1 DER SCHIFFER
Johann Mayrhofer

Im Winde, im Sturme befahr ich den Fluß.
Die Kleide durchweichet der Regen im Guß;
Ich peitsche die Wellen mit mächtigem Schlag,
Erhoffend, erhoffend mir heiteren Tag.

Die Wellen, sie jagen das ächzende Schiff
Es drohet der Strudel, es drohet das Riff
Gesteine entkollern den felsigen Höhn,
Und Tannen erseufzen wie Geistergestöhn.

So mußte es kommen, ich hab’ es gewollt,
Ich hasse ein Leben behaglich entrollt;
Und schlängen die Wellen den ächzenden Kahn,
Ich priese doch immer die eigene Bahn.

D’rum tose des Wassers ohnmächtiger Zorn,
Dem Herzen entquillet ein seliger Born,
Die Nerven erfrischend: o himmlische Lust!
Dem Sturme zu trotzen mit männlicher Brust.

THE BOATMAN
Translation by Paul Carey Jones

In wind, in storm I traverse the river,
Clothes soaked through by the pouring rain;
I lash the waves with mighty strokes,
Hoping, hoping for a fine day.

The waves, they drive against the groaning ship,
Threatened by whirlpool, threatened by reef.
Boulders rage down from rocky heights,
And fir-trees sigh like grieving ghosts.

So it must be, I have willed it:
I would hate a comfortably unrolling life;
And even if the waves were to swallow the creaking boat,
I would still eternally praise this course!

So let the water roar with impotent fury;
From my heart pours a blessed fountain,
The nerves refreshing - oh heavenly joy,
The storm to defy with manly heart.

2 SANT GOFAN
Welsh version by T Hudson Williams

Sant Gofan a gododd ei gell
Ar y lan ger y tonnog li,
Ac yno, fel gwylan Penfro bell,
Y trigiannai heb un hafan well,
Gan ochain am Wynfa fry.

Sant Gofan a gododd ei gell
Rhwng wybren wyllt a môr gerllaw,
Lle y rhudda’r machlud y tonnau pell
A cheinder hudol y golau gwell
Ar ddyffryn a rhosydd draw.

Sant Gofan a drig yn ei gell,
Ond ei enaid mwy sydd fry,
A phwy all ddirnad pa un ai gwell
Gan Ofan santaidd yw’r Nefoedd bell
Na’r hen gell ger y tonnog li!

SAINT GOVAN
A G Prys-Jones

Saint Govan, he built him a cell
By the side of the Pembroke sea,
And there, as the crannied seagulls dwell,
In a tiny secret citadel,
He sighed for eternity.

Saint Govan, he built him a cell
Between the wild sky and the sea,
Where the sunsets redden the rolling swell
And brooding splendour has thrown her spell
On valley and moorland lea.

Saint Govan still lies in his cell,
But his soul, long since, is free,
And one may wonder and who can tell
If good Saint Govan likes heaven as well
As his cell by the sounding sea!

3 OZYMANDIAS
Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert ... Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works ye mighty and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

