Christina Rossetti - An Old-World Thicket [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

Wykonawca: Christina Rossetti
Album: The Poems of Christina G. Rossetti
Gatunek: Poetry

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Tekst piosenki

                        . . . "Una selva oscura."--Dante.

Awake or sleeping (for I know not which)
        I was or was not mazed within a wood
        Where every mother-bird brought up her brood
                Safe in some leafy niche
Of oak or ash, of cypress or of beech,

Of silvery aspen trembling delicately,
        Of plane or warmer-tinted sycamore,
        Of elm that dies in secret from the core,
                Of ivy weak and free,
Of pines, of all green lofty things that be.

Such birds they seemed as challenged each desire;
        Like spots of azure heaven upon the wing,
        Like downy emeralds that alight and sing,
                Like actual coals on fire,
        Like anything they seemed, and everything.

Such mirth they made, such warblings and such chat
        With tongue of music in a well-tuned beak,
        They seemed to speak more wisdom than we speak,
                To make our music flat
        And all our subtlest reasonings wild or weak.

Their meat was nought but flowers like butterflies,
        With berries coral-colored or like gold;
        Their drink was only dew, which blossoms hold
                Deep where the honey lies;
Their wings and tails were lit by sparkling eyes.

The shade wherein they revelled was a shade
        That danced and twinkled to the unseen sun;
        Branches and leaves cast shadows one by one,
                And all their shadows swayed
In breaths of air that rustled and that played.

A sound of waters neither rose nor sank,
        And spread a sense of freshness through the air;
        It seemed not here or there, but everywhere,
                As if the whole earth drank,
Root fathom deep and strawberry on its bank.

But I who saw such things as I have said,
        Was overdone with utter weariness;
        And walked in care, as one whom fears oppress
                Because above his head
Death hangs, or damage, or the dearth of bread.

Each sore defeat of my defeated life
        Faced and outfaced me in that bitter hour;
        And turned to yearning palsy all my power,
                And all my peace to strife,
Self stabbing self with keen lack-pity knife.

Sweetness of beauty moved me to despair,
        Stung me to anger by its mere content,
        Made me all lonely on that way I went,
                Piled care upon my care,
Brimmed full my cup, and stripped me empty and bare:

For all that was but showed what all was not,
        But gave clear proof of what might never be;
        Making more destitute my poverty,
                And yet more blank my lot,
        And me much sadder by its jubilee.

Therefore I sat me down: for wherefore walk?
        And closed mine eyes: for wherefore see or hear?
        Alas, I had no shutter to mine ear,
                And could not shun the talk
        Of all rejoicing creatures far or near.

Without my will I hearkened and I heard
        (Asleep or waking, for I know not which),
        Till note by note the music changed its pitch;
                Bird ceased to answer bird,
And every wind sighed softly if it stirred.

The drip of widening waters seemed to weep,
        All fountains sobbed and gurgled as they sprang,
Somewhere a cataract cried out in its leap
                Sheer down a headlong steep;
        High over all cloud-thunders gave a clang.

Such universal sound of lamentation
        I heard and felt, fain not to feel or hear;
        Nought else there seemed but anguish far and near;
                Nought else but all creation
        Moaning and groaning wrung by pain or fear,

Shuddering in the misery of its doom:
        My heart then rose a rebel against light,
        Scouring all earth and heaven and depth and height,
                Ingathering wrath and gloom,
        Ingathering wrath to wrath and night to night.

Ah me, the bitterness of such revolt,
        All impotent, all hateful, and all hate,
That kicks and breaks itself against the bolt
                Of an imprisoning fate,
        And vainly shakes, and cannot shake the gate.

Agony to agony, deep called to deep,
        Out of the deep I called of my desire;
        My strength was weakness and my heart was fire;
                Mine eyes that would not weep
Or sleep, scaled height and depth, and could not sleep;

The eyes, I mean, of my rebellious soul,
        For still my bodily eyes were closed and dark:
        A random thing I seemed without a mark,
                Racing without a goal,
        Adrift upon life's sea without an ark.

More leaden than the actual self of lead
        Outer and inner darkness weighed on me.
        The tide of anger ebbed. Then fierce and free
                Surged full above my head
        The moaning tide of helpless misery.

Why should I breathe, whose breath was but a sigh?
        Why should I live, who drew such painful breath?
Oh weary work, the unanswerable why!--
                Yet I, why should I die,
        Who had no hope in life, no hope in death?

