BookRaider: Poesie - William Wordsworth

lunedì 2 luglio 2012

Poesie - William Wordsworth

THE RAINBOW - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky;
So was it when my life began,

So is it, now I am a man,

So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die!

The Child is Father of the Man

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.

Il mio cuore esulta quando ammiro

un arcobaleno nel cielo:

così è stato quando la mia vita è cominciata;

così è adesso che sono un uomo;

Che sia così quando invecchierò,

o lasciatemi morire!

Il Bambino è Padre dell'Uomo:

vorrei che i miei giorni fossero

legati l'uno all'altro dall'affetto naturale.

William Wordsworth (England 1770-1850)

Nell'introduzione ho messo la poesia più nota, e breve, di Wordsworth. Le mie preferenze vanno oltre, con la Tintern Abbey e There was a Boy, nelle quali scorre libero tutto il suo mondo emotivo e intimistico, romantico e paesaggistico.
Mi piace associarlo a Constable: entrambi celebrano l'umile vita contadina e la potenza della natura. Ma mi piace anche associarlo ai magnifici cimiteri sparsi nelle campagne inglesi, molti suoi versi sono scolpiti in quelle lapidi solitarie e spesso inclinate.... e proprio davanti ad una lapide, Wordsworth compone i suoi versi più struggenti:
C'era un ragazzo - lo conoscevate bene, voi cime
e isole del Winander - che sovente,
sul far della sera o al muover delle stelle
lungo il profilo dei colli,
all'alba o al tramonto, se ne stava solo
sotto gli alberi o presso il lago luccicante........

I luoghi di Wordsworth

Dove Cottage, Grasmere (UK)

Rydal Mount - Uk

Cockermouth - Uk

La sua tomba sul sagrato della St Oswald Church a Grasmere (Lake District - Uk)

(io sono quella in nero)

Io e la Tintern Abbey - Cawd (Galles)

Balquhidder, Highlands - Location della Solitary Reaper
(in questo cimitero, inoltre, è sepolto Rob Roy. Foto agosto 2015.)

178 commenti:

anna02/07/12, 16:52
There Was a Boy - William Wordsworth

There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
And islands of Winander! many a time,
At evening, when the earliest stars had just begun
To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting, would he stand alone,
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;
And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
Press'd closely palm to palm and to his mouth
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls
That they might answer him.—And they would shout
Across the wat'ry vale, and shout again,
Responsive to his call,—with quivering peals,
And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud
Redoubled and redoubled; a wild scene
Of mirth and jocund din! And, when it changed
that pause of deep silence mock'ed his skill,
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprize
Has carried far into his heart the voice
Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven receiv'd
Into the bosom of the steady lake.
Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot,
The vale where he was born: the Church-yard hangs
Upon a slope above the village school,
And there along that bank when i have pass'd
At evening, I believe, that near his grave
A full half-hour together I have stood,
Mute – for he died when he was ten years old.
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Risposte
Maria02/07/12, 17:25
Wordsworth e Colerigde scrissero assieme le Lyrical Ballads, entrambi romantici, ma emotivo il primo e portato al sovrannaturale il secondo. In entrambi comunque è sempre presente quell'ideale sublime della morte intesa come bellezza eterna.
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Risposte
Rosarita02/07/12, 18:10
Metto con grandissimo piacere la Tintern Abbey: per ora se la godrà solo chi conosce l'inglese, gli altri dovranno aspettare che scriva TUTTA la traduzione - 160 versi - perché sul web se ne trovano solo dei brandelli, tradotti alla meno peggio. Devo dividerla in più parti.

Lines written a few miles above TINTERN ABBEY - 1)
(from Lyrical Ballads, William Wordsworth & Samuel T. Coleridge - 1798)

Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a sweet inland murmur. Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
Which on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Among the woods and copses lose themselves,
Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb
The wild green landscape. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreathes of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees,
With some uncertain notice, as might seem,
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire
The hermit sits alone.

Though absent long,
These forms of beauty have not been to me,
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,
And passing even into my purer mind
With tranquil restoration: feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,
As may have had no trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life;
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world
Is lighten'd:—that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
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Risposte
Rosarita02/07/12, 18:12
Lines written a few miles above TINTERN ABBEY - 2)
(from Lyrical Ballads, William Wordsworth & Samuel T. Coleridge - 1798)

If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,
In darkness, and amid the many shapes
Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee
O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the wood
How often has my spirit turned to thee!

And now, with gleams of half-extinguish'd though[t,]
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was, when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led; more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by,)
To me was all in all.—I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite: a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed, for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompence. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man,
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear, both what they half-create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.
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Risposte
Rosarita02/07/12, 18:14
Lines written a few miles above TINTERN ABBEY - 3)
(from Lyrical Ballads, William Wordsworth & Samuel T. Coleridge - 1798)

Nor, perchance,
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me, here, upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once,
My dear, dear Sister! And this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our chearful faith that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain winds be free
To blow against thee: and in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; Oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance,
If I should be, where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence, wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came,
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake.
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Risposte
alud02/07/12, 20:29
Come avevo già scritto, a suo tempo, sulla Ballata del vecchio Marinaio, questi due poeti, Coleridge e Wordsworth sono due mie passioni, romantici e solo apparentemente superficiali. Per chi ama la poesia, è facile capire che la semplicità rappresenta la perfezione in assoluto: nessun concetto di troppo, nessun messaggio subliminale, ma solo l'emozione che sfonda chi scrive, e che magari due secoli dopo egualmente sfonda chi legge. Vorrei mettere The Daffodils, in onore della quarta ginnasio, quando tu languivi su quell'abbazia diroccata che amavi tanto e io mi scioglievo sulle giunchiglie che tentavo anche di coltivare.

THE DAFFODILS - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

GIUNCHIGLIE - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Vagavo solo come una nuvola
che galleggia in alto, oltre valli e colline,
quando all’improvviso ho visto una folla,
una moltitudine di giunchiglie dorate,
accanto al lago, sotto gli alberi,
svolazzare e danzare nella brezza.

Continue come stelle che splendono
e scintillano sulla via lattea,
si stendevano in una linea infinita
lungo il margine di una baia.
Ne vidi diecimila a colpo d’occhio
che scuotevano le teste in una danza vivace.

Le onde ballavano al loro fianco ma loro
superavano le scintillanti onde in allegria
un poeta non poteva che essere felice
in una compagnia così gioconda
io le fissavo sempre di più ma pensavo poco
alla ricchezza che quello spettacolo mi aveva portato

perchè spesso, quando sto sdraiato sul mio giaciglio
distratto o pensoso,
loro lampeggiano su quell’occhio introspettivo
che è la beatitudine della solitudine
allora il mio cuore si riempie di piacere
e danza con le giunchiglie.
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Risposte
Marianna03/07/12, 06:41
Consentitemi di dissentire. Quella di Wordsworth è semplicità di sentimenti, non di arte. 160 versi per descrivere un'emozione profonda di ricordi e nostalgie sono moltissimi, forse ne sarebbero bastati 12.... Penso invece che un semplice sogno lo si vive in un attimo, mentre descriverlo richiede tantissime parole, tutte quelle necessarie ad afferrarlo, ricordarlo, riviverlo e lasciarlo sfumare... C'era una poesia che amavo più delle altre, We are seven, dove il poeta chiede ad una bambina: quanti siete? Siamo sette, i genitori e cinque figli. Due fratelli sono via, due sono sepolti davanti a casa e io sono qui. "allora siete in cinque" No siamo sette, i genitori e cinque figli.... E la logica ferrea del poeta si scontra con la logica molto più semplice dei sentimenti.... bellissima. Provo a metterla:

We Are Seven by William Wordsworth

--------------A simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
-- Her beauty made me glad.

Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?
How many? Seven in all, she said,
And wondering looked at me.

And where are they? I pray you tell.
She answered, Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.

You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! -- I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be.

Then did the little Maid reply,
Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree.