1 DER SCHIFFER Johann Mayrhofer Im Winde, im Sturme befahr ich den Fluß. Die Kleide durchweichet der Regen im Guß; Ich peitsche die Wellen mit mächtigem Schlag, Erhoffend, erhoffend mir heiteren Tag. Die Wellen, sie jagen das ächzende Schiff Es drohet der Strudel, es drohet das Riff Gesteine entkollern den felsigen Höhn, Und Tannen erseufzen wie Geistergestöhn. So mußte es kommen, ich hab’ es gewollt, Ich hasse ein Leben behaglich entrollt; Und schlängen die Wellen den ächzenden Kahn, Ich priese doch immer die eigene Bahn. D’rum tose des Wassers ohnmächtiger Zorn, Dem Herzen entquillet ein seliger Born, Die Nerven erfrischend: o himmlische Lust! Dem Sturme zu trotzen mit männlicher Brust.	THE BOATMAN Translation by Paul Carey Jones In wind, in storm I traverse the river, Clothes soaked through by the pouring rain; I lash the waves with mighty strokes, Hoping, hoping for a fine day. The waves, they drive against the groaning ship, Threatened by whirlpool, threatened by reef. Boulders rage down from rocky heights, And fir-trees sigh like grieving ghosts. So it must be, I have willed it: I would hate a comfortably unrolling life; And even if the waves were to swallow the creaking boat, I would still eternally praise this course! So let the water roar with impotent fury; From my heart pours a blessed fountain, The nerves refreshing - oh heavenly joy, The storm to defy with manly heart.
2 SANT GOFAN Welsh version by T Hudson Williams Sant Gofan a gododd ei gell Ar y lan ger y tonnog li, Ac yno, fel gwylan Penfro bell, Y trigiannai heb un hafan well, Gan ochain am Wynfa fry. Sant Gofan a gododd ei gell Rhwng wybren wyllt a môr gerllaw, Lle y rhudda’r machlud y tonnau pell A cheinder hudol y golau gwell Ar ddyffryn a rhosydd draw. Sant Gofan a drig yn ei gell, Ond ei enaid mwy sydd fry, A phwy all ddirnad pa un ai gwell Gan Ofan santaidd yw’r Nefoedd bell Na’r hen gell ger y tonnog li!	SAINT GOVAN A G Prys-Jones Saint Govan, he built him a cell By the side of the Pembroke sea, And there, as the crannied seagulls dwell, In a tiny secret citadel, He sighed for eternity. Saint Govan, he built him a cell Between the wild sky and the sea, Where the sunsets redden the rolling swell And brooding splendour has thrown her spell On valley and moorland lea. Saint Govan still lies in his cell, But his soul, long since, is free, And one may wonder and who can tell If good Saint Govan likes heaven as well As his cell by the sounding sea!
3 OZYMANDIAS Percy Bysshe Shelley I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert ... Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed: And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works ye mighty and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.
4 IS MY TEAM PLOUGHING A E Housman Is my team ploughing, That I was used to drive And hear the harness jingle When I was man alive?” Ay, the horses trample, The harness jingles now; No change though you lie under The land you used to plough. “Is football playing Along the river shore, With lads to chase the leather, Now I stand up no more?” Ay, the ball is flying, The lads play heart and soul; The goal stands up, the keeper Stands up to keep the goal. “Is my girl happy, That I thought hard to leave, And has she tired of weeping As she lies down at eve?” Ay, she lies down lightly, She lies not down to weep, Your girl is well contented. Be still, my lad, and sleep. “Is my friend hearty, Now I am thin and pine, And has he found to sleep in A better bed than mine?” Yes, lad, I lie easy, I lie as lads would choose; I cheer a dead man’s sweetheart, Never ask me whose.
5 MYSELF WHEN YOUNG Omar Kahyyam, English version by Edward Fitzgerald Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument, But evermore came out by the same door as in I went. With them the seed of wisdom did I sow And with my own hand labour’d it to grow And this was all the Harvest that I reap’d I came like water and like wind I go. Why all the saints and sages who discuss’d of the two worlds so learnedly are thrust like foolish Prophets forth, their words to scorn are scatter’d And their mouths are stopp’d with dust. Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument, But evermore came out by the same door as in I went.
