"Sonety, jaká slast..."
Ivan Blatný

Únor 2009

Christina Georgina Rossettiová (1830-1894) - Monna Innominata: A Sonnet Of Sonnets (sonetový cyklus s parafrázemi na klasické autory)

28. února 2009 v 20:39 | Christina Georgina Rossettiová |  Sonetové cykly

Lo di che han detto a' dolci amici addio. (Dante)
Amor, con quanto sforzo oggi mi vinci! (Petrarch)

Come back to me, who wait and watch for you: -
Or come not yet, for it is over then,
And long it is before you come again,
So far between my pleasures are and few.
While, when you come not, what I do I do
Thinking 'Now when he comes,' my sweetest when:
For one man is my world of all the men
This wide world holds; O love, my world is you.
Howbeit, to meet you grows almost a pang
Because the pang of parting comes so soon;
My hope hangs waning, waxing, like a moon
Between the heavenly days on which we meet:
Ah me, but where are now the songs I sang
When life was sweet because you called them sweet?

Era gia 1'ora che volge il desio. (Dante)
Ricorro al tempo ch' io vi vidi prima. (Petrarch)

I wish I could remember that first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me,
If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or winter for aught I can say;
So unrecorded did it slip away,
So blind was I to see and to foresee,
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it, such
A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much;
If only now I could recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand - Did one but know!

O ombre vane, fuor che ne l'aspetto! (Dante)
Immaginata guida la conduce. (Petrarch)

I dream of you to wake: would that I might
Dream of you and not wake but slumber on;
Nor find with dreams the dear companion gone,
As summer ended summer birds take flight.
In happy dreams I hold you full in sight,
I blush again who waking look so wan;
Brighter than sunniest day that ever shone,
In happy dreams your smile makes day of night.
Thus only in a dream we are at one,
Thus only in a dream we give and take
The faith that maketh rich who take or give;
If thus to sleep is sweeter than to wake,
To die were surely sweeter than to live,
Though there be nothing new beneath the sun.

Poca favilla gran fliamma seconda. (Dante)
Ogni altra cosa, ogni pensier va fore,
E sol ivi con voi rimansi amore. (Petrarch)

I loved you first: but afterwards your love
Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song
As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove.
Which owes the other most? My love was long,
And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong;
I loved and guessed at you, you construed me -
And loved me for what might or might not be
Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong.
For verily love knows not 'mine' or 'thine;'
With separate 'I' and 'thou' free love has done,
For one is both and both are one in love:
Rich love knows nought of 'thine that is not mine;'
Both have the strength and both the length thereof,
Both of us, of the love which makes us one.

Amor che a nullo amato amar perdona. (Dante)
Amor m'addusse in si gioiosa spene. (Petrarch)

O my heart's heart, and you who are to me
More than myself myself, God be with you,
Keep you in strong obedience leal and true
To Him whose noble service setteth free,
Give you all good we see or can foresee,
Make your joys many and your sorrows few,
Bless you in what you bear and what you do,
Yea, perfect you as He would have you be.
So much for you; but what for me, dear friend?
To love you without stint and all I can
Today, tomorrow, world without an end;
To love you much and yet to love you more,
As Jordan at his flood sweeps either shore;
Since woman is the helpmeet made for man.

Or puoi la quantitate
Comprender de l'amor che a te mi scalda. (Dante)
Non vo' che da tal nodo mi scioglia. (Petrarch)

Trust me, I have not earned your dear rebuke,
I love, as you would have me, God the most;
Would lose not Him, but you, must one be lost,
Nor with Lot's wife cast back a faithless look
Unready to forego what I forsook;
This say I, having counted up the cost,
This, though I be the feeblest of God's host,
The sorriest sheep Christ shepherds with His crook.
Yet while I love my God the most, I deem
That I can never love you overmuch;
I love Him more, so let me love you too;
Yea, as I apprehend it, love is such
I cannot love you if I love not Him,
I cannot love Him if I love not you.

Qui primavera sempre ed ogni frutto. (Dante)
Ragionando con meco ed io con lui. (Petrarch)

'Love me, for I love you' - and answer me,
'Love me, for I love you' - so shall we stand
As happy equals in the flowering land
Of love, that knows not a dividing sea.
Love builds the house on rock and not on sand,
Love laughs what while the winds rave desperately;
And who hath found love's citadel unmanned?
And who hath held in bonds love's liberty?
My heart's a coward though my words are brave
We meet so seldom, yet we surely part
So often; there's a problem for your art!
Still I find comfort in his Book, who saith,
Though jealousy be cruel as the grave,
And death be strong, yet love is strong as death.

Come dicesse a Dio: D'altro non calme. (Dante)
Spero trovar pieta non che perdono. (Petrarch)

'I, if I perish, perish' - Esther spake:
And bride of life or death she made her fair
In all the lustre of her perfumed hair
And smiles that kindle longing but to slake.
She put on pomp of loveliness, to take
Her husband through his eyes at unaware;
She spread abroad her beauty for a snare,
Harmless as doves and subtle as a snake.
She trapped him with one mesh of silken hair,
She vanquished him by wisdom of her wit,
And built her people's house that it should stand: -
If I might take my life so in my hand,
And for my love to Love put up my prayer,
And for love's sake by Love be granted it!

O dignitosa coscienza e netta! (Dante)
Spirto piu acceso di virtuti ardenti. (Petrarch)

Thinking of you, and all that was, and all
That might have been and now can never be,
I feel your honoured excellence, and see
Myself unworthy of the happier call:
For woe is me who walk so apt to fall,
So apt to shrink afraid, so apt to flee,
Apt to lie down and die (ah, woe is me!)
Faithless and hopeless turning to the wall.
And yet not hopeless quite nor faithless quite,
Because not loveless; love may toil all night,
But take at morning; wrestle till the break
Of day, but then wield power with God and man: -
So take I heart of grace as best I can,
Ready to spend and be spent for your sake.

Con miglior corso e con migliore stella. (Dante)
La vita fugge e non s'arresta un' ora. (Petrarch)

Time flies, hope flags, life plies a wearied wing;
Death following hard on life gains ground apace;
Faith runs with each and rears an eager face,
Outruns the rest, makes light of everything,
Spurns earth, and still finds breath to pray and sing;
While love ahead of all uplifts his praise,
Still asks for grace and still gives thanks for grace,
Content with all day brings and night will bring.
Life wanes; and when love folds his wings above
Tired hope, and less we feel his conscious pulse,
Let us go fall asleep, dear friend, in peace:
A little while, and age and sorrow cease;
A little while, and life reborn annuls
Loss and decay and death, and all is love.

Vien dietro a me e lascia dir le genti. (Dante)
Contando i casi della vita nostra. (Petrarch)

Many in aftertimes will say of you
'He loved her' - while of me what will they say?
Not that I loved you more than just in play,
For fashion's sake as idle women do.
Even let them prate; who know not what we knew
Of love and parting in exceeding pain,
Of parting hopeless here to meet again,
Hopeless on earth, and heaven is out of view.
But by my heart of love laid bare to you,
My love that you can make not void nor vain,
Love that foregoes you but to claim anew
Beyond this passage of the gate of death,
I charge you at the Judgment make it plain
My love of you was life and not a breath.

Amor, che ne la mente mi ragiona. (Dante)
Amor vien nel bel viso di costei. (Petrarch)

If there be any one can take my place
And make you happy whom I grieve to grieve,
Think not that I can grudge it, but believe
I do commend you to that nobler grace,
That readier wit than mine, that sweeter face;
Yea, since your riches make me rich, conceive
I too am crowned, while bridal crowns I weave,
And thread the bridal dance with jocund pace.
For if I did not love you, it might be
That I should grudge you some one dear delight;
But since the heart is yours that was mine own,
Your pleasure is my pleasure, right my right,
Your honourable freedom makes me free,
And you companioned I am not alone.

