Poems

Front matter

M. EMINESCU

POEMS

TRANSLATED FROM THE RUMANIAN

Preface

PREFACE

Mihai Eminescu was the greatest Rumanian poet and, doubtless, one of the greatest romantic poets of world literature.

Born in the year 1850, in a small village in the north of Moldavia, where his father was a tenant-farmer, he lived in the midst of nature from his early childhood and this instilled in him the ardent love of nature, which is one of the main features of his poetry.

He was sent to school to Cernăuți (Czernowitz) in Bucovina, then in Austria, and there he learnt in Rumanian as well as in German schools. Bucovina, a former Moldavian province, full of the glory of the past, with beautiful monasteries built by the old voivods of the country, fallen afterwards under foreign yoke and infested by alien races, inspired him with that deep patriotic feeling and love for the past of his country, which is another of the great characteristics of his spirit. This was strengthened by the fact that, before ending his studies, he joined a company of roving actors, and with them he travelled all over the country, but especially in Transylvania, which was then under the Hungarians and where the Rumanians, whose national spirit was very awake, had much to suffer from their rulers.

Rumania is a country where the peasants form the great majority of the population. These have a rich living popular poetry and Emi­nescu made collections of their beautiful songs and found in them another source of inspiration. At the same time he enriched with them his language. He did the same thing by reading the old chronicles, in which he studied the past of his country. This he used to contrast with his own time, in which he saw only selfishness and conventionality, that made him despise and even hate the society of his contemporaries.

He ended his studies by attending for two years lectures, espe­cially on philosophical subjects, in the Universities of Vienna and Berlin.

From his early youth he had studied, besides the Rumanian literature, very much the German, especially Goethe, Schiller and the romantics, but did not neglect the other great literatures, old and modern, and of the English poets he had read especially Shakespeare and Byron.

Back in his country he was school inspector and afterwards librarian in the University of Iași (Iassy), but being dismissed by the Liberal government of the time he went to Bucarest, where he became editor in chief of the Conservative paper „Timpul“ (The Time). His daily articles, collected to-day in a volume, contain the nationalist creed. His conservatism was one of conviction and was directed against the Liberals because they had imported all sort of foreign ideas, fashions and institutions, whithout caring for the good old traditions of the country.

At the age of 33 he fell very ill and his mind became clouded. He never wholly recovered till he died in 1889, in a lunatic asylum near Bucarest.

He had begun to write poetry when still very young and published his first poems in provincial papers of Bucovina and Transylvania and, later on, in the Convorbiri Literare (Literary Talks), the review of the circle „Junimea“ (The Youth) of Iassy. This was under the direction of Titu Maiorescu, professor of philosophy and the most important critic of the time, who first collected all the poems in a volume, in 1884, when the poet was already ill.

A dark veil of melancholy hangs over almost all his poetry. This was due perhaps to a hereditary illness. It was strengthened by his disappointment in love, to which were added his philosophical convictions, Eminescu being a disciple of the pessimistic German philo­sopher Schopenhauer and of the Indian philosophy, for the study of which he even learnt Sanscrit. However, the main cause of his so-called pessimism was, doubtless, the passionate nature of the poet, striving after a perfection which he could not find anywhere, and which made him seek a refuge in his dreams.

Eminescu’s poems are in Rumanian perfect symphonies owing to the poet’s masterly handling of all the musical possibilities of his language. Very much of this is lost in the translations, though we kept as close to the text as possible and especially respected throughout the original form.

We give here but few of his most representative poems, others will follow.

Solitude

SOLITUDE

Near my simple fir-wood table With the curtains drawn I sit, In the grate the fire is flick’ring, Musingly I look at it.

And like swallows sweet illusions Come in flights and wander all; Dear remembrances seem crickets Chirping in a ruined wall,

Or caressing come and sadly, Heavy in the soul they stop, Like the wax from candles falling Near Christ’s icon, drop by drop.

In my room in every corner Spiders have their cobwebs spun, And among the piled books hiding Furtively the mice now run.

In this peace mine eye distracted Upward to the ceiling looks, And I listen as they slowly Gnaw the covers of my books.

Oft I thought, the lyre forsaking, To depart and change my mood, And to leave off writing verses In this wasting solitude.

