i f the mind were incapable of seeing and being aware of seeing at the same time. One scuttles back and forth between the vague sensation of seeing and the more definite aware-ness of seeing. At that level, i t can be said that a creative process i s taking place. From where these images come i s a mystery. They simply appear by themselves. When the image has taken i t s most vivid shape—and i t may at this point either be firmly grasped by memory or written down so that i t can no longer s l i p back—one feels utterly elated, satisfied, but also very tired. One may not have l i f t e d one finger, but i s drained of a l l energy. Even though the emerging images come from a strange and un-known land, one can see that they wear the costumes of ones own making. They w i l l be coloured by a l l that one has at one time experienced, known, and f e l t . Since they are entirely of one's own making (even though a total 'possession' by the original writer, a total self-identification, w i l l do much to submerge or obliterate one's own personality), they can be said to be subjective. They depend on a myriad of past experiences and associations between 32 them which have helped to shape the individual. Every word which rises from that pool of memory, has a poetic quality and triggers associations of private sensations and feelings. Steiner gives this example of associative subjectivity! In his self-analysis, L'Age d'Homme, Michael L e i r i s observes that the "s" i n "suicide" retains for him the precise shape and whistling sibilance of a Kris (the serpentine dagger of the Malays). The " u i " sound stands for the hiss of the flame; "cide" signifies "acidity" and corrosive penetration. A picture of oriental immolation in a magazine had. fixed and .inter-woven these associations i n the child's mind. He goes on to say that no dictionary could include them, no grammar formalize the process of collocation. Yet this i s precisely the way i n which a l l of us put meaning into meaning. The difference i s that, more often than not, the active sources of connotation remain subconscious or outside the reach of memory.^ Under the inspiration, or hypnotic suggestion of the original writer, the translator s t i r s his own memory, touches these active sources and fashions from them his newly re-created images. The stronger the personality of the translator, the more subjective these images w i l l be and the more inclined he w i l l be toward a 'free' translation. There i s , I believe, a distinct difference, psychologically speaking, between the translator who prefers 'free translation and the one who favours a 'close* one. The 'free' translator becomes possessed by the original writer i n a different way. He absorbs the writer, while the 'close' translator l e t s 33 himself be absorbed by him. The former obliterates the personality of the writer and the character of his work and incorporates them into his own consciousness, while the l a t t e r obliterates his own individuality and that of his own work and merges with that of his model. I t i s said that the translator i s a frustrated poet merely waiting until "the great job, the great moment [the writing of his 47 1 own poetry], comes along but i n truth, the translator i s a poet who has nothing to say. I t seems that the 'free' translator has a greater urge than the 'close* translator to be a poet, but has not yet found his own inner voice. In the meantime, he uses that of another writer, but speaks with his own tongue. He steals his ideas and hides them i n his own words. He i s essentially a plagiarist. The 'close* translator, by comparison, has hardly any ambitions to be a poet i n his own right. He i s merely at play, playing with the original poem, sharpening and testing his sensibilities together with his l i n g u i s t i c tools, carving, shaping, and re-shaping images and meanings, and enjoying the patterns which he may invent i n imitation of the original. He i s primarily a craftsman. Nevertheless, there seems to exist the notion that a translator ought to be also an ar t i s t (poet): the true translator of l y r i c poetry must be an active poet. Without this, the transplantation of the specific and f r a i l plant from a foreign atmosphere and s o i l into his own w i l l be a failure, for the transplantation w i l l not be made gently and sensitively but coldly and rationally, and the result w i l l be as i f the plant had been put Into a bottle of s p i r i t . The shape would remain, and perhaps the colour, too, but the plant would die, become a mere l i f e l e s s replica of the original4°; 34 along with the opposite view that a great poet can never be a good translatori but i n the case of such great poets as these [Heine, Goethe] there i s an obvious danger that their powerful embrace w i l l destroy the object of i t , even as Jupiter's love destroyed Seme'le.^ Both views hold some truth some of the time. I f the translator i s also an active poet his tools w i l l be sharpened with continual use. He may become a superb craftsman at his job. But i f his own ego i s too strong and gets between the original and the translation, his craftsmanship may merely serve to cut the original to pieces. What gets into the way i n translating i s his strong sense of identity, his ego with a l l i t s own obsessions, wishes and powers which exerts i t s e l f over the text and personality which i t i s meant to incorporate or yield to. Stefan George's translations of Shakespeare's Sonnets, for instance, bear hardly any resemblance to the originalsJ Not marble, nor the gilded monuments of princes, shall outlive this powerful rime, But you shall shine more bright i n these contents Than unswept stone, besmear*d with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick f i r e shall burn The l i v i n g record of your memory. 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth; your praise shall s t i l l find room Even i n the eyes of a l l posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom. So, t i l l the judgement that yourself arise, You l i v e i n this, and dwell i n lovers' eyes. (Sonnet 55) 3 5 Nicht marmor lebt und nicht vergoldet mal Solang als diese machtigen melodien— Nicht scheint so hel l als dieser reihen zahl Der schmutzige stein von ekler zeit bespien. Wenn grimmiger krieg die saulen iiberrennt Und s t r e i t das werk stiirzt das der maurer schuf t Nicht schwert des M a r s — n i c h t kriegesfeuer brennt Deines gedachtnisses lebendigen ruf. Durch tod und allvergessenden verdruss Gehst du hindurch .. dein preis bleibt noch bestellt Im auge al'ler kunftigen die die welt Aufbrauchen bis zu dem verhangten schluss. So lebst du-— bis du aufstehst beim geri c h t — Hierin und i n der liebenden gesicht. The content i s presented only very vaguely and the style i s definitely George's. The original has lo s t i t s Elizabethan flavour and taken on George's twentieth century mode of expression and starkness of style that he i s known for. In other words, the great poet cannot l e t go of his own consciousness. He i s quite inflexible. The original may serve as a stimulus but i t w i l l mainly trigger his own ideas which w i l l eventually win out at the expense of the original work. He resembles the •free' translator because he, too, i s stimulated into action by the original. But while the 'free' translator does not violate the idea or 'meaning'—however loosely he may perceive i t — b u t only the shape of form, the great creative poet also wants to obliterate the meaning. His own poem may become a b r i l l i a n t comment on, or an articulate answer to, the original, but i t w i l l no longer be a translation. He w i l l have taken the l i f e of the original and given i t to his new poem. Great poets do J not always overpower what they love as, (Rilke's-translations 36 of Valery do not f . i . ) , but the urge to do so i s there because their sense as artists takes precedence over their sense as craftsmen. There i s , then, a distinct psychological difference found amongst the two types of translators and the creative poet as they go about the business of translation. The 'close' trans-lator gives himself up to the original writer, the 'free' trans-lator incorporates him into himself, the creative a r t i s t does neither. The f i r s t dissolves his ego, his own subjectivity, i n the subjectivity of the 'other 1; the second changes his ego and his subjectivity to incorporate the subjectivity of the 'other'; and the third repe'lls any attack on his own ego-subjectivity. These psychological dispositions e l i c i t three different types of translation or even three entirely different processes of creation. As a consequence, the translators, after diving into the very center of 'essence* and out through their particular f i e l d of subjectivity, emerge a l l with different translations. They sur-face with different treasures: some with pearls, some with empty shells. In their own way they enrich and adorn experience with what they have found, and their freedom to do so becomes a cele-bration of l i f e i t s e l f . IV The translator, however, i s not only a creator concerned with the unfolding of his own receptivity, perception and l i n g u i s t i c 37 power, but he has many other functions. He i s a communicator promoting cross-inspiration and cross-fertilisation between cultures. He i s also an interpreter. His s k i l l s of interpretation grow quite naturally out of his activity as a translator. Since no-one else comes 'physically' closer to the work than he does, his intimacy allows him to see and perceive subtleties that may escape other l i t e r a r y c r i t i c s . The translator develops also his s k i l l s as s s t y l i s t : i t i s no very startling discovery to announce that back-and-forth translation from tongue to tongue i s the best and very l i k e l y the only proper school of s t y l i s t i c s . For many years, into-and-out-of translation was the core of a l l humane academic t r a i n i n g , ^ and learns to appreciate the l i n g u i s t i c d i f f i c u l t i e s inherent i n his task. He becomes aware of the differences i n the two languages. The training which translation thus provides i s one which broadens the scope of the translator's understanding, f i r s t i n his own discipline, then i n a wider ranging l i t e r a r y - l i n g u i s t i c f i e l d . He becomes a practising comparatist as well as a conveyer and interpreter of ideas and of beauty. The knowledge which he may gain as a comparatist, may f i n a l l y even enable him to draw from i t insights only obliquely related to his f i e l d . By being i n such close contact with the original language, for instance, noticing how d i f f i c u l t i