Poezii de toamna in limba engleza - diane.ro incropit aici o mica antologie a poemelor mele...

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Poezii de toamna in limba engleza


Diana Popescu

celebre,engleza,engleza toamna,limba,poeme,poezii,poezii in engleza,romana,toamna,traduceri

Am incropit aici o mica antologie a poemelor mele preferate despre toamna , asa cum sunt ele scrise pe frunzele ingalbenite si mereu verzi ale poeziei engleze si americane.Nu intamplator , poate , in limba engleza , toamna este numita si "fall" , cuvant cuprinzand si sensul de "cadere " sau "prabusire". Pentru ca toamna este o cadere de pe culmile freneziei si expansivitatii verii catre un nivel al echilibrului si implinirii.Daca vara inspira si ne personifica avantul tineretii, toamna nu ne apleaca neaparat catre melancolie , ci spre o reevaluare fertila , in care chipul ni se implineste prin reflectarea in apele netulburate ale intelepciunii si pretuirii.Toamna poate fi o stare de spirit a unui hedonism veritabil , o stare a degustarii molcome si voluptoase a vietii si a mortii.

Cu scuzele de rigoare , precizez ca am tradus in limba romana numai cateva versuri , incarcate de stangacie si graba. In timp , daca timpul imi va da voie , voi incerca sa stric farmecul acestor versuri , straduindu-ma sa aduc mai multe dintre ele catre limba romana.(Diana aka godessdiana88)

Ode to Autumn

Oda Toamnei

de John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted 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 all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

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 in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

The name - of it - is "Autumn"

Numele ei este "Toamna"

de Emily Dickinson

The name - of it - is "Autumn" -

The hue - of it - is Blood -

An Artery - upon the Hill -

A Vein - along the Road -

Great Globules - in the Alleys -

And Oh, the Shower of Stain -

When Winds - upset the Basin -

And spill the Scarlet Rain -

It sprinkles Bonnets - far below -

It gathers ruddy Pools -

Then - eddies like a Rose - away -

Upon Vermilion Wheels -

(O traducere)

Numele ei este "toamna",Nuanta ei este cea a sangelui ,O artera strabatatand dealul , O vena de-a lungul drumului.

Globule enorme pe alei , Si , vai , rafala murdara , Cand vanturile tulbura panzele apei Si revarsa ploaia stacojie.

Ea stropeste bonetele , le imbiba , Se-aduna in baltoace roscate , Apoi , in vartejuri precum ale rozei petaleSe-nvolbura departe , pe roti purpurii.

The Autumn

Toamna

de Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Go, sit upon the lofty hill,

And turn your eyes around,

Where waving woods and waters wild

Do hymn an autumn sound.

The summer sun is faint on them -

The summer flowers depart -

Sit still - as all transform'd to stone,

Except your musing heart.

How there you sat in summer-time,

May yet be in your mind;

And how you heard the green woods sing

Beneath the freshening wind.

Though the same wind now blows around,

You would its blast recall;

For every breath that stirs the trees,

Doth cause a leaf to fall.

Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth

That flesh and dust impart:

We cannot bear its visitings,

When change is on the heart.

Gay words and jests may make us smile,

When Sorrow is asleep;

But other things must make us smile,

When Sorrow bids us weep!

The dearest hands that clasp our hands, -

Their presence may be o'er;

The dearest voice that meets our ear,

That tone may come no more!

Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,

Which once refresh'd our mind,

Shall come - as, on those sighing woods,

The chilling autumn wind.

Hear not the wind - view not the woods;

Look out o'er vale and hill-

In spring, the sky encircled them -

The sky is round them still.

Come autumn's scathe - come winter's cold -

Come change - and human fate!

Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,

Can ne'er be desolate.

Autumn: A Dirge

Toamna : Un bocet

de Percy Bysshe Shelley

The warm sun is falling, the bleak wind is wailing,

The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,

And the Year

On the earth is her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,

Is lying.

Come, Months, come away,

From November to May,

In your saddest array;

Follow the bier

Of the dead cold Year,

And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.

The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling,

The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling

For the Year;

The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone

To his dwelling.

Come, Months, come away;

Put on white, black and gray;

Let your light sisters play-

Ye, follow the bier

Of the dead cold Year,

And make her grave green with tear on tear.

Autumn And Winter

Toamna si iarna

de Algernon Charles Swinburne

Three months bade wane and wax the wintering moon

Between two dates of death, while men were fain

Yet of the living light that all too soon

Three months bade wane.

Cold autumn, wan with wrath of wind and rain,

Saw pass a soul sweet as the sovereign tune

That death smote silent when he smote again.

First went my friend, in life's mid light of noon,

Who loved the lord of music: then the strain

Whence earth was kindled like as heaven in June

Three months bade wane.