But then mice with tripping noises, Chirping chickets bring and nurse My old thoughts, my melancholy, And this soon becomes a verse.

Sometimes while the lamp is burning Late, I’m dreaming without sleep, When I hear the door-latch clicking, Suddenly my heart will leap.

It is She. The house so empty, Now at once is full of light, In my life’s black frame appearing She, an icon shining bright.

And I cannot now but wonder Why old Time will never rest, While I’m with my love here whisp’ring Hand in hand and breast to breast.

The Tale of the Forest

THE TALE OF THE FOREST

Glorious emperor is the forest, Countless peoples live and grow, Flourish ’neath his gracious shelter, All to him allegiance owe.

Moon and stars, the sun above them, On his blue escutcheon are, Harts and hinds, his courtiers, wander In his kingdom wide and far.

Messengers, the hares swift-footed, Bear the news; while nightingales Form an orchestra most wondrous, And the springs are telling tales.

Swarms of wand’ring bees alight there On the flowers, in the glade; Ants, great armies, their food gather Near the pathways, in the shade.

Let’s go to the king, belovèd, Let’s like children be, let’s dream, So that love, and joy, our whole life, As a game to us may seem.

And thus happy, blithely living, Being now again a boy, I should think that nature made thee Just for me, the sweetest toy.

From the world we both will wander, All alone and lost we’ll be, We shall sleep beside the fountain Springing ’neath the old lime-tree.

And the tree will shed its flowers On us, far away now borne; All alone, from distant sheepfolds, Dreaming we shall hear the horn…

Nearer, always nearer sounding — Nearer we’ll be arm in arm… On the waters, in the bowers Weaves the moon a magic charm.

Soon by horn the wise men’s council, Called together by the king, With his whole court’s great assembly, Cornes around us gathering.

Foaming white the hippocampus, Diademed the aurochs goes, Stags with their majestic antlers, And the nimble mountain roes.

Who we are, they all discuss it, From the lime-tree ask it now; And our host then, gently speaking, With his branches makes a bow:

„See how happy they are dreaming, In a fairy tale they seem… See how much they love each other! ’Tis the beech-wood’s blissful dream!“

Murmur of the Forest

MURMUR OF THE FOREST

’Neath the sun’s rays in the vale Shimmer trembling waters clear; Full of longing, from the brake I look downwards to the lake, Sitting in cool shade I hear Calling quail.

Softly as if half asleep Murmur all the springs and brooks; When among the boughs the sun Shines on waters, quick they run, And like deer, with frightened looks, Wildly leap.

Orioles and thrushes sing— Who can understand them all? Hidden in the trees each bird Singing of the spring is heard, Meaningful they talk and call Twittering.

Says the cuckoo: „Have you seen Our most lovely sister dear? Sister of our summer dreams, Languishing with love she seems. Where art thou? O come, appear, Fairy Queen!“

The old lime-tree shading spread Its dense foliage with sweet flowers, Stretched a branch to catch her arms And to lift her full of charms, Ready to rain fragrant showers On her head.

And the spring asked woefully: „Where art thou, my Queen most sweet? Come, unbind thy silken hair, Mirroring thy face so fair, Touching me with tender feet, Dreamily.“

And I answered: „Forest mine, She comes not, she comes no more; You alone, dear oaks, remain, Wait for those blue eyes again, That for me so oft of yore Bright would shine.“

How much charm did she impart To the groves, all things, that shone As in an enchanted tale! All is now so dark and stale… Come, let’s be again alone Heart to heart.

Forest, O my forest

FOREST, O MY FOREST

(In popular form)

Forest, O my forest dear, What dost thou so lonesome here? For since I have seen thee last Many weary years have past, And since I have gone away In the world I much did stray.

—O, I do as in the past, Listen to the winter’s blast, Which my branches tears and breaks, Chains with ice my streams and lakes, On my paths snow-hills will lay, All my songsters drives away. And I do, as long ago, Listen when the women go Singing their old doina song, As they walk the path along, To the fountain, where they still Come their water pails to fill.

—Forest dear with quiet streams All in this world flowing seems; Time goes past, but only thou Still art young and younger now.