You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five.

Their graves are green, they may be seen,
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.

How many are you then, said I,
If they two are in heaven?
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
O Master! we are seven.

But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, Nay, we are seven!
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Risposte
ele03/07/12, 20:50
Respiro profondo, prima di buttarmi a commentare il poeta che mi ha fatto palpitare, è il caso di dirlo, più di tutti. La Tintern Abbey è la poesia più sublime davvero: scritta in occasione di un viaggio verso il Galles, ripercorrendo gli stessi visitati con la sorella anni prima, è l'elogio dell'affetto per le persone custodito nei luoghi che ci hanno visto assieme e felici... e sembra davvero di camminare lentamente con loro, assaporando ogni panorama, ogni filo d'erba, ogni sasso, ogni suono, ogni silenzio di quella vallata incantevole... perché il romanticismo nei poeti è questo, emozionarsi senza ritegno davanti alle bellezze sconfinate della natura; ma è anche leggere la bellezza superiore a tutto della morte: la morte del ragazzino di dieci anni, la morte della sua amatissima Lucy, e la morte dei fratellini che la bimba continua, imperturbabile, a contare nella sua famiglia, come se non fosse successo niente, come se fosse naturale, ovvio e nell'ordine delle cose sentirli ancora, per sempre, accanto. Amo la poesia, ma riguardo ai poeti che hai segnalato finora non ho dubbi: per sempre William Wordsworth.
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Risposte
elena04/07/12, 07:35
Fantasma di felicità, lei
che prima mi illuminò gli occhi;
apparizione stupenda, mandata
a far bello un istante....

She was a Phantom of delight,
When first she gleam'd upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament....

William Wordsworth - Poems, in two volumes
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Risposte
Biba05/07/12, 10:14
Posso aggiungere questi bellissimi versetti?

... Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind…

"Se niente può far sì che si rinnovi all'erba il suo splendore o che riviva il fiore, della sorte funesta non ci dorremo allora ma, ancor più saldi in petto, godrem di quel che resta"

(William Wordsworth)
E' un poeta straordinario, vi ringrazio di averlo messo nella vostra lista. Biba
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Risposte
Rosarita05/07/12, 10:39
Versi tratti da:

Ode Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood - William Wordsworth

THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparell'd in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose;
The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday;—
Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
Shepherd-boy!

Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.
O evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning,
This sweet May-morning,
And the children are culling
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:—
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
—But there's a tree, of many, one,
A single field which I have look'd upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
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Risposte
Anonimo29/07/12, 16:00
Io vi devo ringraziare, chiunque voi siate. Sono arrivata qui cercando su google la traduzione dell'Ode all'immortalità, e per la prima volta l'ho trovata tutta. Non solo, essendo l'ultima, ho potuto vedere anche le altre traduzioni. Complimenti, e infinite grazie! A.Meli
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Risposte
Anonimo14/09/12, 08:54
Grazie mille! Salvata in corner prima dell'inizio delle lezioni proprio da voi, con tutto quello che mi serve e anche di più. Col vostro permesso copio e incollo i testi e le traduzioni, mentre dei commenti ne faccio tesoro. Alice95
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Risposte
Anonimo17/09/12, 08:38
Grazie per la versione inglese e per la traduzione di Ode all'Immortalità! Tornerò a cercarvi siete bravissimi
RispondiElimina
Risposte
nick17/09/12, 17:54
So many, many thanks, 'cause we are seven!
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Risposte
Anonimo20/09/12, 20:28
Grazie! Cercavo la Tintern completa, e grazie ancora! Anto
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Risposte
Rosarita21/09/12, 15:38
Nelle Lyrical Ballads, c'è la magnifica THE THORN (Il rovo) in cui si narra la terribile storia di Martha, abbandonata incinta prima delle nozze. Nessuno sa che fine abbia fatto quel bambino, ma lei viene vista spesso salire la montagna fino ad un rovo, dove viene sorpresa inginocchiata ad implorare: "O misery! O misery!". Riporto la strofa XXI, eloquente e angosciante:

“I’ve heard, the moss is spotted red
With drops of that poor infant’s blood;
But kill a new-born infant thus,
I do not think she could!
Some say, if to the pond you go,
And fix on it a steady view,
The shadow of a babe you trace,
A baby and a baby’s face,
And that it looks at you;
Whene’er you look on it, ’tis plain
The baby looks at you again."

(Ho udito dire che il muschio è scarlatto
Per il sangue versato da quel povero bimbo.
Uccidere così un bimbo appena nato!
Si stenta a credere che abbia potuto farlo.
Altri dicono che se ti rechi al laghetto
E vi fissi lo sguardo,
Scorgerai l'ombra di un bambino,
D'un bambino e del viso d'un bambino
Che volge a te i suoi occhi,
E che ogni volta che lo guardi
Ti ricambia lo sguardo.)
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Risposte
Anonimo26/09/12, 19:06
devo portarlo all'esame di 3 ma qual'è la migliore poesia x voi
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Risposte
Anonimo15/10/12, 12:38
Io mi complimento, le traduzioni finalmente complete di quello che serve. Mi chiamo Elisa e mi siete stati utilissimi. Grazie di cuore
RispondiElimina
Risposte
Anonimo22/10/12, 13:06
E vi ringrazio anch'io! quella Tintern abbey per intero l'ho trovata solo qui! E penso che mi guarderò anche il resto. Ciao KAM
RispondiElimina
Risposte
Anonimo25/10/12, 18:20
Grazie per le traduzioni! Martina
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Risposte
Rosarita28/10/12, 09:50
To My Sister - William Wordsworth

It is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before
The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.
There is a blessing in the air,
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.

My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.

Edward will come with you;--and, pray,
Put on with speed your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living calendar:
We from to-day, my Friend, will date
The opening of the year.

Love, now a universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth:
--It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more
Than years of toiling reason:
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts will make,
Which they shall long obey:
We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.

And from the blessed power that rolls
About, below, above,
We'll frame the measure of our souls:
They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
With speed put on your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.
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Risposte
Rosarita01/11/12, 07:40
Beh, che dire: ieri ho superato le mille visualizzazioni di Wordsworth... emozione e soddisfazione.
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Risposte
Anonimo06/11/12, 11:27
Everyone loves it when individuals get together and share ideas. Great site, keep it up!
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Risposte
Anonimo06/11/12, 11:28
WOW just what I was looking for
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Risposte
Anonimo06/11/12, 11:37
It's difficult to find well-informed people for this topic, but you seem like you know what you're talking about!

Thanks
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Risposte
Anonimo06/11/12, 11:40
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Risposte
Rosarita06/11/12, 12:44
IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING -WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the Sea;
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder—everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine;
Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year:
And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.

E’ UNA BELLA SERATA, CALMA E SERENA - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

E' una bella serata, calma e serena,
Il Santo Tempo è calmo come una suora
estasiata in adorazione, il chiaro Sole
sta calando nella sua tranquillità,
La dolcezza del Cielo si accova sul mare.
Ascolta! Il Potente Essere è sveglio,
e attraverso il suo eterno movimento trasforma
il suono in tuono - perennemente.
Cara Figlia! Cara Ragazza! Che camminasti qui con me,
Anche se tu appari non sfiorata dal sublime pensiero,
Non per questo la tua natura è meno divina.
Tu giaci nel petto di Abramo tutto l'anno,
Adori al santuario del Tempio
Dio è con te, anche quando non ce ne accorgiamo.
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Risposte
macintyre09/11/12, 07:02
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Risposte
Maria Grazia16/11/12, 08:28
Complimenti, e tanti! E'la pagina più completa su Wordsworth mai trovata, con tantissime poesie stupende nella doppia versione. Sono un'insegnante di Lingua e Letteratura Inglese, e ho saputo di questo blog da un mio studente. Vi rinnovo i complimenti. Maria Grazia S.
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Anonimo27/11/12, 11:44
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Risposte
Rosarita04/12/12, 07:48
Questa è forse la più nota delle Lucy Poems, dedicate alla ragazza morta giovanissima, e da lui molto amata, probabilmente sua cognata Margaret Hutchinson:

A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

A Slumber did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years

No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.