A herald soul before its master's flying

Touched by some few moons first the darkling goal

Where shades rose up to greet the shade, espying

A herald soul;

Shades of dead lords of music, who control

Men living by the might of men undying,

With strength of strains that make delight of dole.

The deep dense dust on death's dim threshold lying

Trembled with sense of kindling sound that stole

Through darkness, and the night gave ear, descrying

A herald soul.

One went before, one after, but so fast

They seem gone hence together, from the shore

Whence we now gaze: yet ere the mightier passed

One went before;

One whose whole heart of love, being set of yore

On that high joy which music lends us, cast

Light round him forth of music's radiant store.

Then went, while earth on winter glared aghast,

The mortal god he worshipped, through the door

Wherethrough so late, his lover to the last,

One went before.

A star had set an hour before the sun

Sank from the skies wherethrough his heart's pulse yet

Thrills audibly: but few took heed, or none,

A star had set.

All heaven rings back, sonorous with regret,

The deep dirge of the sunset: how should one

Soft star be missed in all the concourse met?

But, O sweet single heart whose work is done,

Whose songs are silent, how should I forget

That ere the sunset's fiery goal was won

A star had set?

Autumn Movement

Trecere de toamna

de Carl Sandburg

I CRIED over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the

neck of the copper sunburned woman, the

mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is

torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in

the first spit of snow on the northwest wind,

and the old things go, not one lasts.

(O traducere)

Am plans la capataiul lucrurilor frumoase , stiind ca nimic frumos nu dureaza.

Campul ingalbenit al albastrelelor este o esarfa la gatul unei femei bronzate , maica anului , culegatoarea de seminte.

Vantul de nord-vest soseste , iar galbenul estezdrentuit de pale , noi minunate lucruri se arataodata cu prima bura de zapada a vantului de nord-vest , caci lucrurile vechi se duc , nu dureaza.

Nature XXVII, Autumn

Natura XXVII , Toamna

de Emily Dickinson

The morns are meeker than they were,

The nuts are getting brown;

The berry's cheek is plumper,

The rose is out of town.

The maple wears a gayer scarf,

The field a scarlet gown.

Lest I should be old-fashioned,

I'll put a trinket on.

Autumn Perspective

Perspectiva de toamna

de Erica Jong

Now, moving in, cartons on the floor,

the radio playing to bare walls,

picture hooks left stranded

in the unsoiled squares where paintings were,

and something reminding us

this is like all other moving days;

finding the dirty ends of someone else's life,

hair fallen in the sink, a peach pit,

and burned-out matches in the corner;

things not preserved, yet never swept away

like fragments of disturbing dreams

we stumble on all day. . .

in ordering our lives, we will discard them,

scrub clean the floorboards of this our home

lest refuse from the lives we did not lead

become, in some strange, frightening way, our own.

And we have plans that will not tolerate

our fears - a year laid out like rooms

in a new house -the dusty wine glasses

rinsed off, the vases filled, and bookshelves

sagging with heavy winter books.

Seeing the room always as it will be,

we are content to dust and wait.

We will return here from the dark and silent

streets, arms full of books and food,

anxious as we always are in winter,

and looking for the Good Life we have made.

I see myself then: tense, solemn,

in high-heeled shoes that pinch,

not basking in the light of goals fulfilled,

but looking back to now and seeing

a lazy, sunburned, sandaled girl

in a bare room, full of promise

and feeling envious.

Now we plan, postponing, pushing our lives forward

into the future -as if, when the room

contains us and all our treasured junk

we will have filled whatever gap it is

that makes us wander, discontented

from ourselves.

The room will not change:

a rug, or armchair, or new coat of paint

won't make much difference;

our eyes are fickle

but we remain the same beneath our suntans,

pale, frightened,

dreaming ourselves backward and forward in time,

dreaming our dreaming selves.

I look forward and see myself looking back.

AUTUMN

Toamna

de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,

With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,

Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,

And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!

Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,

Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand

Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land,

Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!

Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended

So long beneath the heaven's o'er-hanging eaves;

Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended;

Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;

And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,

Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!

Ladybug, Ladybug

Gargarita , gargarea

(Rime pentru copii)

Ladybug! Ladybug!

Fly away home.

Your house is on fire.

And your children all gone.

All except one,

And that's little Ann,

For she crept under

The frying pan.

(O traducere)

Gargarita , gargarea !Zbori departe de casa ta , Casa chiar acuma foc ti-a luat,Iar copii din ea ti-au plecat.

Toti s-au dus, doar sarmana ,Micuta ta Ana A ramas , si-i pitita Sub cratita de pe plita.

Autumn Song

Cantec de toamna

de Katherine Mansfield

Now's the time when children's noses

All become as red as roses

And the colour of their faces

Makes me think of orchard places

Where the juicy apples grow,

And tomatoes in a row.