—What is time, when every night Shines for me the stars’ still light! Be the weather good or bad, Be it sunny, be it sad, Winds through rustling leaves still blow And the Danube’s waters flow. Man alone is wavering, Changeable and wandering, While we all the same remain, Mountains, rivers, the great main, As we were so we abide, This great world with deserts wide, Sun, moon, stars, eternal things, And the forest with its springs.

So fresh thou art…

SO FRESH THOU ART…

So like the sweet, white cherry blossom, So tender and so fresh thou art, And on my life’s way like an angel Appearing thou dost light impart.

Thou scarcely touchest the soft carpet, The silk on thee doth rustling stream, From top to toe so light and lofty, Thou floatest like an airy dream.

From draping folds like purest marble Thine image unto me appears, My whole soul on thine eyes is hanging, Those eyes so full of joy and tears.

O happy dream of love, so happy, Thou bride of fairy tales, so mild, No, do not smile! Thy smile doth show me How sweet thou art, thou gentle child.

My poor eyes thou canst close for ever With deepest night’s eternal charms, With thy sweet lips’ sweet fondling whispers, Embracing me with thy cool arms.

A veiling thought at once now passes Thy glowing eyes thus covering: It is the dark renunciation, The sweetest yearning’s shadowing.

Thou go’st away and, well I know it, To follow thee must I no more, Thou art for me now lost for ever, My soul’s dear bride, whom I adore.

My only guilt was that I saw thee, Which I to pardon have no might, Mine arm I’ll stretch for ever vainly To expiate my dream of light.

Like holy Virgin’s purest image In my fond eyes thou wilt rise now, The brightest crown on forehead bearing, Where dost thou go? When comest thou?

A Dacian's Prayer

A DACIAN'S PRAYER

When Death was not, and nothing immortal had been wrought, Nor light’s divinest kernel the world its life had brought, When yesterday, to-morrow, to-day had yet no name, When one was all, wherever, and all was one, the same; When earth, and air, and heavens, the whole world that is seen Were in the deep abysm like things that have not been— Thou wast alone, and anxious myself I’m asking now: Who is the God, to whom we, with hearts most humble, bow?

Sole God he was, when others were not, and in the dark Unfathomable ocean gave force to light’s first spark, He is mankind’s great saviour and source of happiness, To gods gives soul and power and everything doth bless: Cheer up your hearts! Adore him and praise in sacred hymn, For life and resurrection from death all come through him!

He gave me eyes most happy that they may see the light, He filled my heart with pity, with high, divine delight, How through the world he paces in roaring winds I heard, I heard in songs most holy his sweetest voice, his word, And still one thing I ask him from inmost bosom’s core: That he may now allow me to rest for evermore!

To curse all those who pity will show for me, to bless All those who make me suffer and ruthlessly oppress, To those who spurning mock me to listen, and believe, And to the arm that kills me the utmost force to give, And he among all others as first may praisèd be Who e’en my stony pillow will steal away from me.

Pursued by all and hunted shall pass away my years Till they will have exhausted the fountain of my tears, Till I shall feel that each man for me is but a foe, Till my own self thus hated by all I shall not know, Till endless pain and anguish my heart have so oppressed That I may curse my mother whom I, of all, loved best— When utmost cruel hatred like love seems to my eye, My suffering forgetting, perhaps I might then die.

And if, by all accursèd, I die a stranger, they Upon the street my body to dogs shall throw away, And him who sets them on me, that they may tear my heart, O him, my gracious Father, the highest crown impart, And him who stones will on me with hatred throw, O give My Lord, that he in glory eternally may live!

Thus only can I, Father, sing praises thanking Thee, That graciously Thou gavest this earthly boon to me. I do not bend my forehead for other gifts, Thy ire, Thy curses and Thy hatred are all that I desire, To feel how disappearing my breath by Thine is quelled, And in the night eternal I traceless am dispelled.

The midnight hour of sorrow…

THE MIDNIGHT HOUR OF SORROW…

The midnight hour of sorrow on brazen bell doth toll, And sleep, life’s toll-collector, comes not to take the toll. On roads so often trodden Death wants to lead for aye, And Life and Death comparing, which is the best to weigh; But now my reason’s balance unchangèd still doth stand, For ’tween them both is fixèd, unmoved the pointing hand.