E drizzeremo gli occhi al Primo Amore. (Dante)
Ma trovo peso non da le mie braccia. (Petrarch)

If I could trust mine own self with your fate,
Shall I not rather trust it in God's hand?
Without Whose Will one lily doth not stand,
Nor sparrow fall at his appointed date;
Who numbereth the innumerable sand,
Who weighs the wind and water with a weight,
To Whom the world is neither small nor great,
Whose knowledge foreknew every plan we planned.
Searching my heart for all that touches you,
I find there only love and love's goodwill
Helpless to help and impotent to do,
Of understanding dull, of sight most dim;
And therefore I commend you back to Him
Whose love your love's capacity can fill.

E la Sua Volontade e nostra pace. (Dante)
Sol con questi pensier, con altre chiome. (Petrarch)

Youth gone, and beauty gone if ever there
Dwelt beauty in so poor a face as this;
Youth gone and beauty, what remains of bliss?
I will not bind fresh roses in my hair,
To shame a cheek at best but little fair, -
Leave youth his roses, who can bear a thorn, -
I will not seek for blossoms anywhere,
Except such common flowers as blow with corn.
Youth gone and beauty gone, what doth remain?
The longing of a heart pent up forlorn,
A silent heart whose silence loves and longs;
The silence of a heart which sang its songs
While youth and beauty made a summer morn,
Silence of love that cannot sing again.

Martin Opitz von Boberfeld (1597 - 1639) - 3 sonety německého barokního velikána (v překladu Karla Brože)

22. února 2009 v 8:00 | Martin Opitz - Karel Brož |  Sonety


Bílá znamená ryzí cud,
pleťová: zkormoucené líce,
sinavá: navždy rozejít se,
černota: strázeň, strach a rmut,
červená: úpěnlivý žár
a blankytová: výši ducha,
mrtvolná šeď je zlého tucha,
žluť: konec přízně, lásky zmar;
vlasová: Trpělivost! dí
modř: Tajnou planeš milostí!
hněď: Nebudiž tě vzpomenuto!
zelená: Doufej! A že mně
teď nejmilejší zeleň je,
víte, čím žiji v chvíli tuto.

Dost už...

Uprostřed hrůz a běd, uprostřed dopuštění,
jakého nebylo, co svět je světem, dnes,
kdy pravda umírá a krvelačný běs,
co živo, ubíjí a celé země plení,
kdy právo ohýbat je pouhé vyražení
a páchat zvěrstva ctnost, - jak za veškerou mez
já vězím v cizotách! Tvář milenčina, ples
těch líček lahodných, to, čím mi je a není,
jak jde, jak bdí, jak sní, jak hledí, to je, nač
můj duch se upíná, můj jásot i můj pláč.
Ta muka zřít a přec krom lásky neznat látky?
Už menší bláhovce než já jsem, Bůh to suď,
je třeba zavírat. Vy músy, dost už! Buď
psát budu o jiném, buď víckrát ani řádky.

Já to své polo-já, co krev a tělo zve se

Já to své polo-já, co krev a tělo zve se,
to na mně nejhorší, chci spálit jako troud,
jako syn Alkmenin dát žáru sežehnout
to mrzké břemeno, s nímž duch se posud nese,
a k nebi vzlinout se. Má duše pádit jme se
k něčemu lepšímu, než nač se rozum, bloud,
v své těla slepotě a nač se lichý soud
žádostí smrtelných v své chatrnosti třese.
Mé světlo, zažehni mě svými zraky! Nech,
nech, aby popelem ten ztuchlý žalář leh,
v jehožto krutých tmách tak úzkostně se soužím,
a dej, ať nad zemi a nebe jako pták
se vznesu svoboden a očištěný zrak
v tu krásu, která tvé je věčný pramen, vzhroužím.

Převzato z: Růže ran. Básně německého baroku. Melantrich, 1941. Přel. Karel Brož, doslov a poznámky Vojtěch Jirát.

Georg Rudolf Weckherlin (1584 - 1653) - Život a smrt - sonet německého barokního básníka (v překladu Karla Brože)

21. února 2009 v 8:00 | Georg Rudolf Weckherlin - Karel Brož |  Sonety
Život a smrt

Můj život na světě je učiněná smrt,
ba horší je než smrt můj bezútěšný život.
Vždyť smrtí doznává přec konce žal a život,
můj život skončit však sil nemá tato smrt.
Hned pohled jediný mě uvrhuje v smrt,
hned jiný pohled zas mi vrací žár a život:
tak z pohledů mám smrt a taky mám z nich život
a v mžiku prožívám hned život a hned smrt.
Ach, lásko, dej mi, dej teď zase jiný život,
když mermo musím žít, či dej mi jinou smrt!
Tou smrtí nechci mřít ni žíti tento život!
Odpusť! Jsem, lásko, tvůj, ať život jsi či smrt.
Vždyť s tebou, lásko, smrt je nad životy život,
a život bez tebe ta nejkrušnější smrt.

Převzato z: Růže ran. Básně německého baroku. Melantrich, 1941. Přel. Karel Brož, doslov a poznámky Vojtěch Jirát.

Antonín Sova - Zamyšlení - moderní sonet ze sb. Vybouřené smutky (1897)

20. února 2009 v 8:00 | Antonín Sova |  Sonety
Zamyšlení stálo v mé duši jak měsíc nad jezery,
parodista dnů. Ocelově chladné ticho
zvučelo v drátech přepínajících dimenze mé bytosti
od jižních pólů až k severním, kde myšlenky zhasínaly.

Elegik, jenž se již vyplakal nejsmutnější písní,
bojovník, jenž nemoh zadržet dlaní smrtelné rány,
milenec zhnusený objetím po posledním triumfu pudů,
toť já jsem, v pustině života, v tupém zamyšlení.

Krev, kdysi elektrizovaná a prolnutá žhavostí slunce,
šumí teď tiše, kolujíc vychladlá v pozdních měsících,
v nichž dozrálo, co mohlo dozrát, a dokvetlo, co mohlo kvésti.

Zamyšlení stojí v mé duši jak měsíc nad jezery,
parodujíc mou touhu po velkých snech a budíc mou úzkost.
Mé srdce však, mozek můj hladoví, den ze dne, rok k roku.

Převzato odtud.

Jonáš Hájek - Metař - moderní varianta francouzského sonetu

18. února 2009 v 8:00 | Jonáš Hájek |  Sonety
Chci vidět sopku, když metá,
tu okounící bohyni. Já-metař,
chovanec v dresu pražské tmy,
mám stále před očima Teklu

anebo Pompeje, zrovna když Vesuv
hřmí. (Dokonale mě zklidní
i Etna ve své prvotřídní

akci.) - Tady? Jen výbuch bez otřesu,
a když už otřes, tak zas bez žáru.
Popel mi přihrává k poháru,

při narážkách do papundeklu
rukama dotýkat se smí,
a zleva láva, zprava lahváč, vstřelím
svou vítězně recyklovanou skřeli!

Převzato odtud.

Helen Maria Williamsová (1761 – 1827) - 16 sonetů anglické spisovatelky a překladatelky období romantismu

17. února 2009 v 8:00 | Helen Maria Williamsová |  Sonety
Sonnet To Hope

O, ever skilled to wear the form we love!
To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart;
Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove
The lasting sadness of an aching heart.
Thy voice, benign Enchantress! let me hear;
Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom,--
That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear,
Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom.
But come not glowing in the dazzling ray,
Which once with dear illusions charm'd my eye,--
O! strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way
The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die;
Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast,
That asks not happiness, but longs for rest!

*I commence the Sonnets with that to HOPE, from a predilection in its favour, for which I have a proud reason: it is that of Mr. Wordsworth, who lately honoured me with his visits while at Paris, having repeated it to me from memory, after a lapse of many years.

Sonnet To Twilight

Meek Twilight! soften the declining day,
And bring the hour my pensive spirit loves;
When o'er the mountain slow descends the ray
That gives to silence and to night the groves.
Ah, let the happy court the morning still,
When, in her blooming loveliness arrayed,
She bids fresh beauty light the vale or hill,
And rapture warble in the vocal shade.
Sweet is the odour of the morning's flower,
And rich in melody her accents rise;
Yet dearer to my soul the shadowy hour
At which her blossoms close, her music dies:
For then, while languid Nature droops her head,
She wakes the tear 'tis luxury to shed.

Sonnet on reading Burn's "Mountain Daisy."

