Od la o privighetoare de

John Keats
(traducere de Aurel Covaci)
Mi-i somn n simuri Inima m doare
i pare-se cucut doar si opiu
De-o clip c-am but cu nsetare;
M-afund n Lethe, de neant m-apropiu.
Nu pizmuindu-i neamu-n aste ore,
Ci-n fericirea ta prea fericit,
Driada-n crng, cu aripi jucue,
n melodii sonore,
Prin fagii verzi, de umbre-nvluit,
Cni vara din cu drag umflat gue.
O duc doar de vin s m dezmierde
Dospit n beci adnc o venicie,
Cu iz de Flora i campestru verde,
Cnt provensal, i dans, i veselie!
O cup-n care stors e sudul cald
i vii vpi de foc din Hippocrene
Clipind din perle-spum n pahar,
Cu purpur n fald,
S beau, s nu vd lumea printre gene,
Cu tine-n umbra sihlei s dispar!
Departe s dispar topit uitnd
Ce n-ai tiut nicicnd pe ramul crud:
Urtul, arderi, oamenii-n frmnt
Pe glia unde toi gemnd se-aud
Si-n alb pr rar sfrelile irump
Iar tinerii cresc pali, spectrali i mor
Si de tristei te umple i gndirea!
Disperi cu ochi de plumb
i-s mori ai frumuseii ochi ori vor
De peste mine, proaspt, Iubirea.
S plec! S zbor spre vraja melodiei,
Nu tras de Bachus i consorii lui
Pe aripa ce n-o vezi a poeziei.
Zgaz nici negurosul creier nu-i!
Cu tine sunt! E noaptea mai blajin,
Ferice e pe tron Regina-Lun
Cu zne-stele-n juru-i rnduite.
O, este-aici lumin

Doar vntul ntr-o boare ct adun

Prin bezne verzi i ci de muchi, sucite.
Nu pot s vd ce flori am la picioare,
Din ramuri ce miresme moi se vars;
Dar mierea-i bezna, toata-mblsmare,
De anotimpul priitor ntoars
n pomi slbatici, ierburi, crng i plai
in violete-n teci de frunze firul,
Mceul isc-a florilor povar
i ft din miez de mai
Cu vinu-i rou vine trandafirul
i mute bzie-a-nceput de var.
Ascult n ntuneric Deseori
Am ndrgit uorul Morii duh;
I-am spus dulci nume-n mii de rime-n zbor
S-mi suie rsuflarea n vzduh.
Belug mai mult nseamn moartea azi:
M-a stinge-n miez de noapte, fr chin,
Cnd al tu suflet preschimbat e-n harp,
Cu negrit extaz!
Ai mai cnta dar prea-i aud puin
Requiemul nalt azi col de iarb!
Eterna Pasre! Eti fr moarte!
Te cru-nfometate generaii.
Acelai viers, de mult, vrjit-a foarte
Pe clovnii toi cum i pe mpraii.
O cale i-a tiat acelai viers
n sufletul lui Ruth, rvnindu-i casa,
Plngnd printre strinele bucate;
i spre ferestre-a mers
Vrjite i uitate-n furtunoasa
Stihie de pe rmuri fermecate.
Uitate! Clopot e acest cuvnt!
M smulge de sub vraja ta stpn.
Adio! Fantezia-i vorb-n vnt,
Nu-ndeajuns neltoare zn!
Adio! Piere imnul tu de jale
Prin pajiti, peste ru ia dealu-n piept
i iat-l ngropat n noi livezi,
n alt crng, alta vale
O nlucirea-a fost? Un vis detept?
Zburat-a cntecul Sunt treaz? Visez?

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE
I
My heart aches, and a drowsy
numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had
drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the
drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had
sunk:
Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine
happiness,
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the
trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows
numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated
ease. II
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath
been
Coold a long age in the deep-delved
earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and
sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful
Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the
brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world
unseen,
And with thee fade away into the
forest dim: III
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite
forget
What thou among the leaves hast
never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each

other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last
gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectrethin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of
sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her
lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond tomorrow. IV
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his
pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and
retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her
throne,
Clusterd around by all her starry Fays;
4
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the
breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and
winding mossy ways. V
I cannot see what flowers are at my
feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the
boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess
each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month
endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruittree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral
eglantine;

Fast fading violets coverd up in

leaves;
And mid-Mays eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy
wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on
summer eves.
VI
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful
Death,
Calld him soft names in many a
mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to
die,
To cease upon the midnight with no
pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul
abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears
in vain
To thy high requiem become a sod. VII
Thou wast not born for death,
immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee
down;
The voice I hear this passing night was
heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Perhaps the self-same song that found
a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when,
sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmd magic casements, opening on
the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
VIII
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole
self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem
fades
Past the near meadows, over the still
stream,
Up the hill-side; and now tis buried
deep
5
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:- Do I wake or sleep?
--