UN SONNO HA INTORPIDITO IL MIO SPIRITO - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Un sonno ha intorpidito il mio spirito
non avevo timori umani
lei pareva una creatura che non poteva essere toccata
dal passaggio degli anni di questo mondo

Ora lei più non si muove,
non sente né vede;
avvolta nella terra che ruota ogni giorno su di lei,
insieme alle sue rocce, alberi e pietre.
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Risposte
Roby04/12/12, 18:27
Posso aggiungere questo bellissimo brano tratto dal Preludio? Direi inquietante, un vero tuffo nel terrore.

One summer evening (led by her) I found
A little boat tied to a willow tree
Within a rocky cave, its usual home.
Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in
Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth
And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice
Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;
Leaving behind her still, on either side,
Small circles glittering idly in the moon,
Until they melted all into one track
Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,
Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point
With an unswerving line, I fixed my view
Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,
The horizon's utmost boundary; far above
Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.
She was an elfin pinnace; lustily
I dipped my oars into the silent lake,
And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat
Went heaving through the water like a swan;
When, from behind that craggy steep till then
The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge,
As if with voluntary power instinct,
Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,
And growing still in stature the grim shape
Towered up between me and the stars, and still,
For so it seemed, with purpose of its own
And measured motion like a living thing,
Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,
And through the silent water stole my way
Back to the covert of the willow tree;
There in her mooring-place I left my bark,--
And through the meadows homeward went, in grave
And serious mood; but after I had seen
That spectacle, for many days, my brain
Worked with a dim and undetermined sense
Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts
There hung a darkness, call it solitude
Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes
Remained, no pleasant images of trees,
Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;
But huge and mighty forms, that do not live
Like living men, moved slowly through the mind
By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.
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Risposte
luban15/12/12, 08:07

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Risposte
Anonimo18/12/12, 18:17
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Risposte
Anonimo25/12/12, 07:58
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Risposte
Ashley27/12/12, 13:16
I like this one:

Who But Is Pleased To Watch The Moon On High

by William Wordsworth

Who but is pleased to watch the moon on high
Travelling where she from time to time enshrouds
Her head, and nothing loth her Majesty
Renounces, till among the scattered clouds
One with its kindling edge declares that soon
Will reappear before the uplifted eye
A Form as bright, as beautiful a moon,
To glide in open prospect through clear sky.
Pity that such a promise e'er should prove
False in the issue, that yon seeming space
Of sky should be in truth the steadfast face
Of a cloud flat and dense, through which must move
(By transit not unlike man's frequent doom)
The Wanderer lost in more determined gloom.

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Risposte
Anonimo02/01/13, 21:13
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Risposte
Anonimo07/01/13, 07:36

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Risposte
Anonimo18/01/13, 23:38
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Risposte
Margherita24/01/13, 08:18
Grandissima ammirazione per questa pagina, e per il blog in generale. Trovo le versioni originali e le traduzioni, commenti spiritosi ma sempre competenti. Grazie per il prezioso contributo! Margherita
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Rosarita25/01/13, 08:42
devo fare una precisazione: tutti i commenti che rimandano ad altri indirizzi finiscono direttamente nelle spam. A volte li copio, tolgo il link, e li pubblico. Come questo, anche se abbastanza spiacevole, ma ci sta. E' del 16/01/13.

Thanks in favor of sharing such a fastidious opinion, article is fastidious, thats why i have read it.
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Risposte
Rosarita14/02/13, 16:02
A Balquhidder, in una valle tranquilla delle Highlands scozzesi, una ragazza che cantava mentre tagliava il grano fu l'ispiratrice di una delle sue più famose poesie:

THE SOLITARY REAPER - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listen'd, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

La mietitrice solitaria - William Wordsworth

Osservala, soletta lì in mezzo al campo,
La solitaria ragazza delle Highlands!
Miete e canta e nessuno le è dappresso;
Fermati, o prosegui senza disturbarla!
Da sola, falcia e lega il grano,
E canta una canzone malinconica;
Oh ascolta! ché la valle profonda
E' inondata dal canto.

Mai usignolo ha modulato canto
Così soave a comitive di viaggiatori
Accampati in qualche ombroso
Recesso nei deserti d'Arabia:
Mai in primavera fu udita
Voce più dolce di cuculo
Rompere il silenzio del mare
Tra le più remote Ebridi.

Nessuno mi dirà che cosa canta?
Forse le meste note sgorgano a ricordo
Di vicende trascorse, infelici, lontane,
Di battaglie del tempo andato;
O è qualche lamento più modesto,
Per storie familiari dei nostri giorni?
Per qualche normale afflizione, perdita,
O Pena già sofferta e che può rinnovarsi?
Qualsiasi fosse il tema, la fanciulla cantava
Come se il suo canto non dovesse mai finire;
L'ho vista cantare durante il lavoro,
E mentre si piegava sulla falce;
L'ho ascoltata senza muovermi o parlare,
E mentre salivo su per la collina
Ho portato a lungo nel cuore quella melodia
Che ormai non arrivava più all'orecchio.

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Risposte
andy, CA15/02/13, 03:31
thank you so much for this wonderful proposal, I had never found a work so comprehensive in any other blog, complete and fun. Andy, CA
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Risposte
Anonimo26/02/13, 11:44
great work! A lot of thanks
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Risposte
nick01/03/13, 08:45
may you enjoy this one

A Night-Piece - William Wordsworth

The sky is overcast
With a continuous cloud of texture close,
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,
Which through that veil is indistinctly seen,
A dull, contracted circle, yielding light
So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,
Chequering the ground--from rock, plant, tree, or tower.
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam
Startles the pensive traveller while he treads
His lonesome path, with unobserving eye
Bent earthwards; he looks up--the clouds are split
Asunder,--and above his head he sees
The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss
Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,
Yet vanish not!--the wind is in the tree,
But they are silent;--still they roll along
Immeasurably distant; and the vault,
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
At length the Vision closes; and the mind,
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,
Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

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Risposte
Anonimo21/03/13, 17:41
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Risposte
Anonimo21/03/13, 17:42
Aw, this was an extremely nice post. Spending some time
and actual effort to create a top notch article… but what can I say… I procrastinate a lot and never seem to get nearly anything done.
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Risposte
Reva16/04/13, 10:06
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Mariachiara8930/04/13, 09:02
ma complimentiiii! Ho trovato tutto, e di più! Ho scoperto quel brano "Il Rovo", quello che parla della mamma affranta che torna sul luogo dove ha seppellito il suo bambino dopo averlo ucciso, storia che ignoravo completamente e che mi sembra terribile ed emozionante... Come fare per leggerla tutta? Ciao a tutti e ancora BRAVI
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Risposte
Rosarita30/04/13, 10:35
THE THORN – WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (from Lyrical Ballads) 1)
I
There is a Thorn; it looks so old,
In truth you’d find it hard to say,
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and grey.
Not higher than a two years' child
It stands erect this aged thorn;
No leaves it has, no prickly points;
It is a mass of knotted joints,
A wretched thing forlorn.
It stands erect, and like a stone
With lichens is it overgrown.

II
Like rock or stone, it is o’ergrown
With lichens to the very top,
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
A melancholy crop:
Up from the earth these mosses creep,
And this poor thorn they clasp it round
So close, you’d say that they are bent
With plain and manifest intent,
To drag it to the ground;
And all have joined in one endeavour
To bury this poor thorn for ever.

III
High on a mountain’s highest ridge,
Where oft the stormy winter gale
Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds
It sweeps from vale to vale;
Not five yards from the mountain-path,
This thorn you on your left espy;
And to the left, three yards beyond,
You see a little muddy pond
Of water, never dry,
I’ve measured it from side to side:
‘Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.
IV
And, close beside this aged thorn,
There is a fresh and lovely sight,
A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,
Just half a foot in height.
All lovely colours there you see,
All colours that were ever seen,
And mossy network too is there,
As if by hand of lady fair
The work had woven been;
And cups, the darlings of the eye
So deep is their vermilion dye.