While soon the "garden's flaunting flowers" decay,
And, scatter'd on the earth, neglected lie,
The "Mountain Daisy," cherish'd by the ray
A poet drew from heav'n, shall never die.
Ah! like that lovely flower the poet rose!
'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter gale;
He felt each storm that on the mountain blows,
Nor ever knew the shelter of the vale.
By Genius in her native vigour nurst,
On Nature with impassion'd look he gazed,
Then through the cloud of adverse fortune burst
Indignant, and in light unborrow'd blaz'd.
Shield from rude sorrow, SCOTIA ! shield thy bard:--
His heav'n-taught numbers Fame herself will guard.

Sonnet to the Moon

The glitt'ring colours of the day are fled;
Come, melancholy orb! that dwell'st with night,
Come! and o'er earth thy wand'ring lustre shed,
Thy deepest shadow, and thy softest light;
To me congenial is the gloomy grove,
When with faint light the sloping uplands shine;
That gloom, those pensive rays alike I love,
Whose sadness seems in sympathy with mine!
But most for this, pale orb! thy beams are dear,
For this, benignant orb! I hail thee most:
That while I pour the unavailing tear,
And mourn that hope to me in youth is lost,
Thy light can visionary thoughts impart,
And lead the Muse to soothe a suff'ring heart.

Sonnet to Peace of Mind

Sweet Peace! ah, lead me from the thorny dale,
Where desolate my wand'ring steps have fled;
Far from the sunny paths which others tread,
While youth enlivens, and while joys prevail.
Then I no more shall vanished hopes bewail,
No more the fruitless tear shall love to shed,
When pensive eve her cherish'd gloom has spread,
And day's bright tints, like my short pleasures, fail!
Yet lead me not where blooms the glowing rose,
But lead me where the cypress branches wave;
Thou hast a shelt'ring cell for cureless woes,
A home of refuge, where no tempests rave;
There would my weary heart in youth repose,
Beneath the turf that shrouds an early grave.

Sonnet to Mrs. Siddons

Siddons! the Muse, for many a joy refin'd,
Feelings which ever seem too swiftly fled,
For those delicious tears she loves to shed,
Around thy brow the wreaths of praise would bind;
But can her feeble notes thy praise unfold?
Repeat the tones each changing passion gives?
Or mark where nature in thy action lives,--
Where, in thy pause, she speaks a pang untold?
When fierce ambition steels thy daring breast,
When from thy frantic look our glance recedes?
Or, oh, divine enthusiast! when, opprest
By mournful love, that eye of softness pleads?
The sunbeam all can feel, but who can trace
The instant light, and catch the radiant grace?

Sonnet to Mrs. Bates

O thou, whose melody the heart obeys,
Thou, who can'st all its subject passions move,
Whose notes to heav'n the list'ning soul can raise,
Can thrill with pity, or can melt with love!
Happy! whom nature lent this native charm,
Angelic tones, that shed, with magic power,
A sweeter pleasure o'er the social hour:
The breast to softness soothe, to virtue warm;
But yet more happy, that thy life as clear
From discord as thy perfect cadence flows;
That, tun'd to sympathy, thy faithful tear
In mild accordance falls for others' woes;
That all the tender, pure affections bind,
In chains of harmony, thy willing mind!

Sonnet to Expression

Expression, child of soul! I fondly trace
Thy strong enchantments, when the poet's lyre,
The painter's pencil, catch thy sacred fire,
And beauty wakes for thee her touching grace!
But from this frighted glance thy form avert,
When horror checks thy tear, thy struggling sigh,
When frenzy rolls in thy impassion'd eye,
Or guilt sits heavy on thy lab'ring heart;
Nor ever let my shudd'ring fancy hear
The wasting groan, or view the pallid look
Of him* the muses lov'd, when hope forsook
His spirit, vainly to the muses dear!
For, charm'd with heav'nly song, this mournful breast
Laments the power of verse could give despair no rest.


Sonnet to Love

Ah, Love! ere yet I knew thy fatal power,
Bright glow'd the colour of my youthful days,
As on the sultry zone the torrid rays,
That paint the broad-leav'd plantain's glossy bower:
Calm was my bosom as this silent hour,
When o'er the deep, scarce heard, the zephyr strays,
'Midst the cool tamarinds indolently plays,
Nor from the orange shakes its od'rous flower:--
But ah! since Love has all my heart possest,
That desolated heart what sorrows tear!
Disturb'd, and wild as ocean's troubled breast,
When the hoarse tempest of the night is there!
Yet my complaining spirit asks no rest,
This bleeding bosom cherishes despair.

* This and the seven following Sonnets were inserted, several years ago, in a translation I made of Bernardin de Saint Pierre's novel of Paul and Virginia , while I was in prison during the reign of terror, and which served to cheat the days of captivity of their weary length. The translation was, I believe, never published in England, where the Sonnets are little known. They are adapted to the peculiar situations and scenery of the work.

Sonnet to Disappointment

Pale disappointment! at thy freezing name
Chill fears in every shiv'ring vein I prove;
My sinking pulse almost forgets to move,
And life almost forsakes my languid frame.
Yet thee, relentless nymph! no more I blame:
Why do my thoughts 'midst vain illusions rove?
Why gild the charms of friendship and of love
With the warm glow of fancy's purple flame?
When ruffling winds have some bright fane o'erthrown,
Which shone on painted clouds, or seem'd to shine,
Shall the fond gazer dream for him alone
Those clouds were sable, and at fate repine?--
I feel, alas! the fault is all my own,
And ah, the cruel punishment is mine!

Sonnet to Simplicity

Nymph of the desert! on this lonely shore,
Simplicity, thy blessings still are mine,
And all thou canst not give I pleas'd resign,
For all beside can soothe my soul no more.
I ask no lavish heaps to swell my store,
And purchase pleasures far remote from thine:
Ye joys, for which the race of Europe pine,
Ah, not for me your studied grandeur pour;
Let me where yon tall cliffs are rudely pil'd,
Where towers the Palm amidst the mountain trees,
Where pendant from the steep, with graces wild,
The blue Liana floats upon the breeze,
Still haunt those bold recesses, Nature's child,
Where thy majestic charms my spirit seize!

Sonnet to the Strawberry

The Strawberry blooms upon its lowly bed,
Plant of my native soil!--the Lime may fling
More potent fragrance on the zephyr's wing,
The milky Cocoa richer juices shed,
The white Guava lovelier blossoms spread--
But not, like thee, to fond remembrance bring
The vanished hours of life's enchanting spring;
Short calendar of joys for ever fled!
Thou bid'st the scenes of childhood rise to view,
The wild wood-path which fancy loves to trace;
Where, veil'd in leaves, thy fruit of rosy hue
Lurk'd on its pliant stem with modest grace.
But ah! when thought would later years renew,
Alas, successive sorrows crowd the space!

Sonnet to the Curlew

Sooth'd by the murmurs on the sea-beat shore,
His dun-grey plumage floating to the gale,
The Curlew blends his melancholy wail
With those hoarse sounds the rushing waters pour.
Like thee, congenial bird! my steps explore
The bleak lone sea-beach, or the rocky dale,--
And shun the orange bower, the myrtle vale,
Whose gay luxuriance suits my soul no more.
I love the ocean's broad expanse, when drest
In limpid clearness, or when tempests blow:
When the smooth currents on its placid breast
Flow calm, as my past moments us'd to flow;
Or when its troubled waves refuse to rest,
And seem the symbol of my present woe.

Sonnet to the Torrid Zone

Pathway of light! o'er thy empurpled zone,
With lavish charms, perennial summer strays;
Soft 'midst thy spicy groves the zephyr plays,
While far around the rich perfumes are thrown;
The Amadavid-bird for thee alone
Spreads his gay plumes, that catch thy vivid rays;
For thee the gems with liquid lustre blaze,
And Nature's various wealth is all thy own.
But ah! not thine is Twilight's doubtful gloom,
Those mild gradations, mingling day with night;
Here instant darkness shrouds thy genial bloom,
Nor leaves my pensive soul that ling'ring light,
When musing Mem'ry would each trace resume
Of fading pleasures in successive flight.