First Epistle

FIRST EPISTLE

When with weary eyes the candle I blow out, my thoughts still stray, While the clock alone is treading on old Time’s unending way. If I draw aside the curtains, in the middle of the night, All the room at once is flooded with the moon’s voluptuous light; From the deep night of remembrance back again she doth recall An eternity of sorrows and in dream we feel them all.

Moon, the world’s vault gliding over, Queen who dost o’er oceans reign, Giving life to thoughts, thou soothest with sweet balm our endless pain; Deserts vast and lonely glisten ’neath thy clear light, purest maid, And the sparkling spring that’s hidden far away in forest glade! On how many countless billows doth thy power hold its sway, When thou glidest forth on ocean’s moving solitary way! And what flowered shores, what cities and what palaces are shown, Through thy magic charm transfigured, but to thee, to thee alone! Through how many thousand windows dost thou enter still and soft, Shining mild on brows which ponder, into eyes that look aloft! There a king, great plans combining, round the globe a web doth twine, While what he will do to-morrow scarce a poor man can divine… Though their lots are cast asunder, both are doomed by fate’s great might, Both are swayed by death’s grim genius and the ray of thy pure light; Slaves of the same chain of passions in this same world, willy-nilly, Be they weak, or be they mighty, be they geniuses or silly. This one, pleased with his own image, in the mirror curls his hair, While through space and time another searches for what’s true and fair, He from yellow leaves will gather countless trifles, one by one, And their transient names well scoring, this is all that he has done; While a third, behind his counter, marks what he has bought and sold, In his grandest dreams sees only galleons freighted down with gold. There alone the aged Master silently is reasoning, Leaning on his worn out elbows, lost in endless reckoning, Lank and slender, bent and crookèd, shivering as he doth linger, All the universe unmeasured resting on his little finger. For there under his broad forehead past and future, all is clear, The eternal night, vast spaces, all like problems solved appear; And like Atlas who in old times bore the skies upon his shoulders, So he all supports with numbers—the eternal world’s upholders.

While the moon shines on piled volumes, he returneth with his mind In a twinkling over aeons, endless centuries behind. First of all, in the beginning, in the utter nothingness, With no being, no existence, lifeless, will-less, purposeless, When there was no thought, no secret, and yet nothing was disclosed. When, himself alone conceiving, sole the Unconceived reposed, Was there nothing but a chasm filled with waters? An Abyss? There was yet no world imagined, and no mind to think of this, For there was an utter darkness, not the slightest ray of light, Nothing to be seen whatever, not an eye to pierce with sight: Shadows of things uncreated had not yet begun to creep, Quiet, with itself contented, reigned calm peace, eternal sleep! But at once a point, one only… it moved onward, fast and faster, Chaos was its Mother; Father it became and world’s great master. Weaker than from froth the bubble, this point, from which all things soared, Moving on the world’s great vastness, it became the boundless lord. Since then all that mist eternal, streak by streak, was soon dispelled, Since then rose sun, moon, the whole world, elements their power held. Since then up to this day always, colonies of worlds long lost Through the deep grey vales of chaos are on unknown pathways tossed. Springing forth like swarms effulgent, from the infinite come thronging, They to life allured are driven by an unquenched thirst and longing. And in that great world, we, nothings, children of this little one, Build on earth our tiny ant-hills, heaping riches we have won; Kings and emperors, hosts unnumbered, in successive generations, We think marvellous, Great Powers, our poor microscopic nations; Flies that live a day, forgetting, in a tiny network trapped, That this world is but a twinkle, and in utter darkness wrapped. Like the dust that dances gaily in the kingdom of a ray, From the sight soon disappearing when that beam has gone away, So too, in this everlasting, deep night of eternity Shines a ray, a passing instant, in the vast immensity; When extinguished, like a shadow, back to darkness will be hurled This vain dream of a nonbeing, all this fleeting phantom world.