V
Ah me! what lovely tints are there
Of olive-green and scarlet bright,
In spikes, in branches, and in stars,
Green, red, and pearly white.
This heap of earth o’ergrown with moss,
Which close beside the thorn you see,
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,
Is like an infant’s grave in size,
As like as like can be:
But never, never any where,
An infant’s grave was half so fair.
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Risposte
Rosarita30/04/13, 10:37
THE THORN 2)
VI
Now would you see this aged thorn,
This pond, and beauteous hill of moss,
You must take care and chuse your time
The mountain when to cross.
For oft there sits, between the heap
That’s like an infant’s grave in size,
And that same pond of which I spoke,
A woman in a scarlet cloak,
And to herself she cries,
‘Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery!’

VII
At all times of the day and night
This wretched woman thither goes,
And she is known to every star,
And every wind that blows;
And there beside the thorn, she sits
When the blue day-light’s in the skies,
And when the whirlwind’s on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still,
And to herself she cries,
‘Oh misery! oh misery!
‘Oh woe is me! oh misery!’ ”

VIII
‘Now wherefore, thus, by day and night,
‘In rain, in tempest, and in snow,
‘Thus to the dreary mountain-top
‘Does this poor Woman go?
‘And why sits she beside the thorn
‘When the blue day-light’s in the sky,
‘Or when the whirlwind’s on the hill,
‘Or frosty air is keen and still,
‘And wherefore does she cry? —
‘Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why
‘Does she repeat that doleful cry?”

IX
I cannot tell; I wish I could;
For the true reason no one knows,
But if you’d gladly view the spot,
The spot to which she goes;
The heap that’s like an infant’s grave,
The pond—and thorn, so old and grey,
Pass by her door — ’tis seldom shut —
And if you see her in her hut,
Then to the spot away! -
I never heard of such as dare
Approach the spot when she is there.

X
‘But wherefore to the mountain-top
‘Can this unhappy woman go,
‘Whatever star is in the skies,
‘Whatever wind may blow?’
Nay rack your brain – ‘tis all in vain,
I’ll tell you every thing I know;
But to the thorn, and to the pond
Which is a little step beyond,
I wish that you would go:
Perhaps when you are at the place
You something of her tale may trace.

XI
I’ll give you the best help I can:
Before you up the mountain go,
Up to the dreary mountain-top,
I’ll tell you all I know.
‘Tis now some two and twenty years,
Since she (her name is Martha Ray)
Gave with a maiden’s true good will
Her company to Stephen Hill;
And she was blithe and gay,
And she was happy, happy still
Whene’er she thought of Stephen Hill.
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Risposte
Rosarita30/04/13, 10:41
THE THORN 3)

XII
And they had fix’d the wedding-day,
The morning that must wed them both;
But Stephen to another maid
Had sworn another oath;
And, with this other maid, to church
Unthinking Stephen went —
Poor Martha! on that woful day
A cruel, cruel fire, they say,
Into her bones was sent:
It dried her body like a cinder,
And almost turn’d her brain to tinder.

XIII
They say, full six months after this,
While yet the summer-leaves were green,
She to the mountain-top would go,
And there was often seen.
‘Tis said, a child was in her womb,
As now to any eye was plain;
She was with child, and she was mad;
Yet often was she sober sad
From her exceeding pain.
Oh me! Ten thousand times I’d rather
That he had died, that cruel father!

XIV
Sad case for such a brain to hold
Communion with a stirring child!
Sad case, as you may think, for one
Who had a brain so wild!
Last Christmas when we talked of this,
Old Farmer Simpson did maintain,
That in her womb the infant wrought
About its mother’s heart, and brought
Her senses back again:
And when at last her time drew near,
Her looks were calm, her senses clear.

XV
No more I know, I wish I did,
And it would tell it all to you;
For what became of this poor child
There’s none that ever knew:
And if a child was born or no
There’s no one that could ever tell;
And if ’twas born alive or dead,
There’s no one knows, as I have said,
But some remember well,
That Martha Ray about this time
Would up the mountain often climb.

XVI
And all that winter, when at night
The wind blew from the mountain-peak,
’Twas worth your while, though in the dark,
The church-yard path to seek:
For many a time and oft were heard
Cries coming from the mountain-head,
Some plainly living voices were,
And others, I’ve heard many swear,
Were voices of the dead:
I cannot think, whate’er they say,
They had to do with Martha Ray.

XVII
But that she goes to this old thorn,
The thorn which I’ve described to you,
And there sits in a scarlet cloak,
I will be sworn is true.
For one day with my telescope,
To view the ocean wide and bright,
When to this country first I came,
Ere I had heard of Martha’s name,
I climbed the mountain’s height:
A storm came on, and I could see
No object higher than my knee.
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Risposte
Rosarita30/04/13, 10:43
THE THORN 4)

XVIII
’Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain:
No screen, no fence could I discover;
And then the wind! in faith, it was
A wind full ten times over.
I looked around, I thought I saw
A jutting crag,—and off I ran,
Head-foremost, through the driving rain,
The shelter of the crag to gain,
And, as I am a man,
Instead of jutting crag, I found
A Woman seated on the ground.

XIX
I did not speak—I saw her face,
Her face it was enough for me;
I turned about and heard her cry,
‘Oh misery! oh misery!’
And there she sits, until the moon
Through half the clear blue sky will go,
And when the little breezes make
The waters of the pond to shake,
As all the country know,
She shudders, and you hear her cry,
‘Oh misery! oh misery!’ ”

XX
‘But what’s the Thorn? and what the pond?
‘And what the hill of moss to her?
‘And what’s the creeping breeze that comes
‘The little pond to stir?’
I cannot tell; but some will say
She hanged her baby on the tree;
Some say she drowned it in the pond,
Which is a little step beyond,
But all and each agree,
The little babe was buried there,
Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

XXI
I’ve heard the scarlet moss is red
With drops of that poor infant’s blood;
But kill a new-born infant thus!
I do not think she could.
Some say, if to the pond you go,
And fix on it a steady view,
The shadow of a babe you trace,
A baby and a baby’s face,
And that it looks at you;
Whene’er you look on it, ’tis plain
The baby looks at you again.

XXII
And some had sworn an oath that she
Should be to public justice brought;
And for the little infant’s bones
With spades they would have sought.
But then the beauteous hill of moss
Before their eyes began to stir;
And for full fifty yards around,
The grass it shook upon the ground;
But all do still aver
The little babe lies buried there,
Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

XXIII
I cannot tell how this may be,
But plain it is, the thorn is bound
With heavy tufts of moss, that strive
To drag it to the ground.
And this I know, full many a time,
When she was on the mountain high,
By day, and in the silent night,
When all the stars shone clear and bright,
That I have heard her cry,
‘Oh misery! oh misery!
‘Oh woe is me! oh misery!’
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Risposte
nick01/05/13, 10:00
I think you need this one! Please

Who But Is Pleased To Watch The Moon On High -
by William Wordsworth

Who but is pleased to watch the moon on high
Travelling where she from time to time enshrouds
Her head, and nothing loth her Majesty
Renounces, till among the scattered clouds
One with its kindling edge declares that soon
Will reappear before the uplifted eye
A Form as bright, as beautiful a moon,
To glide in open prospect through clear sky.
Pity that such a promise e'er should prove
False in the issue, that yon seeming space
Of sky should be in truth the steadfast face
Of a cloud flat and dense, through which must move
(By transit not unlike man's frequent doom)
The Wanderer lost in more determined gloom.
RispondiElimina
Risposte
Anonimo09/05/13, 13:04
potrei avere la traduzione di fidelity?
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Risposte
Rosarita10/05/13, 08:14
per il momento metto l'originale:

FIDELITY - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

A barking sound the Shepherd hears,
A cry as of a dog or fox;
He halts—and searches with his eyes
Among the scattered rocks:
And now at distance can discern
A stirring in a brake of fern;
And instantly a dog is seen,
Glancing through that covert green.