And to-day the hardened sinner

Never could be late for dinner,

But will jump up to the table

Just as soon as he is able,

Ask for three times hot roast mutton -

Oh! the shocking little glutton.

Come then, find your ball and racket,

Pop into your winter jacket,

With the lovely bear-skin lining.

While the sun is brightly shining,

Let us run and play together

And just love the autumn weather.

A Child's Calendar

November

Calendar de copil : Noiembrie

de John Updike

The stripped and shapely

Maple grieves

The ghosts of her

Departed leaves.

The ground is hard,

As hard as stone.

The year is old,

The birds are flown.

And yet the world,

In its distress,

Displays a certain

Loveliness -

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nimic din aur nu poate dura

de Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold,

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

Autumn in the Garden

Toamna in gradina

de Henry Van Dyke

When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark

Makes its mark

On the flowers, and the misty morning grieves

Over fallen leaves;

Then my olden garden, where the golden soil

Through the toil

Of a hundred years is mellow, rich, and deep,

Whispers in its sleep.

'Mid the crumpled beds of marigold and phlox,

Where the box

Borders with its glossy green the ancient walks,

There's a voice that talks

Of the human hopes that bloomed and withered here

Year by year, -

Dreams of joy, that brightened all the labouring hours,

Fading as the flowers.

Yet the whispered story does not deepen grief;

But relief

For the loneliness of sorrow seems to flow

From the Long-Ago,

When I think of other lives that learned, like mine,

To resign,

And remember that the sadness of the fall

Comes alike to all.

What regrets, what longings for the lost were theirs!

And what prayers

For the silent strength that nerves us to endure

Things we cannot cure!

Pacing up and down the garden where they paced,

I have traced

All their well-worn paths of patience, till I find

Comfort in my mind.

Faint and far away their ancient griefs appear:

Yet how near

Is the tender voice, the careworn, kindly face,

Of the human race!

Let us walk together in the garden, dearest heart,

Not apart!

They who know the sorrows other lives have known

Never walk alone.

Gathering Leaves

Adunand frunze

de Robert Frost

Spades take up leaves

No better than spoons,

And bags full of leaves

Are light as balloons.

I make a great noise

Of rustling all day

Like rabbit and deer

Running away.

But the mountains I raise

Elude my embrace,

Flowing over my arms

And into my face.

I may load and unload

Again and again

Till I fill the whole shed,

And what have I then?

Next to nothing for weight,

And since they grew duller

From contact with earth,

Next to nothing for color.

Next to nothing for use.

But a crop is a crop,

And who's to say where

The harvest shall stop?

Autumn Fires

Focuri de toamna

de Robert Louis Stevenson

In the other gardens

And all up the vale,

From the autumn bonfires

See the smoke trail!

Pleasant summer over

And all the summer flowers,

The red fire blazes,

The grey smoke towers.

Sing a song of seasons!

Something bright in all!

Flowers in the summer,

Fires in the fall!

An Autumn Rain-Scene

O scena de ploaie in toamna

de Thomas Hardy

There trudges one to a merry-making

With sturdy swing,

On whom the rain comes down.

To fetch the saving medicament

Is another bent,


One slowly drives his herd to the stall

Ere ill befall,


This bears his missives of life and death

With quickening breath,


One watches for signals of wreck or war

From the hill afar,


No care if he gain a shelter or none,

Unhired moves on,


And another knows nought of its chilling fall

Upon him aat all,


After Apple Picking

Dupa culesul merelor

de Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree

Toward heaven still.

And there's a barrel that I didn't fill

Beside it, and there may be two or three

Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.

But I am done with apple-picking now.

Essence of winter sleep is on the night,

The scent of apples; I am drowsing off.

I cannot shake the shimmer from my sight

I got from looking through a pane of glass

I skimmed this morning from the water-trough,

And held against the world of hoary grass.

It melted, and I let it fall and break.

But I was well

Upon my way to sleep before it fell,

And I could tell

What form my dreaming was about to take.

Magnified apples appear and reappear,

Stem end and blossom end,

And every fleck of russet showing clear.

My instep arch not only keeps the ache,

It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.

And I keep hearing from the cellar-bin

That rumbling sound

Of load on load of apples coming in.

For I have had too much

Of apple-picking; I am overtired

Of the great harvest I myself desired.

There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,

Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall,

For all

That struck the earth,

No matter if not bruised, or spiked with stubble,

Went surely to the cider-apple heap

As of no worth.

One can see what will trouble

This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.

Were he not gone,

The woodchuck could say whether it's like his

Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,

Or just some human sleep.

An Autumn Sunset

Apus de toamna

de Edith Wharton

I

Leaguered in fire

The wild black promontories of the coast extend

Their savage silhouettes;

The sun in universal carnage sets,

And, halting higher,

The motionless storm-clouds mass their sullen threats,

Like an advancing mob in sword-points penned,

That, balked, yet stands at bay.