Sonnet to the Calbassia Tree

Sublime Calbassia! luxuriant tree,
How soft the gloom thy bright-hued foliage throws!
While from thy pulp a healing balsam flows,
Whose power the suff'ring wretch from pain can free:
My pensive footsteps ever turn to thee!
Since oft, while musing on my lasting woes,
Beneath thy flowery white-bells I repose,
Symbol of Friendship dost thou seem to me;
For thus has Friendship cast her soothing shade
O'er my unshelter'd bosom's keen distress,
Thus sought to heal the wounds which Love has made,
And temper bleeding sorrow's sharp excess!
Ah! not in vain she lends her balmy aid--
The agonies she cannot cure are less!

Sonnet to the White Bird of the Tropic

Bird of the Tropic! thou, who lov'st to stray
Where thy long pinions sweep the sultry Line,
Or mark'st the bounds which torrid beams confine
By thy averted course, that shuns the ray
Oblique, enamour'd of sublimer day:
Oft on yon cliff thy folded plumes recline,
And drop those snowy feathers Indians twine,
To crown the warrior's brow with honours gay.
O'er trackless oceans what impels thy wing?
Does no soft instinct in thy soul prevail?
No sweet affection to thy bosom cling,
And bid thee oft thy absent nest bewail?--
Yet thou again to that dear spot canst spring,
But I no more my long-lost home shall hail!

This edition may be copied freely by individuals for personal use, research, and teaching (including distribution to classes) as long as this statement of availability is included in the text. It may be linked to by internet editions of all kinds.

Převzato odtud.

John Masefield - první a poslední sonet z rozsáhlého cyklu "Sonnets" (1915)

16. února 2009 v 8:00 | John Masefield |  Sonetové cykly
Long long ago, when all the glittering earth
Was heaven itself, when drunkards in the street
Were like mazed kings shaking at giving birth
To acts of war that sickle men like wheat,
When the white clover opened Paradise
And God lived in a cottage up the brook,
Beauty, you lifted up my sleeping eyes
And filled my heart with longing with a look;
And allhe day I searched but could not find
The beautiful dark-eyed who touched me there,
Delight in her made trouble in my mind,
She was within all Naure, everywhere,
The breath I breathed, the brook, the flower, the grass,
Were her, her word, her beauty, all she was.

Let that which is to come be as it may,
Darkness, extinction, justice, life intense
The flies are happy in the summer day,
Flies will be happy many summers hence.
Time with his antique breeds that built the Sphynx
Time with her men to come whose wings will tower,
Poured and will pour, not as the wise man thinks,
But with blind force, to each his little hour.
And when the hour has struck, comes death or change,
Which, whether good or ill, we cannot tell,
But the blind planet will wander through her range
Bearing men like us who will serve as well.
The sun will rise, the winds that ever move
Will blow our dust that once were men in love.

Kompletní cyklus viz zde.

Pavol Országh Hviezdoslav - Krvavé sonety (sbírka nominovaná na Nobelovu cenu za literaturu v r. 1919)

15. února 2009 v 8:00 | Pavol Országh Hviezdoslav |  Sonetové cykly

Spev o krvi: ký divý pomysel!? -
A o akej? - ak o tej, ktorá žiari
sťa ruže kvet, pýr studu v dievčej tvári,
či jejž crk u decka v smev zabronel,

keď v snách ho láska anjel-pestiteľ;
alebo o tej, čo sa s duchom spári
veštca v zápal čela na oltári:
tak nech by spev, nech plným dúškom znel!

Ó, krv je vlaha divotvorná! - Skrytá,
jak vzácny mušt, vrie v srdca pohári,
až udrie v ústroj silou vlnobitia;
s tým v tepnách v ruch sa, v mluno prevarí
a vôľu tvorčiu, zajme kolo žitia...
Či myslia na to kedy mäsiari?


Nie o tej plodnej spievať dnes je čas:
o krvi, zo srdca čo šprihnúc v dlane,
kamkoľvek čiahne, tvorí požehnane,
i z mŕtvej skaly kúzli klas;

o krvi, v tmu čo vnáša slnka jas,
sťa olej vzplanúc - kahan pri kahane -
duševným zrakom denné na svitanie:
a takto chlebom-svetom živý nas,

a vtedy štíti aj, kde nebezpeč je...
Lež o krvi, čo vybúšila v hnev,
i zúri-búri, ohňom páli, vlečie
povodňou, rozmetá svet hŕbou pliev;
či odrážkou jak úpusty v zmar tečie...
ach! o tej znie, kým nezalkne sa, spev.


Nad zemou v letku utkvel na krielach
posupný démon, v pravej hlaveň vojny,
z nejž, zmáchav ňou, plam šľahol dvojný, trojný...
a k zemi vzal sa splývať v pramenách,

iskriaci síru, meteorov prach -
Rod ľudský dlho spal už nepokojný:
i strhol sa! - ziv sudbinej v tom trojny
zrel, úžas v očiach, v údoch mrazný strach.

Kam dieť sa, Bože!? (zúpel), k spáse vrátka
kde? rokľa v bralách, zápač pralesa
či morská choboť, loďka čo jak vratká
za útočište?... Ale kryje sa
nadarmo v svete; všade ľudská jatka:
či tvŕď, či oceán, či nebesa!


A národ oboril sa na národ
s úmyslom vraždy, s besom skaziteľa.
Kres spráskal pušiek, zahrmely delá:
zem stene, piští vzduch, rvú vlny vôd,

kde bleskom kmitla hrozná Astarot.
A jak v žne postať zbožia líha zrelá
pod kosou, radom váľajú sa telá;
v cveng šabieľ špľachce čŕstvej krvi brod...

Tak vo víchrici totej ukrutenstva,
nímž ani tiger dravšie nezúri,
zapadá nie svlek: výkvet človečenstva,
života radosť smrtnej do chmúry,
v prach purpur všeľudského dôstojenstva,
v sutiny jasný palác kultúry!...


Čo krvi stečie takto prívalom,
jejž pôsobivé v žilách, v svaloch prúdy
skvost leta mohly vyviesť z každej hrudy,
pokroku slynúť rušňom-dvíhalom,

byť odčinom bied, bremien odvalom!
Čo ducha, budúcna v ňomž svit sa budí,
v nič rozplynie sa s bojišťa tam čmudy,
pohasne navždy s božským zápalom!

A nad tým v srdcelomnom bolestení
čo prelejú sĺz biedne matere,
predčasné vdovy, siroty! mrk denný
im oviv novým flórom kadere -
A čože ľudstva rozplakaný génij?
ten do večnej sa tône uberie!


Hrôz všetkých odstavené príchlopy;
od pólu hajno fúrij tiahne k pólu,
studnice žiaľu, jazvy kľovúc bôľu;
tvár zohavená sinie Europy...

A ešte blud ten! krivé pochopy,
čo ako rohy strkajú a kolú: -
Čuls', Bože? Tvoju spokúšali vôľu!
O triumf tlčú nebies na stropy,

Ťa, vznešeného nad ich zmutky-chúťky,
zvú v spor svoj: - Bojuj, vraj, ich na strane!...
Čo si ty Mars, čo krvavé rád skutky?
Baal? Jahve? - Neslýchane trúfané:
Tvoj vehlas miešať ľudskej do pohnútky!
Súď: je to vzývanie, či rúhanie?


Že dožili sme, ach, ten rozvrat! rež,
z nejž potoky sa nevinná krv valí!
divadla toho divákmi sa stali,
ba účastníkmi do dna srdca tiež,

svieraní, zajarmení v trýzne spräž!
Že octli sme sa sveta vo špitáli,
na púšti jeho zrazu, nájduc - žiaľ i
bôľ! - pompu rozvoja kol za padeš!

Že, starci, prv sme hlavy nesklonili,
než v skazy tej sme maras vtenuli,
na pokoj hoďas hnilý do mohyly!
Ba šťastní, ichž čas hostí minulý.
kde pred hrôzou sa rovy zaclonili -
blahoslavení všetci zosnulí!


Ó, ľudstvo! ľudstvo! tak si vzdialené
nebolo nikdy od príkazu Krista:
Bližného miluj ako seba! zčista
a bez výhrady zplna, iskrenne.