6 AUF DEM KIRCHHOFE Detlev von Liliencron Der Tag ging regenschwer und sturmbewegt, Ich war an manch vergeßnem Grab gewesen, Verwittert Stein und Kreuz, die Kränze alt, Die Namen überwachsen, kaum zu lesen. Der Tag ging sturmbewegt und regenschwer, Auf allen Gräbern fror das Wort: Gewesen. Wie sturmestot die Särge schlummerten, Auf allen Gräbern taute still: Genesen.	IN THE CHURCHYARD Translation by Paul Carey Jones The day was heavy with rain and turbulent with storms, I was amongst many long-forgotten graves, Weathered stone and cross, ancient wreaths, The names overgrown, scarcely legible. The day was turbulent with storms and heavy with rain, On all the graves the words froze: “We Were”. As the death of the storm the coffins slept, On all the graves thawed peacefully: “We Were Healed”.
7 THE FROSTBOUND WOOD Bruce Blunt Mary that was the Child’s mother Met me in the frostbound wood: Her face was lovely and careladen Under a white hood. She who once was Heaven’s chosen Moved in loneliness to me, With a slow grace and weary beauty Pitiful to see. Bethlehem could hear sweet singing, ‘Peace on earth, a Saviour’s come.’ Here the trees were dark, the Heavens Without stars, and dumb. Past she went with no word spoken, Past the grave of Him I slew, Myself the sower of the woodland And my heart the yew. Mary that was the Child’s mother Met me in the frostbound wood: Her face was lovely and careladen Under a white hood.
8 Y MÔR ENAID Cynan Wrth rodio hyd y draethell, A’r ewyn wrth dy draed, A glywaist ti’r môr Enaid Yn cerdded trwy dy waed? Glywaist ti’r gwynt cwynfannus? Beth ydyw poen y lli? Fe ŵyr y lloer efallai Ond ni wn i na thi. Un hwyrnos gwelais yno Hen wreigen drist ddi-ddant, Ymsiglai, ac ymsiglai, Mewn ocheneidiau gant. Dro arall clywais yno Gri miniog fel y saeth: Un wylan yn yr awyr, A’r broc yn hulio’r traeth. Ac unwaith ar nos loergan, A’r môr yn arian byw, Mi welais dros y tonnau Rywbeth fel Wyneb Duw.	THE SEA SPIRIT Translation by Dafydd Iwan As you walk along the strand, The foam at your feet, Did you hear the soul of the sea Coursing in your blood? Did you hear the wind moaning? What is the ocean's pain? The moon may know perhaps But not you or I. One night I saw there A sad old toothless woman, Rocking to and fro With a hundred sighs. Another time I heard there A cry as sharp as an arrow: One seagull in the air, And flotsam covering the beach. And once on a moonlit night, The sea like quick-silver, I saw across the waves Something resembling the face of God.
9 GREAT THINGS Thomas Hardy Sweet cyder is a great thing, A great thing to me, Spinning down to Weymouth town By Ridgway thirstily, And maid and mistress summoning Who tend the hostelry: O cyder is a great thing, A great thing to me! The dance it is a great thing, A great thing to me, With candles lit and partners fit For night-long revelry; And going home when day-dawning Peeps pale upon the lea: O dancing is a great thing, A great thing to me! Love is, yea, a great thing, A great thing to me, When, having drawn across the lawn In darkness silently, A figure flits like one a-wing Out from the nearest tree: O love is, yes, a great thing, A great thing to me! Will these be always great things, Great things to me? . . . Let it befall that One will call, "Soul, I have need of thee:" What then? Joy-jaunts, impassioned flings, Love, and its ecstasy, Will always have been great things, Great things to me!
10 THE CLOCK OF THE YEARS Thomas Hardy "A spirit passed before my face; the hair of my flesh stood up." And the Spirit said, "I can make the clock of the years go backward, But am loth to stop it where you will." And I cried, "Agreed To that. Proceed: It's better than dead!" He answered, "Peace"; And called her up--as last before me; Then younger, younger she freshed, to the year I first had known Her woman-grown, And I cried, "Cease! - "Thus far is good - It is enough--let her stay thus always!" But alas for me. He shook his head: No stop was there; And she waned child-fair, And to babyhood. Still less in mien To my great sorrow became she slowly, And smalled till she was nought at all In his checkless griff; And it was as if She had never been. "Better," I plained, "She were dead as before! The memory of her Had lived in me; but it cannot now!" And coldly his voice: "It was your choice To mar the ordained."
