Larian Studios Forums General Chat Chat (Anything) Favorite Poems (any language)

THE HIGHWAYMAN
by
Alfred Noyes


The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding- Riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching- Marching-marching-
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say-
Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

Trot-trot; trot-trot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Trot-trot, trot-trot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!

Trot-trot, in the frosty silence! Trot-trot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed,
With her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding- riding-riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

To me isn't interestin post a poem what you'll not understand. So i have some consideration with english language just because is the most popular in the world, but this don't means nothing to me.

Wait some days(because i'm very busy now) and i'll try to do or find a good poem and translate it, so i'll can post it here.

About the busy thing - probabily i'll pass my cristmas in front of my pc - programming.

No vacations, or maybe one week of vacation, just to relax.

The 2nd option is better of course. <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/biggrin.gif" alt="" />

I know a lot of good poems but... i cant translate them to english <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/disagree.gif" alt="" />
sorry friends!


But here is one at Danish:

Den grå sofa

Natlige rejser fra min grå sofa:

Dagen er de samme, tid har ikke meget at sige når verden ses fra en grå sofa.
Som er verden dækket af dis af glemsel gik, sad, sove, skrev jeg gennem mit liv.
Havde lejet et værelses ud til Søndersø, det var efterhånden år side nu, dengang indrettet jeg værelset til mit arbejdsværelse. På det tidspunkt stod overfyldt bogreoler rundt om i værelset. Der var ingen møbler, hvilket jeg heller ikke nu har.
Gennem tiden er bogreoler forsvundet fra rummet, og efterladt mit kammer tom på nær det ene møbler jeg ejer, eller det eneste der ikke er borte: et skrivebord, en gammel pult hvis skuffer indeholde min digte. Det var ikke med medvilje eller ide at her nu er tomt, helt tomt er her nu ikke, min tanker flyder ud i rummet. Og sanseløse væsner der gemmer sig, mens de høre min tanker og giver sig til at elsker med dem, uden nogle sinde at sanse dem.
Lange hvide gardiner, der stadig duftet som den dag hun syet, den dækkede vinduerne, så ikke nattens og dagens rytme ville forstyrre mit arbejde.
Om dagen bryder lyset ind og strejfet skrivebordet, men altid dæmpet gardinerne lyset. Dagen er blot et modspil til nattetimerne –
Natten som en skygge, følger blødt bagefter dagen, men aldrig bliver dagen indhentet, men årstider skabs, og dag og nætter bliver forkortet for at til andre tider at tiltage.
Natter fortryllet af dagens lange slæb, et mægtigt slæb i farvenuancere som den slæber sig over himmelen når gryr morgen og fortryller verden under sig.

Spredtstående stearinlys oplyste rummet i de endeløse afteners mørke, min dunkle timer. Ene boede jeg ud til søen, ene sad jeg, når mørket omsluttede dagen, og blev til nat. I disse timer hvor døgnet blev poetens, skrev jeg mine digte om den grå sofa – I skæret af svage stearinlys, skrev jeg, til mine øjne lukkede sige selv og forblev lukkede.

Well, this is more a ballad than a poem, but so was the first entry. <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/tongue.gif" alt="" />
I know many people don't like it, but it's one of my favourites:

Ludwig Uhland: Des Sängers Fluch

Es stand in alten Zeiten ein Schloß, so hoch und hehr,
Weit glänzt es über die Lande bis an das blaue Meer,
Und rings von duft'gen Gärten ein blütenreicher Kranz,
Drin sprangen frische Brunnen in Regenbogenglanz.

Dort saß ein stolzer König, an Land und Siegen reich,
Er saß auf seinem Throne so finster und so bleich;
Denn was er sinnt, ist Schrecken, und was er blickt, ist Wut,
Und was er spricht, ist Geißel, und was er schreibt, ist Blut.

Einst zog nach diesem Schlosse ein edles Sängerpaar,
Der ein' in goldnen Locken, der andre grau von Haar;
Der Alte mit der Harfe, der saß auf schmuckem Roß,
Es schritt ihm frisch zur Seite der blühende Genoß.

Der Alte sprach zum Jungen: "Nun sei bereit, mein Sohn!
Denk unsrer tiefsten Lieder, stimm an den vollsten Ton!
Nimm alle Kraft zusammen, die Lust und auch den Schmerz!
Es gilt uns heut, zu rühren des Königs steinern Herz."

Schon stehn die beiden Sänger im hohen Säulensaal,
Und auf dem Throne sitzen der König und sein Gemahl,
Der König furchtbar prächtig wie blut'ger Nordlichtschein,
Die Königin süß und milde, als blickte Vollmond drein.

Da schlug der Greis die Saiten, er schlug sie wundervoll,
Daß reicher, immer reicher der Klang zum Ohre schwoll;
Dann strömte himmlisch helle des Jünglings Stimme vor,
Des Alten Sang dazwischen wie dumpfer Geisterchor.

Sie singen von Lenz und Liebe, von sel'ger goldner Zeit
Von Freiheit, Männerwürde, von Treu' und Heiligkeit,
Sie singen von allem Süßen, was Menschenbrust durchbebt,
Sie singen von allem Hohen, was Menschenherz erhebt.