Nač bolo jeho spásne učenie,
stvrdené smrťou, pravda, cesta istá:
keď bratu brat zmar stonásobne chystá,
preň zažíha bár pekla plamene?

Čo mrav tvoj stojí, plň vied, umien perá,
keď vášňam sa dáš zaslepiť a viesť,
i pášeš potom ako divé zviera?
A čo si veniec pripravíš hen z hviezd,
neujdeš poroku, že dnes i včera
si v zlovesť spotvorilo blahovesť!


Kresťanstvo tvoje - lož je, faloš, mam!
Mlč o pohanoch! zle sa vyhováraš:
čo Tatár, Vandal raz, Hun, hľa! to stváraš,
sa v majstra vyučiac ich remeslám.

K oltárom lezieš, utieknuc sa v chrám;
však modlu na srdci, v jej službe háraš:
hej, o pokore, bázni leda táraš,
si ošemetník pred Bohom i tam!

Že vyslanec si svetla? Za misie!
prírody deťom odurmaniť um
a s vierou vposled opantať im šije -
Oj, dovidia včuľ na grunt tvojich dúm,
ich cvične núkaš začrieť do biblie:
krvavé vážiť - evanjelium!...


- Nuž, človeče, tys' pánom prírody?
ty že máš právo rozhodovať nad ňou
Prv seba opanuj! skroť kázňou vládnou:
kto pán je nad sebou, ten vývodí,

i hrdina je pravej slobody,
bo s každým sdieľny na nej mierou riadnou;
ináč je otrok len, čo rukou kradnou
tak seba, ako iných oškodí

Och, plytkosť srdečná! Och zmätok umov!
I azúrove čistí duchovia
pohŕdli naraz veľkolepou dumou
u dlátka, farieb, zvukov, u slova;
šli v smes... Nuž, v barbarstva noc, v cmiter rumov
ťa, človeče, ta vracia výchova!?


Ba pošpatil si iba krásnu zem
tú, samozvanče, pošlú z Tvorca ruky!
Čo vývin na nej, priostril si v muky,
v nástroje zhuby skul jej diadém;

bič zo síl splietol, harmonický snem
jej hlasov schlpil na svár mrchazvuký:
to tvoje vodcovstvo! z bied zápäť pluky;
ľaď! krvou kvapká i jej zôrny lem...

Síď s trónu! Lev nech napozatým králi,
vrah z hladu len, nie pre slasť z azúrov;
alebo zem nech vlasatica spáli
čo brloh tvoj i s tvojou nákazou,
pre teba, tvor ty v zlobe neskonalý,
ju do zbla vyžhnúc z hviezdnych obrazov!...


- Ach, srdce moje čo už prenieslo
osudných úderov v tom dlhom žití!
Jak struny prepiate, sa skúbly city
v ňom; temer sa mi samo rozčeslo,

i koleno mi ducha pokleslo
zúfaním: tak bol ráz ich presrditý!
Som sýty všetkých útrap, nadmier sýty: -
a tu zas kríž ten sveta!... Čerieslo

tak nezakrojí v pôdu v orby spechu,
jak on sa vryl mi rozdierave v hruď;
i včuľ už strmie, predstavujúc viechu,
na ktorej skvie sa lapidárny súd
- stoletiu, pokoleniu na útechu -:
Vzdelanstvo - cha-cha-cha! - jak ľudožrút!...


Kto zapríčinil tento úpadok,
zosurovenie, zdivočenie mravov?
Čo ľudstvo zviedlo s ducha veličavou
vbŕsť do bahna? Ký upír to a mlok,

z pŕs sajúci mu i dnes žitia mok,
krvižíznivec s večnou záhou žhavou?
Ech, sebectvo! to! - a niet, nad ohavou
tou zvíťaziť, vojsk, rekov po dnešok.

Hej, ono krivdí, hnetie, zdiera, týra
svevoľne, kde len stihne, slabšieho;
bár zem je pre všetkých dosť šírošíra,
chce, aby strela sa len pre neho;
ba končiny si svojí všehomíra,
kams' v prázdeň vytískajúc iného -


To ona panovačnosť nadutá,
čo pancier odela a čihá v zbroji;
čo na obzore ako mračno stojí,
žlč v okáľoch a hrozbu pohnutia;

nad zemou visí ako pokuta,
opätok drzý, držiac na pokoji;
tá, dušiaca sa spupne, že sa bojí
len Boha!... Ale zato nehúta,

nerozvažuje veľa vo svedomí
o prísnom v Desatore: "Nezabi!"
lež smelo blesky mece, húka hromy;
sťa jahnence ľud ženie pochabý
na bitúnok -; svet šatí do pohromy,
obúva do spáleníšť pahraby...


I hučí válka - Ako krútňava
sa vrtí, gúľa-váľa, rozohnaná,
plutvami trepe jak by leviatana,
a v bezdný hrtan s chvatom strháva,

požiera, nenásytná, hltavá,
tak ľudské životy jak ľudské mania,
vždy tlamu dokorán ni sitna brána;
a trosky sú, čo na brah vydáva...

Púšť roztiahla sa vypasenou zmijou,
kde kvitly mestá jak kry ružové;
vzdor, nárek, kliatba divou harmóniou
preletá nad ňou pozdĺž, krížove...
- Pred spravodlivou kto raz históriou,
kto pred Bohom to všetko zodpovie!?


Včuľ po mraku vše svolá podstena,
čo doma zbudli, všetkých dohromady.
Prah ňaňo zaujal, kmeť vetchej vlády;
u nôh mu čupí žena, starena,

sťa kvočka, kol vnúčat pnúc ramená:
a každé zosŕka, jak k hviezdam hľadí -
V kuchynke nevesta; priam sprace riady
a prisadne k nim, muka zrosená.

Len dcéra umkla v sad, i s inou strelou
v srdiečku, neboliacou ostatných:
veď s bratom tiahol on tiež s mysľou smelou
do kosby, krv kde rosou, riasou vzdych...
Kto odpovie i za tých trpiteľov?
ich strasti, slzy, snáď i straty ich?


Ó, kde si, šlachtic srdca, gavalier,
'stoj!' zavelieť tým sborom v borby prieku?
Či múdrosť sobrals' striebristého veku,
čis' v kvete muž, rec: 'dosť!' - i budeš ver'

ten najslávnejší sveta bohatier.
Pravicu podaj soku bratsky mäkkú,
vztýč biely prápor rudú na paseku!...
A či sa schýliť musí navečer:

po výčerp? Musí náporná prv sila
s tou odporu boj dobiť preťažký:
až vahadiel zhrá pára rozpustilá,
súc odhodené s cesty prekážky:
tá s víťazstvom si pripne slávy kríla
a v priepasť sfuní miska porážky...?


- A keď sa toto peklo vyvzteká,
či ozaj nastúpi smier, pokoj neba?
Nenávisť ovládze-li sama seba,
z nástrahy zrodí-li sa bezpeka,

a pravda sadne za stôl odveká?
Bude-li právo všetkých právom? chleba
hoj všetkým? Nebude pút? zbraní treba?
Česť bude práci, tvári človeka?

Ten kúpeľ krvi splynie očistením?
Milosrdenstva znežnie obrazom
sebeckosť? pýcha skrotne pokorením?
trojica lásky svitne príkazom...?
Alebo beda, beda - premoženým?
a menom pomsty beda - víťazom?


A či tie hekatomby obetí,
tie rieky krvi v splave po údolí;
ten bezpočet rán, z ktorých každá bolí
viac, než čo osud v zdravie zavätí;

to spustošenie zásluh století;
tie škody na chlebovom ľudstva poli,
plen... všetko vpokon oným na vrcholi
svedomím zachvie, ščernie v pamäti?

I k srdcu pripustia si naučenie,
že nad paloš jest nástroj hotovší,
žľab vybrázdiť, nímž za zdarom zdar ženie;
že človek nie hmyz pod šľap podošví;
že niet cti v bitke, jak krv vodou nenie: -
i naveky meč skryjú do pošvy?...


