So once again, poor much-lamented
shadow.
You venture in the light of day?
And here, in blossoms of the fresher
meadow,
Confront me and not turn away?
Alive as in the early dawn, when
tender
Chill of a misty field bestirred the
two,
When both were dazzled by the west
in splendor
After the drudging summer days were
through.
My doom: endure. And yours: depart
forlorn.
Is early death, we wonder, much to
mourn?
In
theory how magnificent, man's fate!
The
day agreeable, the night so great.
Yet
we, in such a paradise begun,
Enjoy but briefly the amazing sun,
And then the battle's on: vague
causes found
To struggle with ourself, the world
around.
Neither completes the other as it
should:
The skies are gloomy when our
humor's good;
The vista glitters and we're glum
enough.
Joy near at hand, but we – at
blindman's buff.
At times we think it ours: some
darling girl!
Borne on a fragrant whirlwind, off
we whirl.
The young man, breezy as in
boyhood's prime,
Like spring itself goes strutting in
springtime.
Astounded, charmed, "Who's
doing this, all for me?"
Claims like a cocky heir the land
and sea.
Goes footloose anywhere, without a
thought;
No wall, no palace holds him, even
if caught.
As swallows skim the treetops in a
blur,
He hovers round, in rings, that
certain her,
Scans, from the height he means to
leave at last,
Earth for an answering gaze, that
holds him fast.
First warned too soon, and then too
late, he'll swear
His feet are bound, traps planted
everywhere.
Sweet meetings are a joy,
departure's pain.
Meeting again – what hopes we
entertain!
Moments with her make good the years
away.
Yet there's a treacherous parting,
come the day.
You smile, my friend, eyes welling.
Still the same!
Yours, what a ghastly avenue to
fame.
We dressed in mourning when your
luck ran out
And you deserted, leaving ours in
doubt.
For us, the road resuming God knows
where,
Through labyrinths of passion, heavy
air,
Still drew us on, bone-tired, with
desperate breath
Up to a final parting. Parting's
death!
True: it's affecting when the poet
sings
To wish away the death that parting
brings.
Some
god – though man's half guilty, hurt past cure –
Grant
him a tongue to murmur: I endure.
Translated by
John Frederick Nims