The Dog is not of mountain breed;
Its motions, too, are wild and shy;
With something, as the Shepherd thinks,
Unusual in its cry:
Nor is there any one in sight
All round, in hollow or on height;
Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear;
What is the creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess,
That keeps, till June, December's snow;
A lofty precipice in front,
A silent tarn below!
Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
Remote from public road or dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land;
From trace of human foot or hand.

There sometimes doth a leaping fish
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer;
The crags repeat the raven's croak,
In symphony austere;
Thither the rainbow comes—the cloud—
And mists that spread the flying shroud;
And sunbeams; and the sounding blast,
That, if it could, would hurry past;
But that enormous barrier holds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts, a while
The Shepherd stood; then makes his way
O'er rocks and stones, following the Dog
As quickly as he may;
Nor far had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the ground;
The appalled Discoverer with a sigh
Looks round, to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks
The Man had fallen, that place of fear!
At length upon the Shepherd's mind
It breaks, and all is clear:
He instantly recalled the name,
And who he was, and whence he came;
Remembered, too, the very day
On which the Traveller passed this way.

But hear a wonder, for whose sake
This lamentable tale I tell!
A lasting monument of words
This wonder merits well.
The Dog, which still was hovering nigh,
Repeating the same timid cry,
This Dog, had been through three months' space
A dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain that, since the day
When this ill-fated Traveller died,
The Dog had watched about the spot,
Or by his master's side:
How nourished here through such long time
He knows, who gave that love sublime;
And gave that strength of feeling, great
Above all human estimate!

aggiungo la presentazione: Fidelity
Composed 1805.—Published 1807

[The young man whose death gave occasion to this poem was named Charles Gough, and had come early in the spring to Patterdale for the sake of angling. While attempting to cross over Helvellyn to Grasmere he slipped from a steep part of the rock where the ice was not thawed, and perished. His body was discovered as described in this poem. Walter Scott heard of the accident, and both he and I, without either of us knowing that the other had taken up the subject, each wrote a poem in admiration of the dog's fidelity. His contains a most beautiful stanza:
"How long did'st thou think that his silence was slumber!
When the wind waved his garment how oft did'st thou start!"
I will add that the sentiment in the last four lines of the last stanza of my verses was uttered by a shepherd with such exactness, that a traveller, who afterwards reported his account in print, was induced to question the man whether he had read them, which he had not.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."

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Risposte
Rosarita10/05/13, 11:04
Ecco la traduzione (fatta da me, quindi siate clementi):

FEDELTA' - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Il pastore ascolta un suono di latrato,
Un grido come di cane o di volpe;
Si ferma e cerca con lo sguardo
Tra la distesa di rocce:
Dapprima a distanza percepisce
Un movimento tra le felci immobili;
E poi ecco che scorge un cane,
Scorrendo con lo guardo quel verde impenetrabile.

Il cane non è di razza montanara;
I suoi movimenti sono fin troppo selvaggi e timorosi;
ma c’è qualcosa, pensa il pastore,
di strano nel suo grido:
e non si vede nessuno sul posto
Tutto intorno, né su né giù;
Non si ode nemmeno un richiamo, né un fischio;
Che ci fa dunque, questa creatura qui?

C'era una grotta, un enorme anfratto,
Capace di mantenere, fino a giugno, la neve di dicembre;
Un alto precipizio davanti,
Un tranquillo laghetto più in basso!
Lontano dal centro di Helvellyn,
Distante dalla strada pubblica, o da case,
Sentieri , o campi coltivati,
O dalle tracce di presenza umana.

A volte c'è un pesce che salta fuori dall’acqua
Lanciando dal laghetto un applauso solitario;
Le falesie ripetono il gracchiare del corvo,
Austero nella sinfonia;
Là arriva l'arcobaleno – e nuvole -
E nebbie che diffondono un velo fluttuante;
E raggi di sole, ed esplosioni rumorose,
Che, se potessero, passerebbero velocemente;
Ma quell’enorme barriera li trattiene con forza.

Provando un senso di timore, per un attimo
Il pastore rimane fermo, poi si fa strada
Sopra rocce e pietre, seguendo il cane
Più in fretta che può;
Non era andato molto lontano che trova
Lo scheletro di un uomo adagiato a terra;
Inorridito per la scoperta, con un sospiro
Si guarda intorno, alla ricerca di una spiegazione.

Da quelle rocce ripide e pericolose
L'uomo era precipitato, che luogo pauroso!
Poi la mente del pastore
Si illumina, ed è tutto chiaro:
In un attimo si ricorda il nome,
E chi era, e da dove proveniva;
Ricorda persino il giorno esatto
in cui il viaggiatore aveva percorso questo cammino.

Ma ascolta la meraviglia, per amore della quale
Questo pietoso racconto sto narrando!
Un monumento imperituro di parole
Questa meraviglia merita giustamente.
Il cane, che ancora indugiava lì vicino,
Ripetendo lo stesso timido grido,
Questo cane aveva abitato per tre mesi
in quel posto selvaggio.

Sì, era evidente che dal giorno
Della morte di questo sfortunato viaggiatore,
Il cane aveva vigilato sul posto,
A fianco del suo padrone:
Come si sia nutrito qui per così tanto tempo
Lo sa solo lui, che ha offerto quell’amore supremo;
E ha dato quella forza di sentimento, superiore
Ad ogni umana valutazione.
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Risposte
Anonimo27/05/13, 16:13
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Rosarita08/08/13, 17:23
Doppia festa oggi: visita al Dove Cottage di Grasmere e raggiunte le 50001 visualizzazioni del blog!
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Rosarita17/08/13, 16:20
Considerata una delle composizioni più belle di sempre, Lucy Gray fa parte delle Lyrical Ballads.

LUCY GRAY (OR, SOLITUDE) - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 1799

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,
And when I crossed the Wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary Child.

No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide Moor,
The sweetest Thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the Fawn at play,
The Hare upon the Green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night,
You to The town must go,
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your Mother thro' the snow."

"That, Father! will I gladly do:
'Tis scarcely afternoon--
The Minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the Moon!"

At this the Father raised his hook
And snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his work; and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe,
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powd'ry snow,
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time,
She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb:
But never reached the Town.

The wretched Parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the Moor;
And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood,
A furlong from their door.

And now they homeward turned, and cried
"In Heaven we all shall meet;"
When in the snow the Mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn-hedge,
And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they crossed,
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the Bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank
The footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank,
And further there were none.

Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living Child,
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome Wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.
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scanpst19/08/13, 07:36
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Rosarita20/09/13, 11:47
Come Blake, Wordsworth era indignato contro lo sfruttamento del lavoro minorile. Il ragazzino descritto nella poesia è invecchiato precocemente, avvilito nell'anima e destinato purtroppo a diventare un adulto limitato e passivo.

BOY OF INDUSTRY - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
(From The Parsonage, Book Eight, The Excursion)

His raiment, whitened o'er with cotton-flakes
Or locks of wool, announces whence he comes.
Creeping his gait and cowering, his lip pale,
His respiration quick and audible;
And scarcely could you fancy that a gleam
Could break from out those languid eyes, or a blush
Mantle upon his cheek. Is this the form,
Is that the countenance, and such the port,
Of no mean Being? One who should be clothed
With dignity befitting his proud hope;
Who, in his very childhood, should appear
Sublime from present purity and joy!
The limbs increase; but liberty of mind
Is gone for ever; and this organic frame,
So joyful in its motions, is become
Dull, to the joy of her own motions dead;
And even the touch, so exquisitely poured
Through the whole body, with a languid will
Performs its functions; rarely competent
To impress a vivid feeling on the mind
Of what there is delightful in the breeze,
The gentle visitations of the sun,
Or lapse of liquid element--by hand,
Or foot, or lip, in summer's warmth--perceived.
Can hope look forward to a manhood raised
On such foundations?"