Grasses and mosses and the fallen leaf
        Make peaceful bed for an indefinite term;
        But underneath the grass there gnaws a worm--
                Haply, there gnaws a grief--
Both, haply always; not, as now, so brief.

The pleasure I remember, it is past;
        The pain I feel is passing, passing by;
        Thus all the world is passing, and thus I:
                All things that cannot last
        Have grown familiar, and are born to die.

And being familiar, have so long been borne
        That habit trains us not to break but bend:
Mourning grows natural to us who mourn
                In foresight of an end,
        But that which ends not who shall brave or mend?

Surely the ripe fruits tremble on their bough,
        They cling and linger trembling till they drop:
I, trembling, cling to dying life; for how
                Face the perpetual Now?
        Birthless and deathless, void of start or stop,

Void of repentance, void of hope and fear,
        Of possibility, alternative,
        Of all that ever made us bear to live
                From night to morning here,
        Of promise even which has no gift to give.

The wood, and every creature of the wood,
        Seemed mourning with me in an undertone;
        Soft scattered chirpings and a windy moan,
                Trees rustling where they stood
And shivered, showed compassion for my mood.

Rage to despair; and now despair had turned
        Back to self-pity and mere weariness,
With yearnings like a smouldering fire that burned,
                And might grow more or less,
        And might die out or wax to white excess.

Without, within me, music seemed to be;
        Something not music, yet most musical,
Silence and sound in heavenly harmony;
                At length a pattering fall
Of feet, a bell, and bleatings, broke through all.

Then I looked up. The wood lay in a glow
        From golden sunset and from ruddy sky;
        The sun had stooped to earth though once so high;
                Had stooped to earth, in slow
Warm dying loveliness brought near and low.

Each water-drop made answer to the light,
        Lit up a spark and showed the sun his face;
        Soft purple shadows paved the grassy space
                And crept from height to height,
        From height to loftier height crept up apace.

While opposite the sun a gazing moon
        Put on his glory for her coronet,
Kindling her luminous coldness to its noon,
                As his great splendor set;
        One only star made up her train as yet.

Each twig was tipped with gold, each leaf was edged
        And veined with gold from the gold-flooded west;
Each mother-bird, and mate-bird, and unfledged
                Nestling, and curious nest,
        Displayed a gilded moss or beak or breast.

And filing peacefully between the trees,
        Having the moon behind them, and the sun
Full in their meek mild faces, walked at ease
                A homeward flock, at peace
        With one another and with every one.

A patriarchal ram with tinkling bell
        Led all his kin; sometimes one browsing sheep
        Hung back a moment, or one lamb would leap
                And frolic in a dell;
Yet still they kept together, journeying well,

And bleating, one or other, many or few,
        Journeying together toward the sunlit west;
        Mild face by face, and woolly breast by breast,
                Patient, sun-brightened too,
        Still journeying toward the sunset and their rest.

Tłumaczenie piosenki

Nikt nie dodał jeszcze tłumaczenia do tej piosenki. Bądź pierwszy!
Jeśli znasz język na tyle, aby móc swobodnie przetłumaczyć ten tekst, zrób to i dołóż swoją cegiełkę do opisu tej piosenki. Po sprawdzeniu tłumaczenia przez naszych redaktorów, dodamy je jako oficjalne tłumaczenie utworu!

+ Dodaj tłumaczenie

Wyślij Niestety coś poszło nie tak, spróbuj później. Treść tłumaczenia musi być wypełniona.
Dziękujemy za wysłanie tłumaczenia.
Nasi najlepsi redaktorzy przejrzą jego treść, gdy tylko będzie to możliwe. Status swojego tłumaczenia możesz obserwować na stronie swojego profilu.

Interpretacja piosenki

Dziękujemy za wysłanie interpretacji
Nasi najlepsi redaktorzy przejrzą jej treść, gdy tylko będzie to możliwe.
Status swojej interpretacji możesz obserwować na stronie swojego profilu.
Dodaj interpretację
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Wyślij Niestety coś poszło nie tak, spróbuj później. Treść interpretacji musi być wypełniona.

Lub dodaj całkowicie nową interpretację - dodaj interpretację
Wyślij Niestety coś poszło nie tak, spróbuj później. Treść poprawki musi być wypełniona. Dziękujemy za wysłanie poprawki.
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