Die Höflingsschar im Kreise verlernet jeden Spott,
Des Königs trotz'ge Krieger, sie beugen sich vor Gott;
Die Königin, zerflossen in Wehmut und in Lust,
Sie wirft den Sängern nieder die Rose von ihrer Brust.

"Ihr habt mein Volk verführet; verlockt ihr nun mein Weib?"
Der König schreit es wütend, er bebt am ganzen Leib;
Er wirft sein Schwert, das blitzend des Jünglings Brust durchdringt.
Draus statt der goldnen Lieder ein Blutstrahl hoch aufspringt.

Und wie vom Sturm zerstoben ist all der Hörer Schwarm.
Der Jüngling hat verröchelt in seines Meisters Arm;
Der schlägt um ihn den Mantel und setzt ihn auf das Roß,
Er bind't ihn aufrecht feste, verläßt mit ihm das Schloß.

Doch vor dem hohen Thore, da hält der Sängergreis,
Da faßt er seine Harfe, sie, aller Harfen Preis,
An einer Marmorsäule, da hat er sie zerschellt;
Dann ruft er, daß es schaurig durch Schloß und Gärten gellt:

"Weh euch, ihr stolzen Hallen! Nie töne süßer Klang
Durch eure Räume wieder, nie Saite noch Gesang,
Nein, Seufzer nur und Stöhnen und scheuer Sklavenschritt,
Bis euch zu Schutt und Moder der Rachegeist zertritt!

Weh euch, ihr duft'gen Gärten im holden Maienlicht!
Euch zeig' ich dieses Toten entstelltes Angesicht,
Daß ihr darob verdorret, daß jeder Quell versiegt,
Daß ihr in künft'gen Tagen versteint, verödet liegt.

Weh dir, verruchter Mörder! du Fluch des Sängertums!
Umsonst sei all dein Ringen nach Kränzen blut'gen Ruhms!
Dein Name sei vergessen, in ew'ge Nacht getaucht,
Sei wie ein letztes Röcheln in leere Luft verhaucht!"

Der Alte hat's gerufen, der Himmel hat's gehört,
Die Mauern liegen nieder, die Hallen sind zerstört;
Noch eine hohe Säule zeugt von verschwundner Pracht;
Auch diese, schon geborsten, kann stürzen über Nacht.

Und rings statt duft'ger Gärten ein ödes Heideland,
Kein Baum verstreuet Schatten, kein Quell durchdringt den Sand,
Des Königs Namen meldet kein Lied, kein Heldenbuch;
Versunken und vergessen! das ist des Sängers Fluch!

Was es ist (Erich Fried)

Es ist Unsinn
sagt die Vernunft
Es ist was es ist
sagt die Liebe

Es ist Unglück
sagt die Berechnung
Es ist nichts als Schmerz
sagt die Angst
Es ist aussichtslos
sagt die Einsicht
Es ist was es ist
sagt die Liebe

Es ist lächerlich
sagt der Stolz
Es ist leichtsinnig
sagt die Vorsicht
Es ist unmöglich
sagt die Erfahrung
Es ist was es ist
sagt die Liebe

What it is translation of the German text
It is nonsense
says reason
It is what it is
says love

It is misfortune
says calculation
It is nothing but pain
says fear
It is hopeless
says insight
It is what it is
says love

It is ridiculous
says pride
It is careless
says caution
It is impossible
says experience
It is what it is
says love

Translation by M. Kaldenbach



Dich by Erich Fried, I'm still searching for a good translation, I don't dare to to do it myself, his words are too fragile for a crude transportation of words

Dich
dich sein lassen
ganz dich

Sehen
dass du nur du bist
wenn du alles bist
was du bist
das Zarte
und das Wilde
das was sich losreißen
und das was sich anschmiegen will

Wer nur die Hälfte liebt
der liebt dich nicht halb
sondern gar nicht
der will dich zurechschneiden
amputieren
verstümmeln

Dich dich sein lassen
ob das schwer oder leicht ist?
Es kommt nicht darauf an mit wieviel
Vorbedacht und Verstand
sondern mit wieviel Liebe und mit wieviel
offender Sehnsucht nach allem -
nach allem
was du ist

Nach der Wärme
und nach der Kälte
nach der Güte
und nach dem Starrsinn
nach deinem Willen
und Unwillen

nach jeder deiner Gebärden
nach deiner Ungebärdigkeit
Unstetigkeit
Stetigkeit

Dann
ist dieses
dich dich sein lassen
vielleicht
gar nicht so schwer

<img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/offtopic.gif" alt="" /> Kiya, I am always astonished that we like the the same things... <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/delight.gif" alt="" />

I chose "The poems of Erich Fried" as my special topic for my Abitur...
...my favorite poem writer...

glad you like him also <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/up.gif" alt="" />

Chanson d'automne - Paul Verlaine

Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l'automne
Blessent mon coeur
D'une langueur
Monotone.

Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l'heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure

Et je m'en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m'emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.

Kiya..who wrote the second poem?