IL RAGAZZO DELL'INDUSTRIA - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Il suo abito, imbiancato dai fiocchi di cotone
O i bioccoli di lana, denuncia da dove viene;
Egli trascina il passo, tremante, le labbra pallide,
Il respiro affannoso e percepibile;
E sembra che mai quegli occhi stanchi possano scintillare
O quelle guance prendere colorito.
E’ questo il contegno, l’aspetto, il portamento
Di un essere non vile? Che dovrebbe essere vestito
Con la dignità adatta alla sua orgogliosa speranza,
Che proprio nell’infanzia dovrebbe apparire
Sublime per la purezza e gioia!
Il corpo si sviluppa; ma la libertà dello spirito
E’persa per sempre, e la sua corporatura
Così gioiosa nei suoi movimenti, è diventata
Ottusa, per il trionfo dei suoi movimenti morti;
E anche il tatto, così squisitamente riversato
Attraverso tutto il corpo, con una languida volontà
Svolge le sue funzioni; raramente competente
Per imprimere un sentimento vivido nella mente
Di che cosa vi sia di delizioso nella brezza,
Le carezze gentili del sole,
O decadenza di elemento liquido – con la mano,
O il piede, o labbra, nel calore dell'estate – percepita.
Come si può sperare in un’umanità cresciuta
Su tali fondamenta?
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Risposte
singapore05/10/13, 07:36
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Rosarita27/10/13, 21:40
oggi Wordsworth ha raggiunto 15.000 visualizzazioni!
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Rosarita09/11/13, 17:12
William e Dorothy Wordsworth arrivarono nel 1803 a Roslin, in Scozia (ora più nota come Rosslyn grazie al Codice da Vinci di Dan Brown).
All’epoca la Cappella giaceva abbandonata e in rovina, tuttavia entrambi rimasero meravigliati dall’imprevista bellezza degli interni. Dorothy scrisse nel suo diario: “La pietra del tetto e dei muri è scolpita con fiori e foglie, così delicatamente cesellati che avrei potuto restare ad ammirarli per ore. Alcuni di questi fiori, e foglie, erano dipinti perfettamente di verde, e il prodotto naturale e quello artificiale erano così intrecciati che, in un primo momento, non fu facile distinguere le piante vive dalle altre, essendo tutte della medesima gradazione di verde.”
Suo fratello William affrontò il medesimo argomento nel 1831, con questo sonetto:

COMPOSED IN ROSLIN CHAPEL DURING A STORM - WW
(from Yarrow Revisited, and Other poems composed during a Tour in Scotland)

The wind is now thy organist;--a clank
(We know not whence) ministers for a bell
To mark some change of service. As the swell
Of music reached its height, and even when sank
The notes, in prelude, ROSLIN! to a blank
Of silence, how it thrilled thy sumptuous roof,
Pillars, and arches,--not in vain time-proof,
Though Christian rites be wanting! From what bank
Came those live herbs? by what hand were they sown
Where dew falls not, where rain-drops seem unknown?
Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche
Share with their sculptured fellows, that, green-grown,
Copy their beauty more and more, and preach,
Though mute, of all things blending into one.

Il vento è ora l’organista. Un metallico suono di campana
(non sappiamo da dove proviene) sembra invitare
gli officianti a qualche cambiamento di servizio.
Così come l’innalzarsi della musica raggiunse il suo apice,
così pure il precipitare delle note del preludio,
o Roslin, nel silenzio più profondo
fece vibrare d’emozione il tuo tetto sontuoso,
e i pilastri, e gli archi, costruiti non invano
per l’eternità, seppure privati dei riti cristiani.
Da quale posto arrivarono queste vive erbe?
Da quale mano furono seminate qui, dove la rugiada
non cade, e le gocce di pioggia sembrano sconosciute?
Eppure nel tempio esse condividono una nicchia
amichevole con i loro compagni scolpiti, che
cresciuti verdeggianti, imitano la loro bellezza
ancora e ancora, e predicano sia pure in silenzio,
che tutte le cose si fondono in una sola.
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Risposte
Anonimo20/11/13, 08:37
danke Ihnen so sehr für dieses exzellente Forschung - KayUwe
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Risposte
Valerio17/12/13, 16:30
regalo di Natale:

CHRISTMAS MINSTRELSY - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

The minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage eaves;
While smitten by a lofty moon,
The encircling laurels thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.

Through hill and valley every breeze
Had sunk to rest with folded wings:
Keen was the air, but could not freeze
Nor check the music of the strings;
So stout and hardy were the band
That scraped the chords with strenuous hand.

And who but listened?--till was paid
Respect to every inmate's claim,
The greeting given, the music played
In honor of each household name,
Duly pronounced with lusty call,
And a merry Christmas wished to all.

O Brother! I revere the choice
That took thee from thy native hills;
And it is given thee to rejoice:
Though public care full often tills
(Heaven only witness of the toil)
A barren and ungrateful soil.

Yet would that thou, with me and mine,
Hadst heard this never-failing rite;
And seen on other faces shine
A true revival of the light
Which nature, and these rustic powers,
In simple childhood, spread through ours!

For pleasure hath not ceased to wait
On these expected annual rounds,
Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate
Call forth the unelaborate sounds,
Or they are offered at the door
That guard the lowliest of the poor.

How touching, when at midnight sweep
Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark,
To hear--and sink again in sleep!
Or at an earlier call, to mark,
By blazing fire, the still suspense
Of self-complacent innocence;

The mutual nod--the grave disguise
Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er,
And some unhidden tears that rise
For names once heard, and heard no more;
Tears brightened by the serenade
For infant in the cradle laid!

Ah! not for emerald fields alone,
With ambient streams more pure and bright
Than fabled Cytherea's zone
Glittering before the Thunderer's sight,
Is to my heart of hearts endeared,
The ground where we were born and reared!

Hail, ancient manners! sure defence,
Where they survive, of wholesome laws:
Remnants of love whose modest sense
Thus into narrow room withdraws;
Hail, usages of pristine mould,
And ye that guard them, Mountains old!

Bear with me, Brother! quench the thought
That slights this passion or condemns;
If thee fond fancy ever brought
From the proud margin of the Thames,
And Lambeth's venerable towers,
To humble streams and greener bowers.

Yes, they can make, who fail to find
Short leisure even in busiest days,
Moments to cast a look behind,
And profit by those kindly rays
That through the clouds do sometimes steal,
And all the far-off past reveal.

Hence, while the imperial city's din
Beats frequent on thy satiate ear,
A pleased attention I may win
To agitations less severe,
That neither overwhelm nor cloy,
But fill the hollow vale with joy!
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Anonimo08/05/14, 17:16
ciao ho bisogno di un aiuto, io sto facendo una tesina sull'architettura organica di Frank Wright e per inglese ho inserito Wordsworth e la sua visione della natura potresti consigliarmi una poesia da inserire che c'entri anche con l'architettura??
grazie
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Risposte
Anonimo12/06/14, 15:27
ciao! ho trovato questa poesia di wordsworth ma vorrei sapere la traduzione ( non la trovo da nessuna parte) sapreste aiutarmi? Grazie

"YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO"

YES, it was the mountain Echo,
Solitary, clear, profound,
Answering to the shouting Cuckoo,
Giving to her sound for sound!

Unsolicited reply
To a babbling wanderer sent;
Like her ordinary cry,
Like--but oh, how different!

Hears not also mortal Life?
Hear not we, unthinking Creatures! 10
Slaves of folly, love, or strife--
Voices of two different natures?

Have not 'we' too?--yes, we have
Answers, and we know not whence;
Echoes from beyond the grave,
Recognised intelligence!