t may be to express even the simplest idea i n another language, may make him realise that this d i f f i c u l t y signifies an important fact, namely that people experience them-selves differently i n different cultures. Language i s no a r t i f i c i a l 38 tool. I t i s not created, moulded or manipulated for no apparent reason. Language ijs the perception of man, not only just an expression of i t . A particular language i s rooted i n a particular consciousness. I t i s the state of perception of one culture at a particular moment i n time. By becoming aware of language, the translator thus becomes aware of the particular perception he i s translating from, and, by comparison, he becomes aware of his own. The unfolding of his broader vision may then lead him quite naturally into the fields of history, psychology, social science or anthropology depending on whether the two languages he i s deal-ing with are related to, or removed from,one another i n space or time. He may well expand his scope since the possibilities for synthetic scholastic activity and speculations present themselves to him. He w i l l have the opportunity ( i f he has the power to use his knowledge) to become a man who i s not only a translator, not only a scholar preoccupied with the details of his task, but a man capable of vision on a wide scale. George Steiner i s such a man. By becoming aware of the lin g u i s t i c differences and noticing 46 that civilisations are "imprisoned i n a lin g u i s t i c contour", the questions, as to why they are and why they. change with the passage of time present themselves to him and beg to be answered. Steiner observes! New words enter as old words lapse. Grammatical conventions are changed under pressure of idiomatic use or by cultural ordinance. The spectrum of per-missible expressions as against that which i s taboo shifts perpetually. At a deeper level, the relative dimensions and intensities of the spoken and the unspoken alter,51 39 and the conclusions which he draws are endeavours to say some-thing new and revealing about how man i n general perceives his world and how he communicates his knowledge. The translator may notice more acutely than the l i t e r a r y c r i t i c that, for instance, people have a different sense of orientation i n time and space to one anotheri Spatialisation, and the space-time matrix i n which we locate our lives, are made manifest i n and by every element of grammar52 53 or that some languages are more susceptible to metaphor. Such observations lead Steiner directly into speculations about the concepts of time and space, imagination, and the nature of the mind, concepts which have intrigued every thinking man since the beginning of his waking consciousness. Steiner touches, thus, not only on the fields of psychology but also philosophy. The translator, as the comparatist, then, has the rare opportunity to play many roles. He may also be a historian, a psychologist, an anthropologist or a philosopher. Ideally his understanding _widens around him i n concentric circles encompassing larger and larger areas of knowledge. Not only do translators have this chance to use their own •data' for the advancement of knowledge, but the study of trans-lations from a c r i t i c a l point of view also provides the same kind of opportunity. The c r i t i c of translations i s also basically a comparatist. When comparing translations, he i s i n the same 40 p o s i t i o n as the t r a n s l a t o r i f he i s perceptive of the di f f e r e n c e s i n t r a n s l a t i o n . And there are many differences, not only on an i n d i v i d u a l l e v e l , but on a h i s t o r i c a l l e v e l . "Translations age as 54 r a p i d l y as o r i g i n a l s " says Adams. The reason f o r t h i s i s that language and the s e n s i b i l i t i e s which i t represents, change over the passage of time: Because t r a n s l a t i o n s consist so l a r g e l y of proposed equivalents, they t e l l us i n s t r i k i n g d e t a i l , how men saw themselves by showing us how they saw, or re-fused to see, others. 55 Not only do they t e l l us how they saw themselves i n r e l a t i o n to others, but also how they saw. The things which they choose to emphasise, or leave out, manipulate, i n d i c a t e t h e i r p a r t i c u l a r set of values, t h e i r biases, t h e i r p a r t i c u l a r sense of i d e n t i t y i n t h e i r worlds. Translations betray the t r a n s l a t o r s ' s u b j e c t i v i t y and i t i s p r e c i s e l y through that s u b j e c t i v i t y that we get a glimpse at t h e i r world. That glimpse i s not only important from a psy-ch o l o g i c a l , anthropological or h i s t o r i c a l point of view but, most s i g n i f i c a n t l y , opens our eyes toward our own world. The sense of r e l a t i v i t y , and yet purposefulness, one discovers from such a glimpse, the sense of d i v e r s i t y , and yet unity, expand conscious-ness. The function of the t r a n s l a t o r and h i s tr a n s l a t i o n s , as I see i t , i s , thus, not just p r i m a r i l y t i e d to communication (whether on an aesthetic or i n t e l l e c t u a l l e v e l ) , not just a useful occupation i n the service of c r o s s - f e r t i l i s a t i o n between 41 cultures, but tied to his potential role as a comparatist who may give impetus to the evolution of knowledge. As an action, translation i s communication of beauty and ideas, as a con-templation on the action, i t i s knowledge. It i s a many-faceted mirror. Each facet reflects one_corner of. reality, but . together they show a vision of the world. V Thus, one learns not only by doing, but by thinking about what one i s doing. The doing, however, s t i l l remains the primary action. The best way to talk about that action, the making of translations, i s to show how i t i s done and what kind of decisions have to be made. One begins by accepting one's limitations. Translating an English poem, l i k e Keats* Odes, for instance, i s l i k e trying to copy a garment without enough available cloth. No matter how one stretches and pulls at the cloth, i t does not cover a l l . The new creation i s always, at least, two numbers too small. Alas, the 'Muse' who inspires translators weaves her l i n g u i s t i c tapestries with two different kinds of thread. The German thread (language) favours i n i t s choice of rhythm usually a dactylic meter, simply because German has a great variety of multi-syllabic and compound words which are stressed i n this way i n every-day language. My f i r s t translation of Keat's Ode"To Autumn^ for instance, seemed to translate i t s e l f almost automatically into dactylic meter. A dactylic rhythm, 42 when used i n poetry or music, suggests liveliness and motion. The dactylic three-quarter stress ('--) of the waltz, for instance, carries the dancers into the cycle of perpetual motion. In this cycle, the dancers experience the i l l u s i o n of being rhythmically swept on and upward. The waltz i s a dance of perpetual l i f e , a rhythmical and s t i l i s e d r i t u a l of courtship, i n which the dancers sweep upward with a sense of weightlessness which defies earth-bound gravity. The dactyl i s the rhythm i n which motion wins over stasis, l i f e over death. The principle i s really very simple. The time devoted to stress and unstress i s I;2. The dancer i s 'up i n the ai r ' twice as long as he Is on the 'ground'. When dancing the waltz, the f i r s t 'stressed' step i s taken with the weight of the whole foot, while the following two 'unstressed* steps are taken on the toes. When the dancers are 'up' on their toes, the turning occurs, since the relative weightlessness permits a radical change i n direction. The dactylic rhythm, whether i n dance or poetry, w i l l thus always re-create a feeling of motion; liveliness. By comparison, the English language favours an iambic rhythm In which equal time i s devoted to stress and unstress. This type of rhythm i s simply 'heavier' than the dactylic one and gives a sense of greater 'weight' and 'substance'. A l l stresses convey this sense of 'weight'. Compare, for instance, the waltz to the funeral march. In Chopin's Sonata i n B-Flat Minor, Opus 35, the opening and refrain of the Funeral March of the third movement can be transcribed as suchi 43 I I — I — i i — t — I I - I l - I - l - l I I — l i - | - l - I i I — I I — ) -I — t as compared to the typical waltz rhythm: — I I I I--I f the Funeral March were to be a poem, although i t would never be a typical English poem, we would count thirty-three stressed and twenty-four unstressed syllables, an approximate ratio of 4:3, as compared to the 1:2 ratio of the waltz. What this t e l l s us about the relationship of stress to unstress i s clear. The more stresses, the 'heavier' and 'slower' the l i n e seems; the fewer stresses, the ' f l i g h t i e r ' and 'faster' the l i n e . The 'heavier' the l i n e , the greater i s the suggestion of substance, inertia, death; the 'lighter' the l i n e , the stronger the notion of movement, speed, and l i f e . As a comparatist, the translator may well ask why such a difference i n the rhythm of language exists and what i t says about the people and conditions which produced i t . Not only their speech rhythms may d i f f e r but quite l i k e l y also their character, their l i f e s t y l e s , their sense of self; a l l these, as i t were, dance to the beat of a different tune. The southern dactylic rhythms (with their relative lack of stresses) are 44 l i v e l i e r than the northern iambs; a difference which may not only be a geographical or climatic one, but have i t s origin i n a multitude of historical influences a l l worthy of investigation. Keats i s part of the northern iambs as much as they are part of him. Those who f i r s t thought of writing English poetry i n iambs 56 did so by following the natural inclination of the language. The iambic pentameter, then, as chosen by Keats as well as by many of his predecessors, i s neither 'deadening' nor i s i t •flighty'. The iambic pentameter expresses i n fact a perfect balance between stress and unstress. The pleasure, which i t gives, rises from a feeling of harmony which i s found i n mature poetry, a harmony which the iambic l i n e conveys. To preserve the iambic pentameter i s a major consideration i n translating Keats' Cdes since the insistence of the iambic stress i s one of the most important non-verbal features which i s responsible for the somber dignity, heaviness and restraint of the Odes. The Ode i t s e l f , being the genre of Pindar, was meant to employ a slow, dignified chanting rhythm, a rhythm which, i n the English language, i s very well given justice by iambic meter. The importance of maintaining the iambic stress and the realisation of the d i f f i c u l t y i n the rhythmic relationship between the two languages was not discovered u n t i l much experimenting. My f i r s t version of "To Autumn" was so pre-occupied with language and rhyme that the result was a rhymed translation i n dactylic meter giving a very uncontrolled impression. The iambic rhythm, finally, rather than the rhyme, seemed the most precious feature to retain, 45 not only i n "To Autumn" but also i n th© other Odes whenever i t was employed by Keats. In "Ode on a Grecian Urn", for instance, the 'frozen moment' asks for slow and thoughtful iambs. In "Ode to a Nightingale", the idea of trance and death pervades the poem and calls for iambic stress. "My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk." When the poem 'soars' i n stanza four, the iambic pattern loosens momentarily, allowing the lines a greater 'flightiness'i "Away.