But the thinker in the present doth not stop, his mind is led In a twinkling over aeons, endless centuries ahead: This resplendent sun, so beauteous, now he sees it brown-red, dull, Like a wound in dark clouds, dreary, or in storms a drifting hull; All the planets, which no longer curbs with mighty reins the sun, Frozen in their hearts, as maddened, wildly through the spaces run. Like a temple that is shattered, breaks in pieces all this sphere, Like the leaves in autumn falling, all the stars now disappear, And all time is dead and burried, it becomes eternity, Nothing happens now and empty is the vast immensity, In the deep night of nonbeing everything again doth creep, Quiet, with itself contented, reigns calm peace, eternal sleep.

From the lowest to the highest, from the beggar to the king, With their painful life’s enigma all are vainly labouring. Who is the most miserable? Who in this poor world can say? All are like, and over others rises only he who may, While so many, humble hearted, lying in the shadow, thrown From the way, or tossed or driven, like the foam will die unknown. What doth blind fate care whatever for their wishes, thoughts or strife? Like the stormy wind it passes over this poor human life.

If he’s praised by all his fellows and acknowledged by his age, What will he win from these praises for himself the wise old sage? Immortality! Yea, truly all that he could do and be Twined around one great idea, like the ivy to the tree. „Though I die—he says—like others, centuries will bear my fame Everywhere and through all ages, and from mouth to mouth my name Borne along with all my writings, in this world’s uproar and welter, In uncounted minds alighting, they will find a quiet shelter!“ Poor old man, dost thou remember all that thou hast seen and heard, All that thou thyself hast spoken, every name and every word? Here and there perhaps an image, or the traces of a thought, But a word, a slip of paper, all just little more than nought. When thy life thou scarcely knowest thinkest thou that others care Thoroughly to know thy story or thy memory to spare? Later, some pedantic scholar, on the trashy volumes’ pile Sitting, trash himself, will study in thy books the Attic style, Showing some mistakes and errors, which thou madest long ago, And the dust of those old volumes from his spectacles will blow; To reward thy toil he’ll give thee, great attention, learned sage, Two lines in a random footnote, ending thus a stupid page.

One may build a world, destroy it: over what one thinks holds fast. Whatsoe’er it be, a shovel full of earth is thrown at last. Heads a universe enclosing, sceptered hands desiring sway Over empires vast unbounded, ’tween four boards must lie one day… There a funeral procession gravely, solemnly advances, So ironically splendid, with indifferent side glances; And some little man’s oration, this will be of all the ending, Not thy character extolling, but himself at last commending Under thy good name’s great shadow: this is all that waits for thee.

But posterity e’en fairer still will be, O thou wilt see… Since they could not reach thy standard, thinkest thou they will admire? The biographer so artful, who fulfils all their desire, Him they’ll praise, when he will show that thou resemblest all the others, Not a genius, but so common, that you well might have been brothers. All are highly flattered thinking that thou wert not more than they, And with pride their nostrils swelling, their stupidity display; Always when they talk about thee in their learned coteries, With ironic smile to praise thee, in mere words, well settled ’tis. Falling to their hands, with pleasure, with great joy they’ll dust thy jacket, They will judge with understanding, without seeing that they lack it… They will seek out all thy blunders, out of malice sheer to blame thee, To find all the little scandals, every blemish, to defame thee— This is all that brings thee near them, not the light that thou hast shed In this world of sin and sorrow, but the faults, the sins inbred, And the lassitude, the weakness, all that may impair thy worth, Evils fatally inherent in a handful of this earth; Miseries of poor tormented human soul, for everyone These will be the things that please them, not what thou hast thought and done

In this springtime, on the gardens, on the blossoms fragrant, tender, On the beautiful, wide landscape, sheds the moon her quiet splendour! She from deep night of remembrance countless longings doth recall, Soothing endless pains and sorrows, now in dreams we feel them all, To our own thought’s world she opens wide and large an entrance door. Raising round us endless shadows, marvels of the dark before… Deserts vast and lonely glisten ’neath thy clear light, purest maid, And the sparkling spring that’s hidden far away in forest glade! On how many countless billows doth thy power hold its sway, When thou glidest forth on ocean’s moving solitary way, And o’er all of us abiding under fate’s grand, awful might, Sways alike grim death’s great genius and the ray of thy pure light!