Veď keby, keby! - Vďačne oplakal
by každý národ svoje straty, hroby,
ichž množstvo mu zem Jozafatom robí;
to všetko povážil by za portál,

za stupne, po nichž, tvrdších bár i skál,
do novej ľza vojsť, šťastnej, zlatej doby,
bez dneška rmutu, nerestí i zloby;
ba za dôpust by Bohu chválu vzdal,

si istý súc: že železa i krvi
ohromnú nošu navždy šmaril s pliec;
nebude cudzej sláve za ostrvy;
sám svoj vždy, snaživec i poctivec,
pobeží s druhmi: lepší kto? kto prvý,
kde cieľ...? - Ach, kiež to palmou nakoniec!...


Čo bude, ako bude? len Ty znáš,
ó, Vševedúci! - Ale nespytujem
sa Ťa; tak v mysli krehkej uvažujem,
že bola by to decka samopaš:

bo nač Ty ako zdržovateľ dbáš,
jak krátkym umom dlho pozorujem,
čnie nedostižne ľudský nad záujem!
nad všetko, zem čo smýšľa, prášok náš,

čo na nej my, jej plemä, vystrájame.
Tej úkol je, kým ináč naložíš,
prísluha slncu vo svetovej dráme;
nám ale - zvláštna milosť nanajvýš! -
preds' červom, voľnosti si udrel znamä,
trvalé pokiaľ? Tobôž nezjavíš...


Že trest to, čo sa deje, od Teba
za nadužitie slobodnej vôle?
či skúška, podobná tej v ľudskej škole?
Ach, pojem nízky! - hriešna pochleba,

súc láskou, Tebe toho netreba -
Hoj! ako v mája kráse luh tu dole,
za jasnej noci hore hviezdne pole:
mne čisto svieti Tvoja veleba,

bez našskej vrásky hnevu, cnenia šmúhy...
Ak pozeráš tak na ten mravčí boj,
snáď mrkneš: zverské to v nich ešte túhy
drgľujú - broj prv, teraz v práci zbroj -:
Len tríbenie - cvik - vývoj ľudstva púhy,
až ušľachtí sa šťastný pre pokoj...


Ó, vysoko dlieš, Pane! nad nami
s osnovou pomyslov, s ciest tajných sieťou,
zkaď zámer svoj si v reťaz rozvil svetov...
Meriame výšku orly, chmárami,

hviezd sídlami; však dostup neznámy:
pred nekonečnom jak by uzavretou
zdúpneme bránou, v hrudi popol vznetov,
a naše smysly závrat omámi.

Bár v zenit pripneme aj ducha zreteľ,
na uzol blesku, vidmo, dúhy most,
by v Tvoju šľapaj, k Tvojej mysli vzletel,
je slepcom preds': - hja, bezočivý hosť -
Tak svetlom zavraciaš v nás, Otče svetiel,
hneď domýšľavosť, hnedky všetečnosť...


A predsa - dovoľ, Bože! - Pokoja
mi nedá zvedavosť, jej ostré osti
ma omínajú; tisíc do úzkostí
upadám za dňa a tie neskoja

ni noci, balzam ich, snov povoja;
krváca srdce mi, môj duch sa postí: -
och, dovoľ nazrieť v tmaň mi budúcnosti:
jak z toho strašného vĺn príboja

Slavianstvo vyjde? loď jak statná, bdelá?
To bych rád znal: ó, odcloň mi! a daj
znak, má-li v Tebe ochraňovateľa?
hu! vidím, zašlo bezdna na pokraj...
Viem, hrešilo, ach! hrešilo tak veľa;
však odpusť mu! ho zdrž! a zachovaj -


Či zázrak telom ten sa rozpadne
na články, osobou z nichž pozostáva?
do prachu sfrkne Goliáta hlava?...
A či sa zviecha, vzchopí prípadne

a života už plňou zavládne?
i v službu vstúpi pravdy? vstane práva
obhajcom? trafí, v čom tkvie ctnosť, česť, sláva?
orlicou žalmistovou omladne?

Veď spravodlivosť tmel je, tuží pásky
nad oceľ, korbáč, žalár, zámky pút:
a tej, ach! neznalo; i praskly sväzky
i pokrvné, že trnie, ha! ni prút:
prút v protest... Zľutuj sa však, Bože lásky!
a nedaj mu v tej próbe podľahnúť -


Preds' nemožno! že bytosť veľkých čŕt
v ňom bol bys' poslal na svet bez účelu:
len iným tôniť - obťažiť zem celú
sťa Himalaj, mráz družinou, hlad, smrť;

a časom rozsypať sa na padrť.
Čo dal si sklepeniu skryť, jeho čelu,
raz musí slncom vzísť! vzpláť zlatom pelu -
a po ňom zbudnúť nad pyramíd hrď...

Či proroctvo má zlyhať Kollárovo? -
Viem, mrhač-spustlec, bolo samý buj;
však pre krv, Bože, v streku na olovo
z rúk bratských... aspoň pre ňu nevstupuj
s ním v súd, lež daj mu žiť a Tvoje slovo
zvestovať svetu - Tak, ó! pomiluj...


Pomiluj, Bože, Bože pomiluj!...
Ťa kolenačky prosí duša moja
dňom-nocou, žertva muky, nepokoja -
Veď hrozné i len pomyslieť si, juj!

od čoho naveky ho zavaruj! -:
by Slavianstvo len hŕbou bolo hnija
na cudzie lány, po čom chudá sloja
ich tak mrie, rozďavujúc pysk ni sluj...

Dosť zapadlo ho už tým podlým cieľom,
zúrodniac, zšľachtiac drsné plemeno,
dosť! - zaháj ho, ó, voči urvateľom!
Nie trus je, lež dúm Tvojich semeno;
len vzísť mu dať, vzrásť, zrieť... a zlatým čelom
sa nebies tkne... Buď, ó! buď spaseno...


(Nie, Puškine môj, mysľou vysoký,
ty mýlil si sa, podráždením chorý:
Vraj, musejú sa stiecť-sliať v ruskom mori
tie naše bystré slavian-potoky,

alebo ono - vyschne ráztoky.
Už príroda, vidz! sama s tebou sporí:
má osve ich, vždy čerstvé bytia vzory;
no trvá aj ich poťah hlboký...

Ja myslím: duch sa rovná vode, hore
čo parou stúpa, prší návratom;
tak, vzájomstva prúd, teká po priestore,
zhŕdajúc lieňou v bahne stojatom...
Nuž, vyschnúť nemusí ni ducha more,
ni potoky zájsť ducha v mori tom!)


Cit! - vyčítať mi niet čo svedomiu,
že v tiesni tým mi zvrelo vnútro citom;
som patriota, bárs som Slavian pritom!
Nežiadam zamak krivdy nikomu,

a na vlasť mal bych shŕňať pohromu?
Lže, kto by tvrdil! - V slavian-duši bytom
dlie dobrota, čo v korci okopitom
sa sdieľa s bližným z domu do domu...

I Slovák objíma zem rodnú s všetkou
ľúbosťou; oltárom mu Tatry štít;
sťa pozostatky ctí si kosti predkov -
Nemusím teda pokrytcom sa kryť,
keď, nezľakaný utrhačstva pletkou,
som v srdci zladil svätý dvojný cit.


Či moja Slovač, kŕdeľ sokolí,
nepoletela tobôž pod zástavy?
krv necedí? v plač svojich neodvraví
na ružu rany: oj, nie! nebolí...?

Veď úfa: odzvonené svevoli!
čo popečkovala s jej žitia právy,
jej jazyk vyhnala v hôr úval tmavý,
jak by to ľudské zvuky neboly.

Vie: vlasť je mať, čo krajec s láskou podá
každému decku, prázdna vrtochov;
len, ktorí štedrú pravicu jej vodia
sebecky, tí ju robia macochou;
však s búrkou prejde i tá nepohoda:
to posilou jej v boji! útechou...


- Ó, vráť sa skoro, mieru milený!
zavítaj s ratolesťou olivovou
a buď nám zdravím, veselím i chovou,
v snažení ostňom, kovom v rameni!