* away.' for I w i l l f l y to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards; Already with thee.' tender i s the night, And haply the Queen-Moon i s on her throne, Cluster'd around by a l l her starry Fays; But here there i s no li g h t , Save what from heaven i s with breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways." In "Ode to Psyche", the iambic rhythm seems least justified by subject matter alone; yet, there i s no doubt that the strong repetitive rhythm adds to the incantatory quality of the poem, and the incantatory quality leads to the kind of ectasy and vision which we are allowed to share with the poet at the moment of our hypnotic communion. Thus, having decided to adapt rhythms to iambic meter and to give up 'schemes of rhyme', unless they were themselves rhythmically 46 important, I further wanted to retain the pauses at the end of the lines. This seemed another important rhythmic device which allows for an incantatory effect. Incantation i s but one method of hypnosis. Rhythmically induced pauses are an invitation to the reader to take a long breath after a determined stretch of time. The more regularly these pauses follow one another, the more repetitive and hypnotic the effect w i l l be, and the faster the listener w i l l succumb to the power of the poem. The incantatory power of poetry thus greatly depends on the rhythmic regularity of the sounds as achieved by Keats through iambic regularity and the expectation of regular pauses, but also through rhythmic echoes within one stanza or consequent stanzas. The rhythmic echoes are usually i n conjunction with rhyme echoes. In "To Autumn", for instance, Keats allows the rhymed lines to follow an identical rhythms To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shell's For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells o n Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy brook Steady thy laden head across a brook Or by a cyder-press, with patient look o n Think not of them thou hast thy music too And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue. 47 These parallels of rhythm and rhyme give the poem a certain regularity and solidity which can be f e l t at once. In "Ode to Psyche", Keats alternates iambic pentameter lines with iambic trimeter i n stanzas two and three. These repetitions of the type of rhythm, length of rhythm, rhyme-rhythm parallels (and also repetition of words), a l l contribute to an incantatory and solemn effect. This i s why stanzas two and three of "Ode to Psyche" are magical. Stanzas one and four, on the other hand, which also use an alternating l i n e length i n the l a s t four lines, f a i l to give this sense of magic. There are two reasons for this. F i r s t , to create a break i n the pattern so late i n the stanza, i s almost l i k e drawing attention to a definite conclusion. I t works l i k e the couplet at the end of a sonnet which serves to sum up i n conclusion. Indeed, Keats has such a conclusion i n mind i The winged boy I knew; But who wast thou, 0 happy, happy dove? His Psyche true.' and: And there shall be for thee a l l soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To l e t the warm Love in.' Since these lines are so conclusive, the short twelfth l i n e of stanza one ("Abrooklet, scarce espied"), which could work as an 48 •echo©' r e - i n f o r c i n g thought and pattern, hangs l o o s e l y and i r r i t a t i n g l y i n the a i r . Secondly, the very short l a s t l i n e of stanza one ("His Psyche true.') i s never again used anywhere i n the poem. Such a short l i n e at the end of a stanza tends to be emphatic and c l i m a c t i c One has the f e e l i n g that Keats has spent himself, has given away h i s climax too early i n the poem, and that everything else which follows i s post-climactic. Altogether, "Ode to Psyche" seems to be rather confused i n i t s i n t e n t i o n . Should i t be 'conclusive 1 or merely y i e l d to the magic of the vis i o n ? The Ode seems to be an experiment struggling f o r a fusion of v i s i o n and knowledge. The tension, which e x i s t s between the magical middle section and the frame tending toward i n t e r -p r e t a t i o n of the v i s i o n , i s undermining the power the poem might have on strength of i t s language. In my t r a n s l a t i o n of "Ode to Psyche" I have t r i e d to be as 'incantatory' as possible. Throughout the poem, I alternate iambic pentameters with shorter iambic-lines.in order to induce a 'swaying' motionj 0 H e l l s t e ! Trotz verlor'ner Schwure, Zu spat, zu spUt, das S p i e l der trauten L e i e r , Verzaubert war'en Walder, Flure, Geseghet war d i e L u f t , das Wasser, Feuer. • • • Dein L i e d , und Laute, Flbte, Wurze Im Welhrauchbecher schwingt, Dein Schrein, Dein Hain, Orakelsprjiche Zu dem Propheten singt. I have a l s o incorporated the shorter l i n e s of the o r i g i n a l and f i n d that, because of my adjustment to a l t e r n a t i n g l i n e lengths, 49 these shorter lines are less i r r i t a t i n g . In a translation of Keats' Odes, the consideration of the non-verbal component of rhythmic patterning and the understanding of how i t affects the listener are most important. Even the use of language can be divided into verbal and non-verbal aspects. The sound of words i s as important as the meaning of words. Again, Keats uses the non-verbal aspect, the sound of language to i t s f u l l e s t potential. The feeling of sensuous-ness i n the Odes i s created through sounds. A language i s not only sensuous when i t s words convey sensuous meaning, but also when the words themselves imitate the sounds of natural phenomena. Keats' sensitivity to natural sounds expresses i t s e l f i n such words as "winnowing winds", or "the murmurous haunt of f l i e s on summer eves", or "bees...for which warm days w i l l never cease". One can hear and feel the winds, the f l i e s , the humming of the bees. Luckily, most words referring to objects and processes of the natural world are onomatopoeic to start with. The word "wind" tries to re-create the sound of wind, and the word "bees" imitates their buzzing. This i s nothing new; assonance and al l i t e r a t i o n merely tend to amplify the onomatopoeic effect of the particular word. But assonance and al l i t e r a t i o n also give a certain audible direction to the imagination. For instance, there i s a difference i n sound between "whispering winds" and "winnowing winds". Both use assonance and al l i t e r a t i o n to help build up the audible impression of wind. One imagines, however, that a "winnowing wind" moves without obstruction across a wide 50 plain, meadow, or sea, while a "whispering wind" may move quietly through the f i l i g r e e of forest branches, rustling leaves on the way. Consequently the sense impression, as experienced through listening to the right sounds (quantitative and qualitative) calls forth different sets of connotations stored i n the memory. Assonance and all i t e r a t i o n , apart from their incantatory possi-b i l i t i e s , thus evoke and direct imagination. They are helpful t o o l s — i f I go back to the starting point of this essay— i n recovering- what seems to be lo s t i n the memory of sounds and events. Although Keats uses these tools of assonance and a l l i t e r -ation with a great sense of discretion, i t i s because of them that the s t r i c t adherence to formal rhyme patterns becomes less important since assonance and al l i t e r a t i o n weave their own intricate patterns of sound. Even though not always abandoning rhyme, I have tried to copy Keats' use of assonance and al l i t e r a t i o n as best as I could. I t was a pleasure to find that the German language i s rich i n a l l kinds of suggestive sounds, and that i t was relatively easy to 'alliterate' and 'assonate'. The originals and the translations, therefore, gain a great deal when read out loud and when the sounds are actually formed by the l i p s , when they are 'mouthed' l i k e the grapes, apples, and nuts, of which Keats speaks i n his Ode "To Autumn". Keats i s thus a poet whose main power l i e s i n the use of non-verbal techniques, and a translation which tends toward an imitative and impressionistic rendering (an 'essential equi-valence' rather than a 'close' or 'free* translation) of the 51 originals seems justified. Because of my tendency toward 'equi-valence', some details i n the Odes are not given f u l l consideration. I t was more important to convey the right feeling or mood rather than to record every detail. I was more interested i n the magical f i r e which glows through the poems than i n the l i t e r a l rendering of every detail. To kindle a similar f i r e was the aim of my translation. I t could hence be said that I am a translator who, at least with respect to Keats, favours 'essential equivalence's but I am also a 'sensualist' who would never give up the 'music' of Keats for any possible philosophic content which may be deduced from i t . Although my own subjectivity shines through my trans-lations, there i s no doubt that Keats came to 'obsess' me at various points. How else can i t be explained that some of the translations seem to have written themselves. Thus, quite readily absorbed by the s p i r i t of Keats, whatever 'essence' he may have imparted to me, that 'essence' found i t s concretisation i n my particular compromises! my action of translating. VI From the preceding pages i t can be seen, then, that although one learns translation by doing i t , one learns about translation by thinking about what one i s doing. Translation i s a subjective, personal act which can have no definite guidelines. Its closeness 52 to, or deviation from, the original depends on how the translator perceives his responsibility. His sense of responsibility w i l l be determined by his notion as to the pr i o r i t i e s of content and form which he acknowledges as the outward manifestation of an inner 'essence* which he wishes to capture. Whatever his p r i o r i t i e s or compromises may be, he must be free to choose as he pleases. For the sake of true communication, there i s a need and place for every type of translation. For the sake of creativity, there i s his need for personal discovery and growth. In the process of translating, he penetrates to a level of consciousness where his and the author's identities touch. There he receives the g i f t of 'essence' and brings back from their common meeting ground, an intuition thereof. But his translation can be only a personal and subjective rendering of the original. His 'fallen' state, his subjectivity, should be accepted as inevitable. His function i s nevertheless important. He i s a communicator of ideas and beauty, and indirectly he i s an interpreter and a man of letters. By becoming aware of l i t e r a r y and l i n g u i s t i c differences, he comes i n touch with more universal questions which may lead him into other fields of inquiry. He i s a practic-ing comparatist, and i f he has the power and understanding, he may do much to integrate knowledge and contribute to i t s advance-ment. Primarily, however, he i s a man of action. He learns to do by doing what he learns to do; but as a man of contemplation he also learns to know by learning how to think about his doings: the act, process and function of his actions. 