1849
Annabel Lee
by Edgar Allan Poe

"Annabel Lee" is generally credited to represent Poe's
young wife, Virginia Clemm.


It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

that is also one of my favorite poems, Barta.."Annabel Lee" and then "The Raven"

Both poems are by Erich Fried <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/winkwink.gif" alt="" /> - I'll modify my post. A great Austrian poet, driven by the Nazis into Exile, a wanderer between many worlds, even in America - not only a passionate love poet but a powerful political one, who engaged himself deeply, e.g. in the Anti Vietnam War Movement, a poet for the working class, lovers, political people, those loving nature. It's very easy for me to start and very difficult to stop when it comes to his thoughts. And when I see how many English/American sites simply call him a German, I could scream about this ignorance. He was born in Austria and died in England.
Kiya

Cancellation Erich Fried

Being able to breathe out
one's unhappiness

breathe out deeply
so that one can
breathe in again

And perhaps also being able to speak
one's unhappiness
in words
in real words
which are coherent
and make sense
and which one can
understand oneself
and which perhaps
someone else can understand
or could understand

And being able to try

That again would
almost be
happiness


WO LERNEN WIR Erich Fried, my last one now, I promise

Wo lernen wir leben
und wo lernen wir lernen
und wo vergessen
um nicht nur Erlerntes zu leben?

Wo lernen wir klug genug zu sein
die Fragen zu meiden
die unsere Liebe nicht einträglich machen
und wo
lernen wir ehrlich genug sein
trotz unserer Liebe
und unserer Liebe zuliebe
die Fragen nicht zu meiden?

Wo lernen wir
uns gegen die Wirklichkeit zu wehren
die uns um unsere Freiheit
betrügen will
und wo lernen wir träumen
und wach sein für unsere Träume
damit etwas von ihnen
unsere Wirklichkeit wird?


Where do we learn translation

Where do we learn to live
and where do we learn to learn
and where to forget
so we don't have to live what we learned?

Where do we learn to be wise enough
to avoid questions
that are not profitable for our love
and where
do we learn to be honest enough
in spite of our love
and for the sake of our love
to not avoid these questions?

Where do we learn
to fight reality
that wants to betray us
from our freedom
and where do we learn to dream
and keep aware of our dreams
so part of them
may become our reality?

stickboy liked match girl
he liked her a lot
he liked her cute figure
he thought she was hot
but could a flame ever burn
for a match and a stick?
it did quite literally;
he burned up pretty quick.

-tim burton

I like that one a lot..thank you for sharing it..Faile. <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/biggrin.gif" alt="" />

Hi flixerflax

You choozed a french poem of Paul Verlaine, do you speak french ?
It is a very great poem of Verlaine.
It could be translated in english but it would loose all the music of the words.

I loved "your" poem very much, Barta. Thanks for sharing, I didn't know it.

Hi Barta
I've been studying french for four years now, and I ran across Chanson D'automne in a book of french poems I was reading. I can read and write french pretty well, but I can't speak it so very well.
The poem is so beautiful to recite out loud, though.

This is my english translation, for anyone who doesn't read french.

Autumn's Song - Paul Verlaine

The long sobs
Of the violins of autumn
Wound my heart
With a monotonous langor

All suffocated and pale
When the hour sounds
I remember the old days
And I cry

And I go away
On the vile wind which carries me
Now here, now there
Like the dead leaves

that is so beautiful.

To Barta

[color:"yellow"]I LOVE YOU <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/smile.gif" alt="" /> [/color]

The poem of Edgar Alan Poe is the most favourite to me I thank you for posting it. There was a Greek group called South of No North who put music in this poem and it is a great song (they made records in English) I wish I could send you a tape to listen to it. You moved me so much with that poem. It means a lot to me <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/smile.gif" alt="" />


@ WynterSolstive

Your poem THE HIGHWAYMAN is made song too by Loreena McKenitt. A very beautiful song <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/smile.gif" alt="" />

I think it is also in a book (don´t remember the author) which in English is called Anne from The Green Gables (sp?) Sorry but I have read the book in Greek. Anne the heroine reads this poem in her new dress with big sleeves.

Oh thank you for reminding me so tender things <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/smile.gif" alt="" />

To LUCRETIA and Flash and WynterSolstive

I am happy that you loved this poem of Edgar Alan Poe.
When i was a teenager i liked a lot the horrible stories of Edgar Alan Poe but i did not know that he was a great poet.
I discovered this poem in my english litterature book at school, when i was 17 years old.
I felt in love with this poem the first time i read it, i was still young and my heart did not had turned into stone yet.

For this topic, i thought to copy a french poem. When i saw the poem of flixerflax, i changed my mind and i copied this one because i love it and because anybody can understand it.

This is a link to the site where you can find other poems and stories of Poe.
http://www.pambytes.com/poe/poe.html


To flixerflax


I agree with you

Your english translation of "Chanson D'automne" is very good.
You should have a very good level in french !
It's nice to see north american people like you or Lews who like the french language.

Barta

it's called anne of green gables here. i'm pretty sure, anyway. i never read it.