Zášť - fakľu sváru - medzi plemeny
zdus! Nedaj stretať sa viac s mladou vdovou,
sirôtky, s rodičmi, čo nad synovou
oporou v hrobe kvília zlomení.

Sceľ jazvy; úštrby zhlaď zisk tvoj zlatý...
Pod svoje nás zajm', húfy, vodcovstvo,
veď k cieľom, plným dobrých predsavzatí:
to bude triumf! zo zdôb radosť, ó!
za zdatnosť v borbe - práce na postati...
Ó, príď, ty bratstva, lásky kráľovstvo!


Nuž, iďte s Bohom, piesne krvavé!
odvité so srdca mi dobou krutou,
listiny s kresbou dojmov, odblesknutou
pri požiarovej neba záplave,

v striel hluku, prerúvanom zdĺhave
bojišťa stony, nárky z bydlíšť kútov;
ku srdciam iďte s blankou rozvinutou:
nech čítajú vás oči slzavé...

Ja bojoval tiež vnútri ťažko-tvrdo,
i ranený som, v srdce bodnutý -
Raz aspoň chcel bych, pozrieť na rod hrdo:
s odplatou za strasť toľkých dotknutí;
to ždám... Och, prac sa kams' za pólu brdo,
redikaj znad nás, mračno pokuty!...

Převzato odtud.

Sir Philip Sidney - výběr z rozsáhlého sonetového cyklu Astrophel and Stella (1591)

14. února 2009 v 8:00 | Sir Philip Sidney |  Sonetové cykly
"Loving in truth..."

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That the dear she might take some pleasure of my pain,
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe:
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburned brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay;
Invention, Nature's child, fled stepdame Study's blows;
And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:
"Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write."

"Not at the first sight..."

Not at the first sight, nor with a dribbed shot,
Love gave the wound, which, while I breathe, will bleed;
But known worth did in mine of time proceed,
Till by degrees it had full conquest got.
I saw and liked; I liked but loved not;
I loved, but straight did not what love decreed;
At length to love's decrees I, forced, agreed,
Yet with repining at so partial lot.
Now even that footstep of lost liberty
Is gone, and now, like slave-born Muscovite,
I call it praise to suffer tyranny;
And now employ the remnant of my wit
To make me self believe that all is well,
While, with a feeling skill, I paint my hell.

"Let dainty wits cry on the sisters nine"

Let dainty wits cry on the sisters nine,
That, bravely masked, their fancies may be told;
Or Pindar's apes flaunt they in phrases fine,
Enam'ling with pied flowers their thoughts of gold;
Or else let them in statelier glory shine,
Ennobling new-found tropes with problems old;
Or with strange similes enrich each line,
Of herbs or beasts which Ind or Afric hold.
For me, in sooth, no Muse but one I know;
Phrases and problems from my reach do grow,
And strange things cost too dear for my poor sprites.
How then? even thus,--in Stella's face I read
What love and beauty be, then all my deed
But copying is, what in her Nature writes.

"It is most true..."

It is most true that eyes are formed to serve
The inward light, and that the heavenly part
Ought to be king, from whose rules who do swerve,
Rebels to nature, strive for their own smart.
It is most true what we call Cupid's dart
An image is which for ourselves we carve,
And, fools, adore in temple of our heart
Till that good god make church and churchman starve.
True, that true beauty virtue is indeed,
Whereof this beauty can be but a shade,
Which elements with mortal mixture breed.
True, that on earth we are but pilgrims made,
And should in soul up to our country move;
True, and yet true that I must Stella love.

"Some lovers speak, when they their muses entertain"

Some lovers speak, when they their muses entertain
Of hopes begot by fear, of wot not what desires,
Of force of heav'nly beams infusing hellish pain,
Of living deaths, dear wounds, fair storms, and freezing fires;
Someone his song in Jove and Jove's strange tales attires,
Bordered with bulls and swans, powdered with golden rain;
Another humbler wit to shepherd's pipe retires,
Yet hiding royal blood full oft in rural vein;
To some a sweetest plaint a sweetest style affords,
While tears pour out his ink, and sighs breathe out his words,
His paper pale despair, and pain his pen doth move.
I can speak what I feel, and feel as much as they,
But think that all the map of my state I display
When trembling voice brings forth that I do Stella love.

"Alas, have I not pain enough"

Alas, have I not pain enough; my friend,
Upon whose breast a fiercer gripe doth tire
Than did on him who first stole down the fire,
While Love on me doth all his quiver spend,
But with your rhubarb words ye must contend,
To grieve me worse, in saying that desire
Doth plunge my well-formed soul even in the mire
Of sinful thoughts which do in ruin end?
If that be sin which doth the manners frame,
Well stayed with truth in word and faith of deed,
Ready of wit and fearing nought but shame;
If that be sin which in fixed hearts doth breed
A loathing of all loose unchastity,
Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.

"You that do search for every purling spring"

You that do search for every purling spring
Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows,
And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows
Near thereabouts into your poesy wring;
You that do dictionary's method bring
Into your rhymes, running in rattling rows;
You that poor Petrarch's long-deceased woes
With new-born sighs and denizened wit do sing;
You take wrong ways, those far-fet helps be such
As do bewray a want of inward touch,
And sure at length stol'n goods do come to light.
But if, both for your love and skill, your name
You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame,
Stella behold, and then begin to endite.

"Fly, fly, my friends..."

Fly, fly, my friends, I have my death wound, fly;
See there that boy, that murth'ring boy, I say,
Who, like a thief, hid in dark bush doth lie
Till bloody bullet get him wrongful prey.
So tyrant he no fitter place could spy,
Nor so fair level in so secret stay,
As that sweet black which veils the heav'nly eye;
There himself with his shot he close doth lay.
Poor passenger, pass now thereby I did,
And stayed, pleased with the prospect of the place,
While that black hue from me the bad guest hid;
But straight I saw motions of lightning grace,
And then descried the glist'ring of his dart;
But ere I could fly thence, it pierced my heart.

"Your words, my friend..."

Your words, my friend, (right healthful caustics) blame
My young mind marred, whom love doth windlass so
That mine own writings, like bad servants, show
My wits quick in vain thoughts, in virtue lame;
That Plato I read for nought but if he tame
Such coltish years; that to my birth I owe
Nobler desires, lest else that friendly foe,
Great expectation, wear a train of shame.
For since mad March great promise made of me,
If now the May of my years much decline,
What can be hoped my harvest time will be?
Sure, you say well, Your wisdom's golden mine
Dig deep with learning's spade. Now tell me this,
Hath this world aught so fair as Stella is?

"Rich fools there be..."

Rich fools there be whose base and filthy heart
Lies hatching still the goods wherein they flow,
And damning their own selves to Tantal's smart,
Wealth breeding want, more blest, more wretched grow.
Yet to those fools heaven such wit doth impart,
As what their hands do hold, their heads do know;
And knowing, love; and loving, lay apart
As sacred things, far from all danger's show.
But that rich fool, who by blind fortune's lot
The richest gem of love and life enjoys,
And can with foul abuse such beauties blot,
Let him, deprived of sweet but unfelt joys,
Exiled for aye from those high treasures which
He knows not, grow in only folly rich!

"You that with allegory's curious frame"

You that with allegory's curious frame
Of others' children changelings use to make,
With me those pains, for God's sake, do not take;
I list not dig so deep for brazen fame.
When I say Stella, I do mean the same
Princess of beauty for whose only sake
The reins of love I love, though never slake,
And joy therein, though nations count it shame.
I beg no subject to use eloquence,
Nor in hid ways do guide philosophy;
Look at my hands for no such quintessence,
But know that I in pure simplicity
Breathe out the flames which burn within my heart,
Love only reading unto me this art.

"Whether the Turkish new moon minded be"

Whether the Turkish new-moon minded be
To fill her horns this year on Christian coast;
How Poles' right king means without leave of host
To warm with ill-made fire cold Muscovy;
If French can yet three parts in one agree;
What now the Dutch in their full diets boast;
How Holland hearts, now so good towns be lost,
Trust in the shade of pleasing Orange-tree;
How Ulster likes of that same golden bit
Wherewith my father once made it half tame;
If in the Scotch Court be no welt'ring yet:
These questions busy wits to me do frame.
I, cumbered with good manners, answer do,
But know not how, for still I think of you.