Such rebounds our inward ear
Catches sometimes from afar--
Listen, ponder, hold them dear;
For of God,--of God they are.
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Anonimo27/06/14, 15:01
siete bravi! mi potreste procurare Laodamia? grazie
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Rosarita28/06/14, 16:43
LAODAMIA - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1/3)

"With sacrifice before the rising morn
Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired;
And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn
Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required:
Celestial pity I again implore;—
Restore him to my sight—great Jove, restore!"

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed
With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands;
While, like the sun emerging from a cloud,
Her countenance brightens—and her eye expands;
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows;
As she expects the issue in repose.

O terror! what hath she perceived?—O joy!
What doth she look on?—whom doth she behold?
Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy?
His vital presence? his corporeal mould?
It is—if sense deceive her not—'tis He!
And a God leads him, wingèd Mercury!

Mild Hermes spake—and touched her with his wand
That calms all fear; "Such grace hath crowned thy prayer,
Laodamía! that at Jove's command
Thy husband walks the paths of upper air:
He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space;
Accept the gift, behold him face to face!"

Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp;
Again that consummation she essayed;
But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp
As often as that eager grasp was made.
The Phantom parts—but parts to re-unite,
And re-assume his place before her sight.

"Protesiláus, lo! thy guide is gone!
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice:
This is our palace,—yonder is thy throne;
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice.
Not to appal me have the gods bestowed
This precious boon; and blest a sad abode."

"Great Jove, Laodamía! doth not leave
His gifts imperfect:—Spectre though I be,
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive;
But in reward of thy fidelity.
And something also did my worth obtain;
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.

"Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold
That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand
Should die; but me the threat could not withhold:
A generous cause a victim did demand;
And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain;
A self-devoted chief—by Hector slain."

"Supreme of Heroes—bravest, noblest, best!
Thy matchless courage I bewail no more,
Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest
By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore;
Thou found'st—and I forgive thee—here thou art—
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart.

"But thou, though capable of sternest deed,
Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave;
And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed
Thou should'st elude the malice of the grave:
Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair
As when their breath enriched Thessalian air.
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andrea c.24/08/14, 08:30
sei il maggio esperto di Wordsworth sul web, grazie per le traduzioni e per i commenti
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Rosarita30/12/14, 18:19
ROB ROY'S GRAVE - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 1/3

A Famous man is Robin Hood,
The English ballad-singer's joy!
And Scotland has a thief as good,
An outlaw of as daring mood;

She has her brave ROB ROY!
Then clear the weeds from off his Grave,
And let us chant a passing stave,
In honour of that Hero brave!

Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart
And wondrous length and strength of arm:
Nor craved he more to quell his foes,
Or keep his friends from harm.

Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave;
Forgive me if the phrase be strong;--
A Poet worthy of Rob Roy
Must scorn a timid song.

Say, then, that he was 'wise' as brave;
As wise in thought as bold in deed:
For in the principles of things
'He' sought his moral creed.

Said generous Rob, 'What need of books?
Burn all the statutes and their shelves:
They stir us up against our kind;
And worse, against ourselves.

'We have a passion--make a law,
Too false to guide us or control!
And for the law itself we fight
In bitterness of soul.

'And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose
Distinctions that are plain and few:
These find I graven on my heart:
'That' tells me what to do.

'The creatures see of flood and field,
And those that travel on the wind!
With them no strife can last; they live
In peace, and peace of mind.

'For why?--because the good old rule
Sufficeth them, the simple plan,
That they should take, who have the power,
And they should keep who can.
RispondiElimina
Risposte
Rosarita09/04/15, 18:13
LUCY
by: William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

I.

STRANGE fits of passion have I known:
And I will dare to tell,
But in the lover's ear alone,
What once to me befell.

When she I loved look'd every day
Fresh as a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath an evening moon.

Upon the moon I fix'd my eye,
All over the wide lea;
With quickening pace my horse drew nigh
Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reach'd the orchard-plot;
And, as we climb'd the hill,
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot
Came near and nearer still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
And all the while my eyes I kept
On the descending moon.

My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopp'd:
When down behind the cottage roof,
At once, the bright moon dropp'd.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a lover's head!
'O mercy!' to myself I cried,
'If Lucy should be dead!'

II.

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me!

III.

I TRAVELL'D among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.

Among the mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel
Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd,
The bowers where Lucy play'd;
And thine too is the last green field
That Lucy's eyes survey'd.

IV.

THREE years she grew in sun and shower;
Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown;
This child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own.

'Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse; and with me
The girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.

'She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs;
And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.

'The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the storm
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
By silent sympathy.

'The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.

'And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell.'

Thus Nature spake -- The work was done --
How soon my Lucy's race was run!
She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be.

V.

A SLUMBER did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seem'd a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.
RispondiElimina
Risposte
Anonimo30/11/15, 11:13
per favore potete aiutarmi mi serve la traduzione di wordsworth di questa poesia
London, 1802
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour;
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart;
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
RispondiElimina
Risposte
Nick Cave Kamen20/04/16, 07:21
Lines Written in Early Spring - BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
RispondiElimina
Risposte
Nick Cave Kamen20/04/16, 07:25
NOT LOVE, NOT WAR, NOR THE TUMULTUOUS SWELL - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell,
Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change,
Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange--
Not these 'alone' inspire the tuneful shell;
But where untroubled peace and concord dwell,
There also is the Muse not loth to range,
Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange,
Skyward ascending from a woody dell.
Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour,
And sage content, and placid melancholy;
She loves to gaze upon a crystal river--
Diaphanous because it travels slowly;
Soft is the music that would charm for ever;
The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.
RispondiElimina
Risposte
Nick Cave Kamen20/04/16, 07:28
The Tables Turned - BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless—
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:—
We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
RispondiElimina
Risposte
Nick Cave Kamen20/04/16, 07:35
POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

It was an April morning: fresh and clear
The Rivulet, delighting in its strength,
Ran with a young man's speed; and yet the voice
Of waters which the winter had supplied
Was softened down into a vernal tone.
The spirit of enjoyment and desire,
And hopes and wishes, from all living things
Went circling, like a multitude of sounds.
The budding groves seemed eager to urge on
The steps of June; as if their various hues
Were only hindrances that stood between
Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed
Such an entire contentment in the air
That every naked ash, and tardy tree
Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance
With which it looked on this delightful day
Were native to the summer.--Up the brook
I roamed in the confusion of my heart,
Alive to all things and forgetting all.
At length I to a sudden turning came
In this continuous glen, where down a rock
The Stream, so ardent in its course before,
Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all
Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice
Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,
The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush
Vied with this waterfall, and made a song,
Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth
Or like some natural produce of the air,
That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here;
But 'twas the foliage of the rocks--the birch,
The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,
With hanging islands of resplendent furze:
And, on a summit, distant a short space,
By any who should look beyond the dell,
A single mountain-cottage might be seen.
I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,
"Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,
My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee."
----Soon did the spot become my other home,
My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there,
To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,
Years after we are gone and in our graves,
When they have cause to speak of this wild place,
May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL.
1800.

RispondiElimina
Risposte
Rosarita20/04/16, 09:42
LINES WRITTEN NEAR RICHMOND, UPON THE THAMES, AT EVENING - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

How rich the wave, in front, imprest
With evening-twilight's summer hues,
While, facing thus the crimson west,
The boat her silent path pursues!
And see how dark the backward stream!
A little moment past, so smiling!
And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,
Some other loiterer beguiling.

Such views the youthful bard allure,
But, heedless of the following gloom,
He deems their colours shall endure
'Till peace go with him to the tomb.
--And let him nurse his fond deceit,
And what if he must die in sorrow!
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,
Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?

Glide gently, thus for ever glide,
O Thames! that other bards may see,
As lovely visions by thy side
As now, fair river! come to me.
Oh glide, fair stream! for ever so;
Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,
'Till all our minds for ever flow,
As thy deep waters now are flowing.

