20 dec.
„The Darkling Thrush” de Thomas Hardy
| I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-grey, And Winter’s dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. |
Stam la o margine de crâng Când Geru-i sur strigoi, Şi drojdiile Iernii sting Al zilei ochi vioi. Suciţi, cârceii de hamei Par frânte corzi de liră, Şi-ntorşi acas’, vecinii mei La vetre se-aciuiră. |
| The land’s sharp features seemed to be The Century’s corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I. |
Părea, colţos şi dur, pământul Al Veacului leş… iar, Sus, norii – cripta lui; şi vântul Un vaier funerar. Vechi plodul din sămânţa vie Sfrijit şi sec părea, Şi vlăguit, asemeni mie, Tot ce mă-mpresura. |
| At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. |
Deodat’ un tril zbucnise prin Uscate crengi, de sus, Un cânt de voie-bună plin Şi de avânt nespus; Un schilav sturz, bătrân, plăpând Şi cu penet zburlit, În întunericul crescând Cu foc ap piruit. |
| So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware. |
Aşa puţin temei anume Pentru-acest imn-colind Sta scris pe tot ce e pe lume Cât zările cuprind, Încât mi-am zis că vreun fior Vibra în melodie, De noi nădejdi lui vestitor Şi neştiute mie. |
| Thomas Hardy | traducere de Leon Leviţchi |