53 F O O T N O T E S 1 James S. Holmes, "Verse Translation and Verse Form," The Nature of Translations Essays on the Theory and Practice  of Literary Translation, ed. James S. Holmes (Bratislava: Slovak Academy of Sciences, 1970), p. 94. 2 Werner Winter, "The Impossibilities of Translation," The Craft and Context of Translation, ed. William Arrowsmith and Roger Shattuck (Austins Univ. of Texas Press, 1961), p. 68. 3 Robert M. Adams, Proteus, His Lies, His Truths  Discussion of Literary Translation (New York: W.W. Norton, 1973), p. 180. 4 Adams, p. 180. 5 Adams, n. x. 6 Rudolf Suhnel, Homer und. die Englische Human!fat (Tubingen: Max Niemeyer, 195877 p. 170. 7 George Steiner, After Babels Aspects of Language and  Translation (Londons Oxford Univ. Press, 19757, p. 250. 8 Adams, p. 21. 9 Alexander Pope, "Preface," The Ilia d of Homer (Londons Charles Rivington, 1760), n. x i . 10 Pope, n. xxxix. 11 Pope, n. xxxix 12 Pope, n. x l . 13 John Dryden, "Preface," The Georgics of Vergil (1697; rpt. New Yorks Cheshire House, 1931), n.p. 54 14 Dryden, n.p. 15 Matthew Arnold, On Translating Homer (London: George Routledge & Sons), p. 3» 16 Arnold, p. 6. 17 Alexander Fraser-Tytler, Essay on the Principles of Translation (London: J.M. Dent), p. 9. 18 Holmes, p. 95» 19 Kenneth Rexroth, "The Poet as Translator," The Craft  and Context of Translation, ed. Williams Arrowsmith and Roger Shattuck (Austin: Univ. of Texas Press, 1961), p. 22. 20 Rexroth, p. 36. 21 Rexroth, p. 37. 22 C. Day Lewis, "Preface," The Aeneid of Vergil (London: Hogarth Press, 1961), n. ix. 23 Steiner, p. 8. 24 Steiner, p. 170. 25 Leonard Forster, "Translation: An Introduction," Aspects  of Translation: Studies i n Communication 2 (London: Seeker & Warburg, 1958), p. 23. 26 Eric Jacobsen, Translation A Traditional Craft: An Introductory Sketch with a Study, of Marlowe's Elegies (Copenhagen: Nordisk, 1958), p. 98. 27 Steiner, p. 296. 5 5 28 Eugene A. Nida and Charles R. Taber, The Theory and  Practice of Translation (Leidem E.J. B r i l l , 1 9 7 4 ) , p.99. 29 Adams, p. 16. 30 Forster, pp. 16-17. 31 Bohuslav Ilek, "On Translating Images," The Nature of  Translation; Essays on the Theory and Practice of Literary  Translation, ed. James S. Holmes (Bratisiava»Slovak Academy of Sciences, 1970), p. 137. 3 2 Steiner, p. 198 3 3 Adams, p. 1 5 . 34 Edward Ba'lcerzan, "La Traduction, Art d.'Interpreter," The Nature of Translation: Essays on the Theory and Practice  of Literary Translation, ed. James S. Holmes (Bratislave: Slovak Academy of Sciences, 1970), p. 10. 3 5 Paul Se'lver, The Art of Translating Poetry (Boston: The Writer, 1966), p. 11. 36 Forster, p. 2 3 37 " Adams, p. 182. 38 Steiner, p. 296 f. 39 The term 'hypnosis1 will not be used in its exact scientific meaning but rather as a metaphor. What is really meant is a form of altered consciousness intimately known to those who re-create translations. 40 Steiner, p. 2 5 41 Steiner, p. 26. 56 42 Hi'laire Belloc, "On Translation," A Conversation with  an Angel and Other Essays (London: Jonathan Cape, 1931), P» l6l. 43 Steiner, p. 130. 44 Steiner, p. 298 45 Steiner, p. 198 46 Steiner, p. 198 47 Rexroth, p. 36. 48 Ranka Kuic, "Translating English Romantic Poetry," The Nature of Translation: Essays on the Theory and Practice;  of Literary Translation, ed. James S. Holmes (Bratislava: Slovak Academy of Sciences, 1970), p. 184. 49 Selver, pp. 116-117. 50 Adams, p. 178. 51 Steiner, p. 18. 52 Steiner, p. 89. 53 Steiner, p. 53* 54 Adams, p. 15. 55 Adams, p. 17. 56 I do not mean to suggest that English prose i s gnerally spoken i n iambs but rather that i t has a subtle tendency to f a l l into that pattern; this does not mean that i t must, or should, do so. I t i s i n comparison with German that this tendency i s more apparent. 57 B I B L I O G R A P H Y Adams, Robert M. Proteus, His Lies, His Truths Discussion of  Literary Translation. New York: W.W. Norton, 1973. Arnold, Matthew. On Translating Homer. Londons George Rout-ledge & Sons. Belioc, Hilaire. "On Translation." A Conversation with an  Angel and Other Essays. Londons Jonathan Cape, 193L The Craft and Context of Translation. Ed. William Arrowsmith and Roger Shattuck. Austin: Univ. of Texas Press, 1961. Dryden, John. "Preface." The Georgics of Vergil. 1697; rpt. New York: Cheshire House, 1931. Forster, Leonard. " Translation:' An Introduction." Aspects  of Translation: Studies i n Communication 2. London: Seeker & Warburg, 1958. Fraser-Tyt'ler, Alexander. Essay on the Principles of Trans-lation. London: J.M. Dent. Gerschenkron, Alexander. "A Manufactured Monument." Modern Philology, LXIII (1966), 336-347. Jacobsen, Eric. Translation A Traditional Crafts An Intro- ductory Sketch with a Study of Marlowe's Elegies. Copenhagen: Nordisk, 1958. Lewis, C. Day. "Preface." The Aeneid of Vergil. London: Hogarth Press, 1961. McWi'IIiam, G.H. "Introduction." 80008010's Decameron. Penguin: Harmondsworth, 1972. Myami, P. "General Concepts of Laws i n Translation." Modern Language Journal, XL, 1956,. 13-21. Nida, Eugene A., et a l . The Theory and Practice of Translation. Leiden: E.J. B r i l l , 1974. The Nature of Translation: Essays on the Theory and Practice of Literary Translation. Ed. James S. Holmes. Bratislava: Slovak Academy of Sciences, 1970. Pope, Alexander. "Preface," The Ili a d of Homer. London: Charles Rivington, 1760. 58 Se'lver, Paul. The Art of Translating Poetry. Boston* The Writer, 19667 Steiner, George. After Babelt Aspects of Language and Translation. Londoni Oxford Univ. Press, 1975. Suhnel, Rudolf, Homer und die Englische Humanitat. Tubingen* Max Niemeyer, 1958. 59 T R A N S L A T I O N S ODE TO APOLLO IN thy western halls of gold When thou si t t e s t i n thy state, Bards, that erst sublimely told Heroic deeds, and sang of fate, With fervour seize their adamantine lyres, Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant f i r e s . Here Homer with his nervous arms Strikes the twanging harp of war. And even the western splendour warms, While the trumpets sound afar: But, what creates the most intense surprise, His soul looks out through renovated eyes. Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre: The soul delighted on each accent dwells,--Enraptur'd d w e l l s , — not daring to respire, The while he t e l l s of grief around a funeral pyre. 'Tis awful silence then again; Expectant stand the spheres; Breathless the laurell'd peers, Nor move, t i l l ends the l o f t y strain, Nor move t i l l Milton's tuneful thunders cease, And leave once more the ravish'd heavens i n peace. Thou biddest Shakespeare wave his hand, And quickly forward spring The P a s s i o n s — a t e r r i f i c band— And each vibrates the string That with i t s tyrant temper best accords, While from their Master's l i p s pour forth the inspiring words. A silver trumpet Spenser blows, And, as i t s martial notes to silence flee, From a v i r g i n chorus flows A hymn i n praise of spotless Chastity. 'Tis s t i l l . ' Wild warblings from the Aeolian lyre Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire. Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers Float along the pleased a i r , Calling youth from i d l e slumbers, Rousing them from Pleasure's lalrsn— Then o'er the strings his fingers gently move, And melt the soul to pity and to love. 61 ODE AN APOLLO WO i n go!dener Hallo wohnt Majestat- — Du kdniglich, Sanger einst vor Deinem Thron Von Helden sangen meisterlich} Nun greifen wiederum nach Diamantenleier, Und Salten strahlen Licht und werfen funkelnd Feuer. Hier schlagt Homer mit reger Hand Die Kriegerharfe scharf zum Ton, Und Pracht des Westens herientflammt Erwiirmt sich zum Trompetenstoss; Doch was am meisten iiberrascht den Blick, 1st seine Seele die i n jungen Augen l i e g t . Dann, durch den weiten Tempel schwillt und e i l t Die siisse Melodei von Maro's L e i e r — Verziickt der Sinn an jeder Note weilt, Entriickt er w e i l t — — i n atemloser Feier -Und spricht vom Schmerz derjenigen um Totenfeuer. Dann, dunkle S t i l l e atemlos Der Spharenreigen l e i s ' , Bekranzter Freundeskreis, Sie httren auf den letzten Ton, Und rilhren nicht bis Milton's Donner bricht Und bringt dem Himme'l wieder Friedenslicht. Du bietest Shakespeare "ruhr die Hand, Und schnell auf Saiten streicht Die Leidenschaft i h r buntes Band, Und siisser Klang entweicht In Stimmung mit dem farb'gen Temperament; Indessen Meistermund harmonisch'Worte nennt. Und Spenser blast auf Silberhorn, Und wenn die Kriegertone fliehn, So f l i e s s t von ed'ler Jungfrau'n Chor Der keuschen Reinheit hohe Hyranen hin. Ganz l e i s l der Himraelsharfe Zitterklang Verk'lingt, verzaubert atmet Welt zum Ehrgesang. Dann gleiten Tasso's inn'ge Weisen Auf lauen L'uften glucksbewusst, Und rufen Jiinglinge ganz leise Zum sel'gen Lager ihrer L u s t — Dann uber Saiten sanft sein Finger streicht Und schmilzt die Seele ganz vor Lieb und Leid. But when Thou joinest with the Nine, And all the powers of song combine. We listen here on eartht The dying tones that f i l l the air, And charm the ear of evening fair, From, thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly birth. 