Second Epistle

SECOND EPISTLE

Why my pen, that once was busy, idly on the inkstand slumbers? Why am I not, work forgetting, tempted by the rhythmic numbers? Sleeping in the yellow pages, why no longer to me corne All the trochees, soaring iambs, and the dactyls frolicsome? Could I tell you all the hardship of my poor life day by day, You would see that I’ve great reason this my pen to throw away. After all this useless struggle is there any reason why In new form the old, wise language I to mould again should try? That profound, mysterious feeling, sleeping on my harp-strings well, Must I now retail in couplets, like the goods the merchants sell?

Yes, of course, you will now answer, ’twould be well if for my name In this world I should acquire with my verse immortal fame. If with dedicating poems to great ladies court I paid, Men of influence attracting, thus my fortune would be made, And, fulfilled the mind’s ambition, would the soul’s distress allay. My dear friends, so many others have already trod this way. In our age quite well we know them, those strange bards who only list Highest offices and many, everyone a pluralist. Writing compliments to ladies and to statesmen; with their lyres Trying only to accomplish in this world their mean desires. In saloons these vapid idols now become our men of note, Their career they strive to make, protected by a petticoat.

Why do I not go on writing for my name, for glory? Why? Is there truly any glory in the desert thus to cry? When to selfish passions only all poor mortals are the slaves, Glory is a fancy idol praised by thousands of dull knaves, Who call great a dwarfish creature, and a mighty genius see In what is from froth the bubble in a trifling century.

Shall I now again my lyre strike extolling love? A chain That ’twixt two or sev’ral wooers may be shared, supremely vain. Must we all, like fools, adoring at the women’s feet down lay us, Like the operetta chorus that is led by Menelaus? Nowadays the women, often, like the world, are but a school, Where one learns humiliation, and to suffer is the rule. To these colleges of science of the goddess Venus come Crowding ardently our young men, even of the youngest some; Till that whole school lies in ruins, go they must the beardless youth, A veneer is all their knowledge, nought they learn of life and truth.

Do you still those years remember when we sat on benches dreaming, Listening how the poor old masters Time’s worn coat were patching, seaming; Corpses only of odd moments gathered from their trashy books, In the shreds of things deep wisdom seeking with their drowsy looks? Softly murmuring a fountain deep they were of horum-harum, With much toil but scarcely earning nervum rerum gerendarum, With the deepest veneration they wound up the spirit’s pulley, With Egyptian kings, plants, planets, thus our poor brains cramming fully.

The astronomer methinks I see, how from the chasm’s yawn Easily as from a drawer one by one the worlds were drawn, Dark eternity unrolling, he then taught us marvelling How the epochs, like a necklace, pearl by pearl, thus formed a string, Like the learned Galileo in our hearts we then could feel How the whole world’s sphere was whirling round and round as does a reel.

With dead languages, with planets, in the dizziness of dream, Our old master some moth-eaten mummy of a king would seem; While he spoke of king Sesostris, on the walls and on the ceiling I examined all the cobwebs, dreamt of blue eyes, my mind reeling, And on copybooks, on margins, wrote down verses for some Flora, With her rosy cheeks, capricious, telling how I did adore her. So in a confused, wild jumble floated there before my mind Kings, and animals, and planets; images of every kind, All things, even boys’ pens scraping, to the silence charm then gave, In my dream I saw green meadows, cornfields in the wind would wave, In an infinite all melted, down would fall my heavy head; When the bell rang, old Sesostris must already have been dead.

Then the fancied world was living, its existence we could feel, While the actual one, so squalid, seemed far distant and unreal; Only now we see how barren, rough and narrow is the road On which honest souls, like pilgrims have to stagger with their load. In this common world of ours it is dangerous to dream, Lost you are with your illusions, and ridiculous you’ll seem.

Therefore it is useless asking why my pen so idly slumbers, Why am I not, work forgetting, tempted by the rhythmic numbers, Sleeping in the yellow pages, why no longer to me come All the trochees, soaring iambs, and the dactyls frolicsome; If I were to write more verses I’m afraid that I might raise The applause of that wild rabble, my contemporaries’ praise. If serene I bear their hatred, and my heart is not impressed, It is certain with their praises I should sorely be distressed.