Vain thought! yet be as now thou art,
That in thy waters may be seen
The image of a poet's heart,
How bright, how solemn, how serene!
Such heart did once the poet bless,
Who pouring here a later ditty,
Could find no refuge from distress,
But in the milder grief of pity.

Remembrance! as we glide along,
For him suspend the dashing oar,
And pray that never child of Song
May know his freezing sorrows more.
How calm! how still! the only sound,
The dripping of the oar suspended!
--The evening darkness gathers round
By virtue's holiest powers attended.
RispondiElimina
Risposte
arianna30/04/16, 19:55
Steambots, Viaducts and Railways

Motions and Means, on land and sea at war
With old poetic feeling, not for this,
Shall ye, by Poets even, be judged amiss!
Nor shall your presence, howsoe'er it mar
The loveliness of Nature, prove a bar
To the Mind's gaining that prophetic sense
Of future change, that point of vision, whence
May be discovered what in soul ye are.

In spite of all that beauty may disown
In your harsh features, Nature doth embrace
Her lawful offspring in Man's art; and Time,
Pleased with your triumphs o'er his Brother Space,
Accepts from your bold hands the proffered crown
Of hope, and smiles on you with cheer sublime.
RispondiElimina
Risposte
Rosarita04/05/16, 09:58
provo a tradurre:

Barche a vapore, Viadotti e Ferrovie - William Wordsworth

Proposte e contenuti, su terra e mare in tempo di guerra
con vecchio sentimento poetico, non per questo, voi
potreste essere giudicati male pure dai poeti!
Né la vostra presenza, potrebbe in ogni modo guastare
la bellezza della natura, o impedire alla mente
di raggiungere quel senso profetico
di cambiamento futuro, quel punto di vista da cui
possa essere svelato quello che nell'anima siete voi stessi.

A dispetto di tutto ciò che la bellezza può rinnegare
nelle vostre severe fattezze, possa la natura includere
la sua legittima prole nell'arte dell’Uomo; e il Tempo,
Compiaciuto dei vostri trionfi su suo fratello lo Spazio,
Possa accettare dalle vostre audaci mani quella corona fornita
Di speranza, e vi sorrida trionfalmente sublime.

RispondiElimina
Risposte
Rosarita04/05/16, 10:08
Questo sonetto ci ricorda quanto non sia semplice il pensiero di Wordsworth. Non tutto il romanticismo è antagonista della tecnologia. Qui si parla di opere industriali: un inno alla macchina a vapore e ai nuovi modi di viaggio e di trasporto. E' sorprendente il modo in cui vengono collegate opere di fatto meccaniche con idee come "anima", "visione " e "sublime ". Forse, questo rende accettabile l'era industriale, senza dimenticare che siamo nel 1833!
RispondiElimina
Risposte
Anonimo04/05/17, 09:31
Buongiorno. Sono alla ricerca di una traduzione per il sonetto di Wordsworth "On Sonnett."

"Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison, into which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, ’t was pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found."

Se possibile, grazie. Altrimenti, grazie comunque!
Complimenti per il notevole servizio fatto nel diffondere la grande poesia inglese!
RispondiElimina
Risposte
Rosarita04/06/17, 09:06
Resolution and Independence - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 1/2

There was a roaring in the wind all night;
The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
The birds are singing in the distant woods;
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;
The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.

All things that love the sun are out of doors;
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;
The grass is bright with rain-drops;—on the moors
The hare is running races in her mirth;
And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.

I was a Traveller then upon the moor;
I saw the hare that raced about with joy;
I heard the woods and distant waters roar;
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy:
The pleasant season did my heart employ:
My old remembrances went from me wholly;
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy.

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
Of joys in minds that can no further go,
As high as we have mounted in delight
In our dejection do we sink as low;
To me that morning did it happen so;
And fears and fancies thick upon me came;
Dim sadness—and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name.

I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky;
And I bethought me of the playful hare:
Even such a happy Child of earth am I;
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare;
Far from the world I walk, and from all care;
But there may come another day to me—
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
As if life's business were a summer mood;
As if all needful things would come unsought
To genial faith, still rich in genial good;
But how can He expect that others should
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,
The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride;
Of Him who walked in glory and in joy
Following his plough, along the mountain-side:
By our own spirits are we deified:
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;
But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,
A leading from above, a something given,
Yet it befell that, in this lonely place,
When I with these untoward thoughts had striven,
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven
I saw a Man before me unawares:
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie
Couched on the bald top of an eminence;
Wonder to all who do the same espy,
By what means it could thither come, and whence;
So that it seems a thing endued with sense:
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself;

Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead,
Nor all asleep—in his extreme old age:
His body was bent double, feet and head
Coming together in life's pilgrimage;
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage
Of sickness felt by him in times long past,
A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.

RispondiElimina
Risposte
Rosarita04/06/17, 09:07
Resolution and Independence - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 2/2

Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face,
Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood:
And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,
Upon the margin of that moorish flood
Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood,
That heareth not the loud winds when they call,
And moveth all together, if it move at all.

At length, himself unsettling, he the pond
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look
Upon the muddy water, which he conned,
As if he had been reading in a book:
And now a stranger's privilege I took;
And, drawing to his side, to him did say,
"This morning gives us promise of a glorious day."

A gentle answer did the old Man make,
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:
And him with further words I thus bespake,
"What occupation do you there pursue?
This is a lonesome place for one like you."
Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes.

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
But each in solemn order followed each,
With something of a lofty utterance drest—
Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach
Of ordinary men; a stately speech;
Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use,
Religious men, who give to God and man their dues.

He told, that to these waters he had come
To gather leeches, being old and poor:
Employment hazardous and wearisome!
And he had many hardships to endure:
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor;
Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance;
And in this way he gained an honest maintenance.

The old Man still stood talking by my side;
But now his voice to me was like a stream
Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide;
And the whole body of the Man did seem
Like one whom I had met with in a dream;
Or like a man from some far region sent,
To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.

My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills;
And hope that is unwilling to be fed;
Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;
And mighty Poets in their misery dead.
—Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,
My question eagerly did I renew,
"How is it that you live, and what is it you do?"

He with a smile did then his words repeat;
And said that, gathering leeches, far and wide
He travelled; stirring thus about his feet
The waters of the pools where they abide.
"Once I could meet with them on every side;
But they have dwindled long by slow decay;
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may."

While he was talking thus, the lonely place,
The old Man's shape, and speech—all troubled me:
In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace
About the weary moors continually,
Wandering about alone and silently.
While I these thoughts within myself pursued,
He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.

And soon with this he other matter blended,
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,
But stately in the main; and, when he ended,
I could have laughed myself to scorn to find
In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.
"God," said I, "be my help and stay secure;
I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"
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Ciao!!! Benvenuto!

Questo blog è nato il 9 novembre 2011. Prima annotavo tutto quello che mi piaceva in un adorato moleskine. Ma è un piacere più grande condividere sensazioni con tutti voi. Grazie!!! Soprattutto a quelli che lasciano la loro impronta!

Oggi, 5 giugno 2021, faccio il punto:

300.003 visualizzazioni e 4.386 commenti.

La pagina record appartiene a Poesie di William Wordsworth (50.916 visite, 178 commenti), seguito da Il Piccolo Principe di Saint-Exupery (15.113 visite e 30 commenti) e da Il Gabbiano Jonathan Livingston di R. Bach (12.393, 30 commenti).

Una precisazione: a volte, grazie ai commenti, vengono aggiunte poesie o brani che non appartengono al libro proposto, ma al suo autore in generale.

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lunedì 2 luglio 2012

Poesie - William Wordsworth

THE RAINBOW - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky;
So was it when my life began,

So is it, now I am a man,

So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die!

The Child is Father of the Man

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.

178 commenti:

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lunedì 2 luglio 2012

Poesie - William Wordsworth

THE RAINBOW - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky; So was it when my life began, So is it, now I am a man, So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is Father of the Man And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

178 commenti:

My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky;
So was it when my life began,

So is it, now I am a man,

So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die!

The Child is Father of the Man

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.