63 Wenn Du zu ihnen dich gesellst, Dann all e Macht im Lied sich sucht, Berauscht es lauscht die ganze Welt: Der Laut l e i s schwindend i n der Luft, Des Abends sanft ins Ohr uns ruft, Von Dir, 0 Gott der Sanger, himmlisch uns besucht. ODE TO PAN O.'THOU whose mighty palace roof doth hang From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, l i f e , death Of unseen flowers i n heavy peacefulness; Who lov'st to see the harmadryads dress Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken; And through whole solemn hours dost s i t , and hearken The dreary melody of bedded reeds— In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth; Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth Thou wast to lose f a i r Syrinx—-do thou now, By thy love's milky browj By a l l the trembling mazes that she ran, Hear us, great Pan.' 0 Thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles, What time though wanderest at eventide Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side Of thine enmossed realmst 0 thou, to whom Broad leaved f i g trees even now foredoom Their ripen'd fruitage; yellow girted bees Their golden honeycombs; our village leas Their fairest blossom'd beans and poppied corn; The chuckling linnet i t s five young unborn, To sing for thee; low creeping strawberries Their summer coolness; pent up butterflies Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh budding year A l l i t s completions—- be quickly near. By every wind that nods the mountain pine, 0 forester divine.* Thou, to whom every faun and satyr f l i e s For willing service; whether to surprise The squatted hare while i n half sleeping f i t ; Or upward ragged precipices f l i t To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw; Or by mysterious enticement draw Bewildered shepherds to their path again; Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, And gather up a l l fanciful!est shells For thee to tumble into Naiads' c e l l s , And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping; Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping, The while they pelt each other on the crown With silvery oak apples, and f i r cones brown-By a l l the echoes that about thee ring, Hear us, 0 satyr king.' 65 ODE AN PAN 0 DU., von macht'gen Stammen wild umrankt Steht Dein Palast, umschattet ewig ganz Das Flustern, Leben, Tod und Auferstehn Der Flur friedlicher Blumen ungesehn; Du, der es l i e b t den Nymphen zuzusehn, Die Haselbluten fleehten i n i h r Haar: Und Stund' um feierliche Stund' horst Du Der 6den Melodie des Schilfrohrs zu-— In wiisten Flatzen, dumpfe Hitze treibt, und Schierlingskraut zu selt'ner Hdhe neigtj Dann denkst wie traurig Du einst warst, entsetzt, Wenn holde Syrinx Dir entachwand—und jetzt, Bei ihrer weissen Hand! Bei jenera Labyrinth durch das sie wand, Schenk uns Gehbr, allmacht•ger Pan! 0 Du, fur den ein Schlummerlied die Tauben Eigens floten z&rtlich unter Myrten, Wann wanderst Du a l l e i n zur Abendstund1 Durch Sonnenflut und Flur und Wiesensund, Durch Dein bemoostes Reichj 0 Du, wenn Laub Sich neigt, so schenkt schon jetzt der Feigenbaum Die reife Frucht; und gold'non Honigsam Reicht dar ein gelbumgurtet' Bienenschwarm, Und unser Dorf langt RLuten Dir und Kornj Der Hanfling seine Jungen ungebor'n Und singt fiir Dich; die wilde Beere bringt Dir Sommerkuhle nah; und Schmetterling befleckte Flugel, Ja, das neue Jahr A l l seine Fulle v o l l - —geschwind komm nah, mit jedem Wind seufzt Bergeshain, Du gottlicher Beherrscher dieses Schreins! Du, dem jeder Faun, befltigelter Satyr, Zu Dienste e i l t ; ira Halbschlaf aufzuspur'n Den Hasen der i n miiden Grasern hockt; Und aufwarts iiber scharfe Hange lockt Die Lammer von der Adler lustern Schlund; Wenn er mit Zauberspruch und Kund' Verwirrte Schafer weist auf rechtem Weg; Und dann die atemlose Runde dreht Am Schaum der See, eries'ne Muscheln pfliickt, Die i n Najadengrotten Du entziickt Zum Spiel der Nymphen wirfst, wenn ungeseh'n Du siehst besturzt sie i n der Zell© steh'n, Und stoipern, schleudern schnell mit flinker Hand Die Silber'apfel, Zapfen unentwandt Als i h r Geschiitz, wenn Echo um dich raunt, Schenk uns Geh6r, 0 koniglicher Faun! 0 Hearkener to the loud clapping shears While ever and anon to his shorn peers A ram goes bleatingi Winder of the horn. When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn Anger our huntsmens Breather round our farms, To keep off mildews, and a l l weather harmst Strange ministrant of undescrlbed sounds, That come a swooning over hollow grounds. And wither drearily ©n barren moorst Dread opener of the mysterious doors Leading to universal knowledge—-see, Great son of Dryope, The many that are come to pay their vows With leaves about their brows.* Be s t i l l the unimaginable lodge For solitary thinkings; such as dodge Conception to the very bourne of heaven, Then leave the naked braini be s t i l l the leaven, That spreading i n this d u l l and clodded earth Gives i t a touch ethereal—-a new births Be s t i l l a symbol of Immensity; A firmament reflected i n a sea; An element f i l l i n g the space between; An unknown——but no mores we humbly screen With u p l i f t hands our foreheads, lowly bending, And giving out a shout most heaven rending, Conjure thee to receive our humble Paean, Upon thy Mount Lycean! 67 Du hbrst laut Seheren klappern i n dem Wind, Und hier und dort ein Schaf ISuft bltfkend hin Zu seiner kahlen Schar. Du blast das Horn Wenn wilde Eber wuhlen um das Korn Zum Zorn des Jagersmann1s: wehst um den Hof, Versoheuchst das lose Wetter, Schimmelmoos, Die Ministranten sonderbaren Lauts, Der uber hohlen Grund sich senkt und raunt, und uber Sdern Sumpf dann stumpf verklingt: Du grauenhafter Wachter, vor Dir springt Das Tor universel'ler Kenntnis a u f — Die Frommen hier, i h r Haupt umkranzt von Laub, sie huldigen Dir dann zum Lohn, Dryope's Kind, Du edler Sohnl Sei unergriindlich Du und doch das Haus Der einsamen Gedanken, das hinauf Bis an den Himmel reicht und scheut Verstand: So lass den nackten Sinn,, sei Hefe dann Die wachst auf diesem Klumpen Erde schwer, Und raach ihn l u f t i g leicht, lass ihn ersteh'n; Der Unermesslichkeit sei ein Symbol, Ein Firmament im Meere's Spiegel v o l l , Ein Element das fuLlt den leeren Raum Des Ungewissen——doch nicht mehr; wir schau'n Zu Dir bescheiden rait gebiicktem Haupt, Und bitten Dich wenn Himmel es erlaubt, Beschworen Dich, empfang den Lobgesang Auf Deinem Berge Lyceanl ODE BARDS of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have l e f t your souls on earth.' Have ye souls i n heaven too, Double lived i n regions new? Yes, and those of heaven commune With the spheres of sun and moon: With the noise of fountains wond'rous, And the parle of voices thund'roust With the whisper of heaven's trees And one another, i n soft ease Seated on KLysian lawns Brows'd by none but Diana's fawns; Underneath large blue-bells tented, Where the daisies are rose-scented, And the rose herself has got' Perfume which on earth i s not; Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, tranced thing, But divine melodious truth; Philosophic numbers smooth; Tales and golden histories Of heaven and i t s mysteries. Thus ye l i v e on high, and then On the earth ye l i v e again; And the souls ye l e f t behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you, Where your other souls are joying, Never slumber* d, never cloying. Here, your earth-born souls s t i l l speak To mortals, of their l i t t l e week: Of their sorrows and delights; Of their passions and their spites; Of their glory and their shame; What doth strengthen and what maim. Thus ye teach us, every day. Wisdom though fled far away. Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have l e f t your souls on earth.* Ye have souls i n heaven too, Double-lived i n regions new.' 69 ODE IHR Sanger von der Freud' und Pein, 1st irdisch Eure Seele rein? Habt auch Himmelsseelen Ihr, Und Doppelleben aum Revier? Ja, und Himmlische dort geh'n Wo Sonn' und Mond rund um sie dreh'n; Und Brunnen ..rauschen wunderbar; Und Stimmen donnern unsagbar, Flustern auf der Himraelsflur, In Baumen l e i s und liegen nur Auf Rasen des Elyslums, Wo Rehe der Diana ruh'n Sanft unter Glockenblumen Dach; Und Gansebliimchen suss entfacht Der Rose Dufte iiber Land, Ein Duft der Erde unbekannt; Wo Nachtigall tont wieder Nicht Phantasienlieder, Sondern von Wahrheit singt; Und gSttlich Melodie erklingt Von gold'ner Zeit, Vergangenheit, Geheimnisse der Himmel welt. Auf Himmelshohen lebt Ihr so, Und auch auf Erden irgendwo; Und die Seelen, die daheim, Zeigen uns den Weg geheira Zur Himmelsseele frohen Sinn's, Die niemals schlummert, zieht's uns hin. Hier die Irdischen sie flustern Sterblichen von ihren Liisten; Ihrer Not und ihrer Pein; Ihrer Freud und ihrem Leid; Ihrer Schande, ihrer Pracht; Was uns lahmt, was stark uns macht. So lehret Ihr uns jede Stund* Weisheit, doch, f l i e h t fort geschwind. Ihr Sanger von der Freud' und Pein, Irdisch i s t die Seele reinl Habt auch Himmelsseelen Ihr, Und Doppelleben zum Revier! ODE TO FANNY I PHYSICIAN Nature.' l e t my s p i r i t blood.' 0 ease my heart of verse and l e t me rest} Throw me upon thy Tripod, t i l l the flood Of s t i f l i n g numbers ebbs from my f u l l breast. A themeJ a theme.' great nature] give a theme» Let me begin my dream. 1 come— I see thee, as thou standest there, Beckon me not into the wintry a i r . II Ah.' dearest love, sweet home of a l l my fears, And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries,--To-night, i f I may guess, thy beauty wears A smile of such delight, As b r i l l i a n t and as bright. As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes, Lost i n soft amaze, I gaze, I gazeJ III Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feasti What stare outfaces now my s i l v e r moon.' Ah.' keep that hand unravish'd at the least; Let, l e t , the amorous burn— But, pr'ythee, do not turn The current of your heart from me so soon. Oi save, i n charity, The quickest pulse for me. IV Save i t for me, sweet love.' though music breathe Voluptous visions into the warm air; Though swimming through the dance's dangerous wreath, Be l i k e an April day, Smiling and cold and gay, A temperate l i l l y , temperate as f a i r ; Then, Heaven! there w i l l be A warmer June for me. 71 ODE AN FANNY I ARZT der Naturt Lass raeiner Seele ELut, Mach f r e i raein Herz, entbinde Poesle, Auf Dreifuss rhytmisch scblag 1 die Melodie Der Verse mir aus heisser Herzensglut. Ein Thema reich' mir, machtige Natur, Schmiede den Traum mir nur. Ich e i l e , seh' Dich, fuhle Dich dort steh'n, Zieh mich nicht hin wo Winterwinde weh'n. II Aht Liebste Du, Du holdes Heim der Furcht, Der Hoffnungen, der Lust und Elend t o l l , Heut' Nacht trSgt Deine Schohheit reife Frucht, Ein Lacheln wonniglich, Auf Deinem Angesicht, Wenn mit Vasa'llen-Augen schmerzenvoll, Vertieft im Wunderweh, Ich seh 1, und seh'. I H Wer denn, mit gier'gem BLick, verschlingt mein Mahl? Wer starrt, verwirrt nun meinen Silbermond? Ah! Lass die Hand mir unberiihrt so fahl, Verliebte fi i n k entbrannt; HLeib' mir stets zugewandt, Wenn Uberflut f l i e s s t aus dem Herzensstrom. 