"With how sad steps..."

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What! may it be that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case:
I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call "virtue" there--ungratefulness?

"I might--unhappy word!--oh me, I might"

I might--unhappy word!--oh me, I might
And then would not, or could not, see my bliss,
Till now, wrapped in a most infernal night,
I find how heav'nly day, wretch, I did miss.
Heart, rent thyself, thou dost thyself but right;
No lovely Paris made thy Helen his,
No force, no fraud, robbed thee of thy delight,
Nor fortune of thy fortune author is
But to myself myself did give the blow,
While too much wit, forsooth, so troubled me
That I respects for both our sakes must show,
And yet could not by rising morn foresee
How fair a day was near; oh, punished eyes,
That I had been more foolish--or more wise!

"Come, let me write..."

Come, let me write. And to what end? To ease
A burthened heart. How can words ease, which are
The glasses of thy daily vexing care?
Oft cruel fights well pictured forth do please.
Art not ashamed to publish thy disease?
Nay, that may breed my fame, it is so rare.
But will not wise men think thy words fond ware?
Then be they close, and so none shall displease.
What idler thing than speak and not be heard?
What harder thing than smart and not to speak?
Peace, foolish wit! with wit my wit is marred.
Thus write I, while I doubt to write, and wreak
My harms on ink's poor loss. Perhaps some find
Stella's great powers, that so confuse my mind.

"What may words say, or what may words not say"

What may words say, or what may words not say,
Where truth itself must speak like flattery?
Within what bounds can one his liking stay,
Where nature doth with infinite agree?
What Nestor's counsel can my flames allay,
Since reason's self doth blow the coal in me?
And ah, what hope that hope should once see day,
Where Cupid is sworn page to chastity?
Honor is honored, that thou dost possess
Him as thy slave, and now long-needy Fame
Doth even grow rich, naming my Stella's name.
Wit learns in thee perfection to express,
Not thou by praise, but praise in thee is raised;
It is a praise to praise, when thou art praised.

"My mouth doth water, and my breast doth swell"

My mouth doth water, and my breast doth swell,
My tongue doth itch, my thoughts in labor be;
Listen then, lordings, with good ear to me,
For of my life I must a riddle tell.
Toward Aurora's court a nymph doth dwell,
Rich in all beauties which man's eye can see;
Beauties so far from reach of words that we
Abase her praise saying she doth excel
Rich in the treasure of deserved renown,
Rich in the riches of a royal heart,
Rich in those gifts which give th' eternal crown;
Who, though most rich in these and every part
Which make the patents of true worldly bliss,
Hath no misfortune but that Rich she is.

"Come, Sleep, O Sleep..."

Come, Sleep, O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,
The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw:
O make in me those civil wars to cease;
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light,
A rosy garland, and a weary head:
And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

"As good to write as for to lie and groan"

As good to write as for to lie and groan.
O Stella dear, how much thy power hath wrought,
That hast my mind, none of the basest, brought
My still-kept course, while other sleep, to moan;
Alas, if from the height of virtue's throne
Thou canst vouchsafe the influence of a thought
Upon a wretch that long thy grace hath sought,
Weigh then how I by thee am overthrown;
And then think thus--although thy beauty be
Made manifest by such a victory,
Yet noblest conquerors do wrecks avoid.
Since then thou hast so far subdued me,
That in my heart I offer still to thee,
Oh, do not let thy temple be destroyed.

"Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance"

Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance
Guided so well that I obtained the prize,
Both by the judgment of the English eyes
And of some sent from that sweet enemy, France;
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance,
Town-folks my strength; a daintier judge applies
His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance;
Others, because of both sides I do take
My blood from them who did excel in this,
Think nature me a man of arms did make.
How far they shot awry! The true cause is,
Stella looked on, and from her heav'nly face
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.

"Stella oft sees the very face of woe"

Stella oft sees the very face of woe
Painted in my beclouded stormy face,
But cannot skill to pity my disgrace,
Not though thereof the cause herself she know;
Yet hearing late a fable, which did show
Of lovers never known a grievous case,
Pity thereof gat in her breast such place
That, from the sea derived, tears' spring did flow.
Alas, if fancy, drawn by imaged things
Though false, yet with free scope, more grace doth breed
Than servant's wrack, where new doubts honor brings;
Then think, my dear, that you in me do read
Of lovers' ruin some sad tragedy.
I am not I; pity the tale of me.

"Because I breathe not love to everyone"

Because I breathe not love to everyone,
Nor do not use set colors for to wear,
Nor nourish special locks of vowed hair,
Nor give each speech a full point of a groan,
The courtly nymphs, acquainted with the moan
Of them who in their lips Love's standard bear,
What, he! say they of me, Now I dare swear
He cannot love; no, no, let him alone.
And think so still, so Stella know my mind;
Profess indeed I do not Cupid's art;
But you, fair maids, at length this true shall find,
That his right badge is but worn in the heart;
Dumb swans, not chatt'ring pies, do lovers prove;
They love indeed who quake to say they love.

"Muses, I oft invoked your holy aid"

Muses, I oft invoked your holy aid,
With choicest flowers my speech t' engarland so
That it, despised in true but naked show,
Might win some grace in your sweet grace arrayed;
And oft whole troops of saddest words I stayed,
Striving abroad a-foraging to go,
Until by your inspiring I might know
How their black banner might be best displayed.
But now I mean no more your help to try,
Nor other sug'ring of my speech to prove,
But on her name incessantly to cry;
For let me but name her whom I do love,
So sweet sounds straight mine ear and heart do hit,
That I well find no eloquence like it.

"O grammar-rules, O now your virtues show"

O grammar-rules, O now your virtues show;
So children still read you with awful eyes,
As my young dove may, in your precepts wise,
Her grant to me by her own virtue know;
For late, with heart most high, with eyes most low,
I craved the thing which ever she denies;
She, lightning Love displaying Venus' skies,
Lest once should not be heard, twice said, No, No!
Sing then, my muse, now Io Paean sing;
Heav'ns envy not at my high triumphing,
But grammar's force with sweet success confirm;
For grammar says,--oh this, dear Stella, weigh,
For grammar says,--to grammar who says nay?
That in one speech two negatives affirm!

"Who will in fairest book of Nature know"

Who will in fairest book of Nature know
How virtue may best lodg'd in beauty be,
Let him but learn of Love to read in thee,
Stella, those fair lines which true goodness show.
There shall he find all vices' overthrow,
Not by rude force, but sweetest sovranty
Of reason, from whose light those night-birds fly,
That inward sun in thine eyes shineth so.
And, not content to be Perfection's heir
Thyself, dost strive all minds that way to move
Who mark in thee what is in thee most fair.
So while thy beauty draws the heart to love,
As fast that virtue bends that love to good.
But ah, Desire still cries: "Give me some food!"

"My true-love hath my heart and I have his"

My true-love hath my heart and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a bargain better driven.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one;
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
He loves my heart, for once it was his own;
I cherish his because in me it bides.
His heart his wound received from my sight;
My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;
For as from me on him his hurt did light,
So still, methought, in me his hurt did smart:
Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,
My true love hath my heart and I have his.

"Thou blind man's mark, thou fool's self-chosen snare"

Thou blind man's mark, thou fool's self-chosen snare,
Fond fancy's scum, and dregs of scattered thought;
Band of all evils, cradle of causeless care;
Thou web of will, whose end is never wrought:
Desire, Desire! I have too dearly bought,
With price of mangled mind, thy worthless ware;
Too long, too long, asleep thou hast me brought,
Who shouldst my mind to higher things prepare,
But yet in vain thou hast my ruin sought,
In vain thou mad'st me to vain things aspire,
In vain thou kindlest all thy smoky fire,
For Virtue hath this better lesson taught:
Within myself to seek my only hire,
Desiring nought but how to kill Desire.

(srov. Shakespearův sonet č. 129)

"Leave me, O love..."

Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust;
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be,
Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light,
That doth both shine and give us light to see.
O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth draws out to death,
And think how evil becometh him to slide
Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath.
Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see:
Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me

Kompletní cyklus viz zde.