Mid-zenith hangs the fascinated day

In wind-lustrated hollows crystalline,

A wan Valkyrie whose wide pinions shine

Across the ensanguined ruins of the fray,

And in her hand swings high o'erhead,

Above the waste of war,

The silver torch-light of the evening star

Wherewith to search the faces of the dead.

II

Lagooned in gold,

Seem not those jetty promontories rather

The outposts of some ancient land forlorn,

Uncomforted of morn, Where old oblivions gather,

The melancholy unconsoling fold

Of all things that go utterly to death

And mix no more, no more

With life's perpetually awakening breath?

Shall Time not ferry me to such a shore,

Over such sailless seas,

To walk with hope's slain importunities

In miserable marriage? Nay, shall not

All things be there forgot,

Save the sea's golden barrier and the black

Close-crouching promontories?

Dead to all shames, forgotten of all glories,

Shall I not wander there, a shadow's shade,

A spectre self-destroyed,

So purged of all remembrance and sucked back

Into the primal void,

That should we on that shore phantasmal meet

I should not know the coming of your feet?

To Autumn

Catre toamna

de William Blake

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd

With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit

Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,

And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,

And all the daughters of the year shall dance!

Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

'The narrow bud opens her beauties to

The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;

Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and

Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,

Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,

And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.

'The spirits of the air live in the smells

Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round

The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.'

Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,

Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak

Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

Elegy IX: The Autumnal

Elegia IX : Autumnala

de John Donne

No spring nor summer Beauty hath such grace

As I have seen in one autumnall face.

Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape,

This doth but counsel, yet you cannot 'scape.

If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame,

Affection here takes Reverence's name.

Were her first years the Golden Age; that's true,

But now she's gold oft tried, and ever new.

That was her torrid and inflaming time,

This is her tolerable Tropique clime.

Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence,

He in a fever wishes pestilence.

Call not these wrinkles, graves; if graves they were,

They were Love's graves; for else he is no where.

Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit

Vowed to this trench, like an Anachorit.

And here, till hers, which must be his death, come,

He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb.

Here dwells he, though he sojourn ev'ry where,

In progress, yet his standing house is here.

Here, where still evening is; not noon, nor night;

Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight

In all her words, unto all hearers fit,

You may at revels, you at counsel, sit.

This is Love's timber, youth his under-wood;

There he, as wine in June enrages blood,

Which then comes seasonabliest, when our taste

And appetite to other things is past.

Xerxes' strange Lydian love, the Platane tree,

Was loved for age, none being so large as she,

Or else because, being young, nature did bless

Her youth with age's glory, Barrenness.

If we love things long sought, Age is a thing

Which we are fifty years in compassing;

If transitory things, which soon decay,

Age must be loveliest at the latest day.

But name not winter-faces, whose skin's slack;

Lank, as an unthrift's purse; but a soul's sack;

Whose eyes seek light within, for all here's shade;

Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out than made;

Whose every tooth to a several place is gone,

To vex their souls at Resurrection;

Name not these living deaths-heads unto me,

For these, not ancient, but antique be.

I hate extremes; yet I had rather stay

With tombs than cradles, to wear out a day.

Since such love's natural lation is, may still

My love descend, and journey down the hill,

Not panting after growing beauties so,

I shall ebb out with them, who homeward go.


Reviewed by Diana Popescu on septembrie 28, 2009

Rating: 5

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13 comentarii:

Anonim23 septembrie 2010, 21:10

super tare!tineti-o tot adsa :P....d l DNY

Rspundeitergere


Nu-mi place Engleza nici Franceza :)):P:P:P

Rspundeitergere


e cool engleza

Rspundeitergere

Anonim24 octombrie 2010, 17:07

Nu imi place engleza da nici fizica

Rspundeitergere

Anonim2 noiembrie 2010, 10:34

aham engleza e the best language eveeeer;)

Rspundeitergere


Poiezii superbe .....;))!!!!

Rspundeitergere


peziile sunt minunate

Rspundeitergere

Anonim13 februarie 2011, 11:02

inceatca si sa mai personifici ceva .a personofica inseamna ca un obiect ,un fenomen al naturii e.t.c sa aiba insusiri omenesti adica sa vorbesca sa mearga sa cante e.t.c asa ar arata mai bine o poezie dar oricum nus scrise de tn(tine) dat iti dau si eu un sfat incaz ca vrei sa scrii vreo poezie

Rspundeitergere

Anonim14 martie 2012, 21:10

tineo tot asa :))

Rspundeitergere

Carti online10 septembrie 2012, 14:18

tare

Rspundeitergere


fain

Rspundeitergere


Dragute poezii ;)) Tineti ' o tot asa ! Good look my darling

Poezii de toamna in limba engleza - diane.ro incropit aici o mica antologie a poemelor mele...

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