0 lass, ich b i t t ' von Dir Den regsten Atem miro IV Lass ihn mir, Geliebtet Wenn auch Musik Visionen atmet i n die laue Luft, Und sich durch Tanzgewinde wehrlos wiegtj Sel kuhl wie der April, Der munter lachelt s t i l l So h e l l und mild, so mild wie Lilienduft: Dann, Himmei! zeigt fur mich Ein warm'rer Juni sich. V Why, t h i s — y o u ' l l say, my Fammy.' i s not true: Put your soft hand upon your snowy side, Where the heart beatsi confess-—'tis nothing new -Must not a woman be A feather on the sea, Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide? Of as uncertain speed As blow-ball from the mead? VI I know i t - — and to know i t i s despair To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny J Whose heart goes fluttering for you every where, Nor, when away you roam, Dare keep i t s wretched home, Love, love alone, has pains severe and many: Then, loveliest.' keep me free From torturing jealousy. VII AhJ i f you prize my subdued soul above The poor, the fading, brief, pride of an hour; Let none profane my Holy See of love, Or with a rude hand break The sacramental cake: Let none else touch the just new-budded flower; I f not—may my eyes close, Lovei on their l a s t repose. 73 v Warum—sagst Du, 0 Fanny! S'ist nicht wahrt Leg 1 Deine weiche Hand aufs Herz geschwind, An jene Brust aus Schnee - i s t es nicht klar -Sind Frauen nicht so sehr Wie Flaum auf wildem Meer Gewogen hin und her, bei Flut und Wind? So wankt der Liifte Spiel Der Pusteblume Zi e l . VI Ich weiss e s — u n d es wissen, heisst Verdruss Fur d e n — 0 Fanny!— der dich l i e b t wie ich; Ein Herz das ringsura um dich flattern muss, Und wenn Du feme weilst, Friedlos vom Haus es s t r e i f t . Liebe, Liebe al'lein halt Pein um sichi Wenn einsam, treib* zur Flucht Qualende Eifersucht. VII Ah! Wenn Du die Seele schatzt, besiegt und wund, Mehr als den Stolz einer verschwund1nen Stund, Lass niemanden entweih'n den Liebesthron. Lass keine Hande roh Brechen das hei'l'ge Brotj Lass keinen pfliicken Knospen von dem Mohn: Wenn nicht, so schliess mir ganz, Liebe! der Augen Glanz. TO -WHAT can I do to drive away Remembrance from my eyes? for they have seen, Aye, an hour ago, my b r i l l i a n t Queen! Touch has a memory. 0 say, love, say, What can I do to k i l l i t and be free In my old liberty? When every f a i r one that I saw was f a i r , Enough to catch me i n but half a snare, Not keep me theret When, howe'r poor or particolour'd things, My muse had wings, And ever ready was to take her course Whither I bent her force, Uninte'llectual, yet divine to me;--Divine, I say!-—What sea-bird o'er the sea Is a philosopher the while he goes Winging along where the great water throes? How shall I do To get anew Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more Above, above The reach of fluttering Love, And make him cower lowly while I soar? Shall I gulp wine? No, that i s vulgarism, A heresy and schism, Foisted into the canon law of lovej-No, wine i s only sweet to happy men; More dismal cares Seize on me unawares,— Where shall I learn to get ray peace again? To banish thoughts of that most hateful land, Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked strand Where they were wreck'd and l i v e a wrecked life.;' That monstrous region, whose d u l l rivers pour, Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore, Unown'd of any weedy-haired gods; Whose winds, a l l zephyrless, hold scourging rods, Iced i n the great lakes, to a f f l i c t mankind; Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and blind, Would fright a Dryad; whose harsh herbag'd meads Make lean and lank the starv'd ox while he feeds; There flowers have no scent, birds no sweet song, And great unerring Nature once seems wrong. 75 AN -WIE kann ich fegen fort geschwind Erinnerung aus dem Aug? Sie hat erblickt Vor einer.Stund; Ah, meine Konigin! Gedanken fiihlt! 0 Liebe sagt und sinnt, Wie tbt* ich sie, wie jag 1 ich sie vorbei, Wie werd* ich wieder frei? Wenn jede Schbne schfinsten Anblick bot, Und Halfte siisser Schlingen bog, sie zog Mich nicht"in Nott Wenn bettelarm die Muse, Lumpending, Auf Schwingenwind Ward stets bereit zu hohem Fiug und flog Wohin ich sie auch zog. Ganz ohne Geist, doch ganzlich gSttllch mir Gb'ttlich ich s a g ! — Wird jede Mowe d i r Zum Philosoph wenn uber See sie f l i e g t Und wiegt wo wogend Meerschaum liegt? Wie kann i c h denn Efttfalten schnell Die Federn jung und schwingen mich empor Hinauf, hinauf Ins Land der Liebe i a u f 1 , Bezwinge sie und schweb1 zum Himmelstor I Verschling' den Wein? Nein, jene Tat 1st schlimmer Als Haresie und Chisma, Ins Kirchenrecht der Liebe eingefugt: Nein, Liebe schmeckt nur frohen Mannern siissi Die bitt're Lust Greift um sie unbewusst. Wo find' ich jenen der mir Friede schenkt? Und weist Gedanken mir aus diesem Land, Aus diesem Kerker, von dem leeren Strand, Wo Freunde scheitern, Leben brach zerschellt? In diesem bden Reich, die Fiusse dieser Welt Sie giessen Urnen aus dem tragen Schlamm, Kein Eigentum des algenhaar'gen Gott's. Der atemlose Wind schwingt hoch den Stock, Vereist i n grossen See'n, und zuchtet so die Welt; In Waldern iippig, schwarz und blind ergellt Nie der Dryaden Lied; im harschen Gras Versehmachtet stets der Ochs am diirren Mass, Kein BLumenduft, kein Vogelklang, Wenn hohl drohnt trligerisch Naturgesang. 0, for some sunny spell To dissipate the shadows of this hell.' Say they are gone,—with the new dawning l i g h t Steps forth my lady bright.' 0, l e t me once more rest My soul upon that dazzling breast.' Let once again these aching arms be plac'd, The tender goalers of thy waist.1 And l e t me feel that warm breath here and there To spread a rapture i n my very h a i r , — 0, the sweetness of the pain.' Give me those l i p s again.' Enough.' Enough.* i t i s enough for me To dream of theei 77 0, bringt mir Sonnenlicht, Das Dunkel dieser H'dTle bricht! Ah, es i s t f o r t — i n Morgenr&teschein Die Liebliche steht rein! 0, lass i n susser Lust Die Seele ruh'n an jener hel'len Brust! Lass noch einmal die wunden Arme mein Die Kerkermeister jenes Leibes sein! Lass mich den warmen Atem fuhlen nah Der mich berauscht und spielt i n meinem Haar.-0, Susse dieser Qual! Die Lippen noch einmal! Genug! Genug! Es i s t genug wenn mir Es traumt von Dir! ODE TO PSYCHE 0 GODDESS.1 hear these tuneless numbers, wrung By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrete should be sung Even into thine own soft-conched eari Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes? 1 wander'd i n a forest thoughtlessly. And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two f a i r creatures, couched "side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet, scarce espiedt •Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyes, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; Their arms embraced, and their pinions toot Their l i p s touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, As i f disjoined by soft-handed slumber, And ready s t i l l past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean lovei The winged boy I knew; But who wast thou, 0 happy, happy dove? His Psyche true! 0 latest born and loveliest vision far Of a l l Olympus' faded hierarchy! Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor altar heap'd with flowers; Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan Upon the midnight hours; No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet From chain-swung censer teeming; No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 0 brightest! though too late for antique vows, Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, When holy were the haunted forest boughs, Holy the a i r , the water, and the f i r e ; Yet even i n these days so far retir'd From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, Fluttering among the faint Olympians, 1 see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir'd. So l e t me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipo» thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming; Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 79 ODE AN DIE PSYCHE 0 GCiTTINt Eor 1 welch 1 stumme Wei sen Ich Tochtern der Erinnerung entwand; Verzeih' mir, wenn ich Dein Geheimnis Mit leisem Klang verkunde und Gesang: Mir war's als sah ich Psyche schlafend, Befiugelt, oder traumt1 ich's bloss, ganz nah Es schien ich wanderte im Walde Gedankenlos: im Traum ich plbtzlich sah Zwei Kinder sanft die Wang' an Wange Im Blutenduft und Laubgefliister ruh'n, Durch dichten grasumwund'nen Laufe Ein Bachlein sprang im Nuj Auf s t i l l e n kiihlen Purpurbeeten Die Silberknospen flochten um das Paar, Ein ruh'ger Atem durch die Blatter weht. Ein Arm den and'ren hat umwunden, So nah der Mund und dennoch nicht gefunden, Als ob die Hand des Schlummer's ihn entfiihrt, Ein Kuss ganz nah fast lachelnd ihn beriihrt. Den Khaben i n der Damm'rung ich erkannt' In Morgenrote neu; Doch wer warst Du, 0 Taube engverwandt? Die Psyche treul 0 jungstes, schonstes Traumgebilde Versunk'ner Gotter der antiken Welt, Strahlst heller Du mit Antlitz milde Als Spnn' und Sterne gljih'n am Himmelszelt. Heller Du, doch Tempel hast Du keinen, Noch Schrein i n Blutenpracht; Der Jungfrau'ri Klagelieder schweigen Zur Stund' der l>Iittemacht. Schweigt Lied und Laute, FIbte, Wurze \t Im Weihrauchbecher stirbt, Kein Schrein, kein Hain, Orakelspruche Um den Propheten wirbt.; 0 Hellstel Trotz verlor'ner Schwure, Zu §pat, zu spat, das Spiel der trauten Leier Verzaubert.waren Walder, Flure, Gesegnet war die Luft, das Wasser, Feuer. Trotzdem der Ehrfurcht ich entruckte ' Seit langer Zeit, den klaren Fltigelglanz; Der .um die Gotter des Olympus tanzt, Ich seh', und sing' mit sel'gem Blicke. So lass mich Klagelieder reimen. Zur Stund' der Mitternacht: Dein Lied, und Laute, Fiote, Wiirze Im Weihrauchbecher schwingt, ;) Dein Schrein, Dein Hain', Orakelspruche Zu dem Propheten singt. Yes, I w i l l be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur i n the windt Far, far around shall those dark-duster'd trees Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep: And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The Moss-lain Dryads shall be l u l l ' d to sleep: And i n the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary w i l l I dress With the wreath'd t r e l l i s of a working brain, With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With a l l the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, Who breeding flowers, w i l l never breed the same: And there shall be for thee a l l soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To l e t the warm Love in.' 81 Ja, Priester will ich sein und bilden Den Tempel Dir im Dickicht meines Sinn,s, Wo Xste der Gedanken winden, Statt Fdhren wachsend wispern leis im Wind. Weit, weit soll'n diese dunklen WSlder Die wilden Berge Kamm um Kamm umflieh'n, Wo dort in moosbedeckten TSlern Den Nymphen raunt der Walder Wiegenlied. In diesem weiten stillen Raum Den Rosentempe'l will ich bau'n Mit Kranzgewinde meines Sinn's, Mit Knospen, Glocken, Sternennamenlos, Des Gartner's Phatasie entspringend, Der swei Mal nle- die" selbe -HLume spross. Und sieh' dort wohnt die sanfte Freude Im hellen Lampenschein. Ein Fenster offnet sie ganz leise, Und lasst die Liebe 'rein. ODE ON A GRECIAN URN I THOU s t i l l unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhymet What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuiti what struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? II Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeterj therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the s p i r i t d i t t i e s of no tone; Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the g o a l — yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bli s s , For ever wilt thou love, and she be f a i r ! I l l Ah, happy, happy boughsJ that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love.' more happy, happy lovei For ever warm and s t i l l to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and for ever young; A l l breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. IV Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, 0 mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And a l l her silken flanks with garlands drest? What l i t t l e town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious mom? And, l i t t l e town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to t e l l Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 83 ODE AUF ETNE GRIECHISCHE URNE I D u ruhige, unberiihrte, stil'le Braut, Du Kind des Schweigens und der tragen Zeit, Historiker, Du siisser noch als Reim Erzahlst Geschichten der Vergangenheit. Welch Sagenkranz umwirkt wohl Deine Form Mit Gbttern, Menschen, oder beider Los In Tempe oder fern im Tal Arkadiens? Wer sind die Manner? Gbtter? Jungfrau'n bloss? Welch wi'lde Jagd? Welch Strauben ringt um Flucht? Welch Fibten, Schellen da im Sinnesrausch? II Das Lied i s t suss, doch siisser i s t der K'lang Ungesung'ner Weisen. D'rum Flbten spielt Den Sinnen nicht, denn iautlos Euer Gesang Dem sel'gen Geist mit l e i s e r Stimme singt. 0 Jungling unter'n Baum. Verlierst doch nie Dein Lied, noch dieser Baum sein HLatt. Verliebter, nimmer kannst Du kiissen sie, Obwohl so nah ihr Mund—doch k'iage nicht, Sie schwindet nie, trotz verlor'ner Lust, Fur ewig l i e b s t Du; ewig bleibt sie sch'dn. I l l 0 sel'ge Zweiget kbnnt nicht lassen jeh Das Laub, noch jemals bieten Lenz Adieu. Und sel'ger Sanger, unermudlich spielst Du Flbtenmelodien fur immer neu. Begliickte Liebel Sel'ger Liebe Lust; Fiir immer warm der unerfullte Mund, Fiir immer seufzend und fur ewig jung. Vol l atmet, leidenschaftlich wallt die Brust Des Menschen, schwillt das Herz ihm sorgenvoll, Und Lippen diirsten dann im Sinnesbrand. IV Wer sind sie, die zum Opferdienste zieh'n? Zu welchem griinen Schrein, geheimer Hirt Bringst Du das auserwahlte Opfertier, Die bunten Bander flechtend um das Haupt. Welch kleine Stadt an Fluss und Meerestrand, Welch burgbewachtes Dorf am Bergeshang Ist menschen!eer an diesem frommen Tag? Es schweigen Deine Gassen, kleine Stadt, Und keine Seele, die uns sagen kann Warum Du einsam bist, kann Heira zu Dir. V 0 Attic shape.' Fair attitude.' with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed} Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternityi Cold Pastoral.' When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, i n midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 'Beauty i s truth, truth beauty 1—— that i s a l l Ye know on earth, and a l l ye need to know. 85 V 0 schbnste Poset Attischer Baut Mit Marmorraannern, Madchen reich umwirkt, Mit Ranken, Waldeszweigen ©ng umziert. Du still© Form; Du, gleich d©r Ewigkeit Stiohlst aus Gedanken. Kuhles PastoralI Wenn Alter diese Generation zerbricht So wirst Du steh'n, inmitten And'rer Schmerz, Der Menschen Freundj zu ihnen dann Du sprichsti "Die wahre SchSnheit i s t der Wahrheit g l e i c h — Kein and'res Wissen braucht auf Erden Ihr." ODE ON INDOLENCE •They t o i l not, neither do they spin. 1 I ONE morn before me were three figures seen, With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced; And one behind the other stepp'd serene, In placid sandals, and i n white robes graced; They pass'd, l i k e figures on a marble urn, When shifted round, the f i r s t seen shades return; And they were strange to me, as may betide With vases, to one deep i n Phidian lore. II How i s i t , Shadows.' that I knew ye not? How came ye muffled i n so hush a mask? Was i t a silent deep-disguised plot To steal away, and leave without a task My i d l e days? Ripe was the drowsy hour; The b l i s s f u l cloud of summer-indolence Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less; Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower; 0, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense Unhaunted quite of a l l but—nothingness? IH A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, turn'd Each one the face a moment whiles to me; Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd And ached for wings because I knew the three; The f i r s t was a f a i r Maid, and Love her name; The second was Ambition, pale of cheek, And ever watchful with fatigued eye; The las t , whom I love more, the more of blame Is heap'd upon her, maiden most unmeek,— I knew to be my demon Poesy. 87 ODE AUF DIE L'A'SSIGKEIT 'Sie weder arbeiten, noch spinnen' I DREI Schatten sah ich einst am Morgen zieh'n, Geneigten Haupts, verschlungen Hand i n Hand, Voriiber flieh'n im Si'lhouettensplel, Mit sanfboschuhtem Schritt und Schleierband; Si© schwanden wie auf ird'nera Marmorbild, Das um die Urne g'leltet, die sich dreht, Und wenn sie ehern um die Achsel schwang, Der Schattenkreis sich windend um sie band; Sie waren fremd auf jener Vase Bild, Die mir von Phidias' Hand gemeisselt schien. II Wie kam's Ihr Forraen, dass Ihr mir so fremd? Was s o l i die Maske schweigsam und verhullt?' Stiehlt Ihr den tr'agen Tag? War das der Flan, Der Eure Geister lautlos zu mir fuhrt Und ohne Werk mich liess? Reif war die Stund; Die trunk'ne Wolke Sommerlassigkeit Benebelte mein Aug; der Puis mir wich; Der Dorn des Leids und Freudeskranz verblich; Warura schwand't Ihr nicht fort, und l i e s s t den Sinn Mir unbetriibt nur einem—-nur dem Nichts? I l l Ein drittes Mal vorbei - sie wendeten Ihr Antlitz nur dem solit'aren HLick Und schwanden schnell; nach Flugeln flehte dann Mein Sinn; vertraut schi»n mir i h r Angesicht; Das erste Magdlein war die Liebe rein; Die zweite war Begierde, Wangen bleich Wenn wachsam lauerte i h r muder HLick; Als letzte Maid, noch eher Liebste mir Je mehr man tadelt ihren Eigensinn,— Erkannte ich Damonin Poesie. IV They faded, and, forsoothj I wanted wings« 0 folly.' What i s love.* and where i s i t ? And for that poor Ambition.' i t springs From a man's l i t t l e heart's short fever-fitj For Poesy!— no,—she has not a jo y , — At least for me,— so sweet as drowsy noons, And evenings steep'd i n honied indolence; 0, for an age so shelter*d from annoy, That I may never know how change the moons, Or hear the voice of busy common-sense.' V A third time came they by*— — alas.' wherefore? My sleep had been embroider'd with dim dream's; My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'er With flowers, and s t i r r i n g shades, and baffled beams. The morn was clouded, but no shower f e l l , Tho' i n her l i d s hung the sweet tears of May' The open casement press'd a new-leav'd vine, Let i n the budding warmth and throstle's lay; 0 Shadows.' 'twas a time to bid farewell! Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine. VI So, ye Three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise My head cool-bedded i n the flowery grass; For I would not be dieted with praise, A pet-lamb i n a sentimental farce! Fade softly from my eyes, and be once more In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn; Farewell! I yet have visions for the night, And for the day faint visions there i n store; Vanish, ye Phantoms! from my i d l e spright, Into the clouds, and never more return! 89 IV Sie schwanden, und, filrwahrl Reicht Schwingen mir: 0 Torheitl Was i s t Liebe? Wo i h r Schrein? Und wo Begierde, wol In Fiammen q u i l l t Aus heissem Herzen sie als Fleberglut: Und Poesiei nein-—> sie erfreut mi ch' nicht,- -So suss und miide um die Mittagstund', Und Abends nippend Honigmussigang; 0, reicht den Becher ohne Bitternis, Denn blind sei ich dem Mondes Wechselspiel, Und taub der Stimme steter Nuchternheit. V Noch einmal wichen sie vorbei—Warum? Mit HLumen ubers'at' die Seele mir Den Rasen reger Schatten, wirren Lichts, Im Schlummer, schwer bestickte truben Traum; Kein Regen durch die Morgenwolke brach Trotz siisser Tranen schwer i n Lidern Mai's: Urns off'ne Fenster Rebenlaub sich schlang, Liess Blutenwarme, Drosselschlag herein; 0 Ph&nomen! So bietet mir Adieu! Auf Euren Schoss f i e l meine Trane nicht. VI So denn, Phantoms, lebet wohl! Ihr kbnnt Mein Haupt von BLumenbeeten nicht erhSh'n: Wi l l mich nicht weiden an dem griinen Lob, Ein Lieblings'laram Im possenhaften Spiel1 Verblendet sanft vor meinem Aug', und fugt Den Maskentraum ins Bildnis Eurer Urn'; Adieu! Ich habe Traume fiir die Nacht, Und fiir den Tag, Visionen mitgebracht. Fliegt, Ihr Schatten! von meinem trSgen Geist Auf Woikenhoh', und niramer kehrt zurlick! ODE ON MELANCHOLY I No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for i t s poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd 3y nightshade, ruby grape of Prosperplne; Make not your rosary of yew-berries, Nor l e t the beetle, nor the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner i n your sorrow's mysteries; For shade to shade w i l l come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. II But when the melancholy f i t shall f a l l Sudden from heaven l i k e a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers a l l , And hides the green h i l l In an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies; Or i f thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and l e t her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. I l l She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand i s ever at his l i p s Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to Poison while the bee-mouth sipsi Ay, i n the very temple of delight Vei'l'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung. 91 ODE AUF DIE MELANCHOLIE I Nein, nein, geh nicht zur Lethe, winde Wein Nicht aus den Wurzeln wilden Eisenhut's; Und wende Deine Stirne nicht zum Kuss Der Schattenfrucht, Proserpin,s Rubien; Aus Eibenperlen binde weder Kranz, Noch lass den Trauermantel schlingen Dir Um Psyche; TotenkHfer, Eulenschlag, Lass nie als Partner Deinem Leiden nah; Denn Schatten trunken dunklen Schatten sucht, Und wachen Schmerz der Seele t i e f ertr&nkt. II Doch wenn Melancholia vom Himmel f a l l t , Als jahe Wolkentrane sich ergiesst, Trankt die geneigten HLumen auf dem Feld, Verhullt den griinen Berg im Leichentuch; Dann s t i l l ' den Schmerz an elner Morgenros1, An bunten Regenwogen uber'n Strand, Trink von der Ftille der Paonie; Und wenn die Liebste Dir auch ziirnt, und tost, Lass sie i n Wut, umfass' die weiche Hand, Und trinke t i e f von ihrer Augen Flut. I l l Sie wohnt bei Schbnheit—Scho'nheit f l i e h t und st i r b t l Und Gluck die Finger von den Lippen zieht, So bietet i h r Adieu; nah bitt're Lust, Vergalltes Gift von dem die Biene nippti Ah, im Heiligtum des Freudentempels t i e f , Verschleiert, Wehmut herrscht im hSchsten Schrein; Entblttsst nur dem, der ihre Trauben bricht Am Gaumen stisser Lust, den herben Wein; Wenn seine Seele mUcht'ge Wehmut trinkt, Wird er Pokal der unter Wo'lken schwingt. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE I Ml heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunkt •Tis not through envy of thy happy l o t , But being too happy i n thine happiness,— That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Slngest of summer i n full-throated ease. II 0, for a draught of vintage! that hath been CooI'd a long age i n the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! 0 for a beaker f u l l of the warm South, Fu l l of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth: That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: III Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men s i t and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, l a s t gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think i s to be f u l l of sorrow And leaded-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. IV Away! away! for I w i l l f l y to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender i s the night, And haply the Queen-Moon i s on her throne, Cluster'd around by a l l her starry Fays; But here there i s no l i g h t , Save what from heaven i s with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 93 ODE AN DIE NACHTIGALL I MEIN Herz vergeht, di© Dammerung betaubt Mir Sinn, als ob aus trilbem Becher schwer Es Schlerling oder Opium geschbpft Zum Augenblick, und Lethe-zu versank. Es i s t nicht Neid auf Dein beglucktes Los, Doch eher froh i n Deiner Seligkeit, Dass, leichtbeflugeites Dryadenkind Auf Melodiengrund, Auf Buchengrun, und Schatten ohne Zahl, Mit vollster Kehle Du vom Sommer singst. II Nur einen Rebentrunk! Im tiefen Grab Der Erde dunkler Kel'lerstatt gektthlt, Von Flora schmeckend und von landlich Griin, Vom Tanzen, Singen, Sommer, Frbhlichkeit. Nur einen vollen warmen Sonnenkelch, Mit Rubien echter Hippocrene v o l l , Und Perlenkronen schaumend bis zum Rand, Mit purpurfarb'nem Mund Ich m'dchte leer'n und lass die Welt a l l e i n , Und mit Dir schwinde i n den dust'ren Wald. I l l 0 schwinde nur, vergeh, und ganz vergiss Was unter'm Blatterlaub Du nie gekannt. Ermattung, Fieber und der Menschen Not, Der And'ren Stohnen immer stets im Ohr. Wo Greise zittern bis auf's graue Haar, Wo Jugend welkt, verblasst und leidend dirbt, Wo Denken nur noch neue Tranen bringt Den Lidern sorgenschwer. Wo Schbnheit weder ihrer Augen Glanz, Noch Liebe Morgen ihre Lust umfangt. IV Nur fort! Nur fortl Ich fiiege schnell zu Dir, Nicht im Triumphzug Bacchus', sondern hoch Hinauf auf Flugeln leichter Poesie, Wo dumpfer Sinn v e r i r r t und bleibt zuruck. Und schon bei Dir! Zartlich i s t die Nacht, Und Konigin des Mond's auf lhrem Thron Umringt vom Hofe ihrer Sternenfee'n. Doch hier scheint uns kein Llcht, Das nicht mit Himmelslu'ften weht Durch dust'ren Dunst und moosumschlung'nen Weg. V I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, i n embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine: Fast fading violets cover'd up i n leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, f u l l of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of f l i e s on summer eves. VI Darkling I l i s t e n ; and, for many a time I have been half i n love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names i n many a mused rhyme, To take into the a i r my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems i t rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy.' S t i l l wouldst thou sing, and I have ears i n vain:— To thy high requiem become a sod. VII Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird.' No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood i n tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, i n faery lands forlorn. VIII Forlorn.' the very word i s l i k e a bell To t o l l me back from thee to my sole selfJ Adieu.* the fancy cannot cheat so well As she i s fam'd to do, deceiving e l f . Adieu.' Adieu.' thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the s t i l l stream, Up the h i l l - s i d e ; and now ' t i s buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was i t a vision, or a waking dream? Fled i s that music:—Do I wake or sleep? 95 V Dort kann man Blumen nicht zu Fiissen seh'n, Noch sanfte Wurze hoch an 'Aston hangt, Doch ahne ich im Duft dor Dunke'lheit Die Stisse, die die Jahreszeit verschenkt An al l e Gr'aser, Striiucher, wilden Apfelbaum, Das Hagedorn, und Heckenrose weiss, Ein blasses Veilchen t i e f im Laub vorsteekt, Und jiingstes Kind des Mai's, Die fruhe Moschusrose taugetr'ankt, Und's Summon letzter Sommerfliegen spat. VI Duster lausch' ich, und i n manchem Augenblick Hab' ich den sanften Tod doch fast geliebt. In Versen hab' ich z'art'lich ihn verfilhrt, Mit meines Leben's Atem ihn bertihrt. Nun,* schoner noch als jeh scheint mir der Tod, Und's Sterben leidlos spat zur Mitternacht, Wenn Deiner Seele Schwel'le uberstromt Mit vollster Freudes'lust. Noch klingt Dein Lied, doch h'dren kann ich kaum, Dein Requiem mir von dunkler Erde raunt. VII Unsterblich Du.ldem Tode nicht bestimrat! Nie Elende Dich von den Liiften zwingt. Dein Lied, das heute Nacht mir klingt, Du^sang'st In alter Zeit dem K6nig undndem Clown. Vielleich t der selbe Vogelsang das Herz Der Ruth mit wehor Sehnsucht hat e r f u l l t , Als sie mit Tranen stand im fremden Korn. Der selbe Zauberklang Verwiinschte Laden fiffnet auf den Schaum Der wilden Seen i n Elfonl'andern 'lor'n. VIII Verio'nl Das Wort wie sine Glocke he l l Ruft mich zuriick zu meiner Seele selbst. Adieu! Die Phantasie, die Lugenfee, betrugt Nur halb so schne'll als sie geruhmt. Adieu! Adieu! Der Klagehymne Laut Verklinget uber Wiesen, sti'llem Strom, Zum Bergeshang, und dann verstummt im Grab Des n'achsten tiefsten Talsi War es Erscheinung oder Traumgebild? Fort i s t das Lied—wach' oder schlafe ich? TO AUTUMN I SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing suns Conspiring with him how to load and bless With f r u i t the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And f i l l a l l f r u i t with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And s t i l l more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days w i l l never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. II Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sittin g careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-listed by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and a l l i t s twined flowers; And sometimes l i k e a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the l a s t oozings hours by hours. I l l Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then i n a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the l i g h t wind l i v e s or dies; And full-grown Iambs loud bleat from h i l l y bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter i n the skies. 97 AN DEN HERBST I HERBST und reife, voile Fruchtbarkeit, Der schwiilen Sonne engster Busenfreund; Gemeinsam bindet Ihr den Rebenkranz, Und f u l l t mit Fruchten ihm das murbe Laub. Ihr beugt mit 'Apfeln t i e f den grilnen Baum, Und bringt rait Reife Frueht und Obst zum Kern. Ihr schwillt den Kurbis und mit rundem Keim Ihr schwSngert suss die Nusss dann knospen auch Die spaten Bliiten, und ein Bienenschwarra, Der i n den Kelchen trunlcen Siisse sucht, Dunkt warme Sommertage nie vorbei. II Dort, inmitten vo'llster FuLle sorglos Si t z t i n Scheunen Du. 'Ahren binden le i c h t Dein Haar, geluftet von dem linden Wind, Umstreichelt le i c h t vom warmen Sonnenlicht. Auf Stoppe'lackern schlSfst Du ruhig ein Im Duft des Mohns; die Sichel ganz vergisst Das blum'umschlung'ne Korn am Grund. Und manchraal spSte Lese hoch am Haupt Du schreitest fest mit schwerem Schritt zum Hof. Beim Apfelpressen schaust Du trage zu Wenn Saft versickert l e i s e , Stund' um Stund'. I l l Wo sind die Lieder des Fruhlings, ach wo? Denk nur, Du hast den eig'nen Gesang. Wenn gluhend Wo'lken blenden l e i s ' im Klang des Abenlichts die A'cker i n RSte; Am Sumpf ein Chor der Mucken luft e t , summt Sein letztes wimmerndes Lied und f a l l t Im flauen Wind, verstummt und stirbt. Noch reife Lammer blbken laut vom Berg, Noch ein Rotkehlchen p f e i f t im Tal und Feld, Die G r i l l e singt, und i n daramernder Welt Die spate Schwalbe auf zum Hiramel schwirrt. 98 B I B L I O G R A P H Y Bush, Douglas. John Keats* His L i f e and Writings. New York* The Macmillan Company, 1966. Dickstein, Morris. Keats and,his Poetry* A Study i n Development. Chicago* Univ. of Chicago Press, 1971. Fausset, Hugh 1'Anson. Keats* A Study i n Development. 1922; rpt. London* JSecker~& .Warburg,,1966T Finney, Claude Lee. The Evolution of Keat's Poetry. New York* Russel & Russel, 1963^ Jack, Ian. Keats and the Mirror of Art. Oxford* Clarendon Press, 1967. John Keats* Selected Letters. Ed. Lionel T r i l l i n g . New York* Farrar, Straus & Young, 195L Keats* A. Collection of C r i t i c a l Essays. Ed. Walter Jackson Bate. Englewood C l i f f s * Prentice-Hall, 1964. Keats* Poetical Works. Ed. H.W. Garrod. 1956; rpt. London* Oxford Univ. Press, 1966. Pettet, E.C. On the Poetry of Keats. 1957; rpt. Cambridge* Cambridge Univ. Press, 1970. Thorpe, Clarence D. The Mind of John Keats. New York* Oxford Univ. Press, 192oT~ 

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