11 WHEN SATAN FELL D H Lawrence When Satan fell, he only fell because the Lord Almighty rose a bit too high, a bit beyond himself. So Satan only fell to keep a balance. "Are you so lofty, O my God? Are you so pure and lofty, up aloft? Then I will fall, and plant the paths to hell with vines and poppies and fig-trees so that lost souls may eat grapes and the moist fig and put scarlet buds in their hair on the way to hell, on the way to dark perdition." And hell and heaven are the scales of the balance of life which swing against each other.
12 PAX VOBISCUM Franz von Schober "Der Friede sei mit euch!" Das war dein Abschiedssegen. Und so vom Kreis der Gläubigen umkniet, Vom Siegesstrahl der Gottheit angeglüht, Flogst du dem ew'gen Heimatland entgegen. Und Friede kam in ihre treuen Herzen, Und lohnte sie in ihren größten Schmerzen, Und stärkte sie in ihrem Martertod. Ich glaube dich, du großer Gott! "Der Friede sei mit euch!" So lacht die erste Blume Des jungen Frühlings uns vertraulich an, Wenn sie, mit allen Reizen angetan, Sich bildet in der Schöpfung Heiligtume. Wen sollte auch nicht Friede da umschweben, Wo Erd' und Himmel rings um sich beleben, Und alles aufsteht aus des Winters Tod? Ich hoff' auf dich, du starker Gott! "Der Friede sei mit euch!" Rufst du im Rosenglühen Des Himmels uns an jedem Abend zu, Wenn alle Wesen zur ersehnten Ruh' Vom harten Gang des schwülen Tages ziehen; Und Berg und Tal und Strom und Meereswogen, Vom weichen Hauch des Nebels überflogen, Noch schöner werden unter 'm milden Rot. Ich liebe dich, du guter Gott!	PEACE BE WITH YOU Translation by Paul Carey Jones "Peace be with you!" That was your parting benediction. And so from the circle of kneeling believers, From the victory rays of the radiant divinity, You flew to the eternal homeland. And peace came into their true hearts, And rewarded them in their greatest pains, And strengthened them in their martyrdom. I have faith in you, great God! "Peace be with you!" So laugh the first flowers Of the young spring at us secretly, When they, with all their charms, Build shrines in the creation. Who would not wish peace to float there, Where Earth and Heaven revive him, And everything rises again from Winter's death? My hope is in you, mighty God! "Peace be with you!" You call in the rosy glow Of the Heavens to us every evening, When all Nature towards the longed-for rest From the hard path of the sultry day drags itself; And mountain and valley and river and waves of the sea, By the soft breath of fog are flown over, Becoming ever more beautiful beneath that mild red. I love you, good God!
13 JOY, SHIPMATE, JOY! Walt Whitman Joy! shipmate — joy! (Pleas'd to my Soul at death I cry;) Our life is closed — our life begins; The long, long anchorage we leave, The ship is clear at last — she leaps! She swiftly courses from the shore; Joy! shipmate — joy!
14 Y LLYN Caradog Pritchard Gwelais lyn dan lâs ffurfafen, Hoffais hedd ei hun ddi-stŵr, Ac er tlysed glas yr wybren Tlysach oedd o dan y dŵr. Ar ei lan ymgrymai gwyrddion goed, A miwsig yn eu dail, Plygant fel rhianedd heirddion I’w gusanu bob yn ail. Lle cyffyrddai ei ymylon Ag ymylon gwyrdd y tir, Geirient hiraeth hen fy nghalon Am hir hedd y dyfnder clir. Sefais ar ei lan yn ysig, A gwrandewais, druan ŵr, Fel pe’n disgwyl clywed miwsig Yn y dail o dan y dŵr.	THE LAKE Translation by Paul Carey Jones I saw a lake under a blue firmament, I was pleased by the peace of its undisturbed sleep, And though the sky’s blue was beautiful It was more so under the water. On its banks green trees bowed, With music in their leaves, They bent liked pretty maidens One by one to kiss its face. Where its edges met With the land’s green edges, They spoke of my heart’s ancient longing For the long peace of the clear depths. I stood on the bank yearning, And I listened, poor man, As if expecting to hear music In the leaves under the water.
15 Y BARDD R Williams Parry Y bardd trwm dan bridd tramor, - y dwylaw Na ddidolir rhagor; Y llygaid dwys dan ddwys ddôr, Y llygaid na all agor. Tyner yw'r lleuad heno, - tros fawnog Trawsfynydd yn dringo; Tithau'n drist, a than dy ro, Ger y ffos ddu'n gorffwyso Trawsfynydd! tros ei feini - trafaeliaist Ar foelydd Eryri; Troedio wnest ei rhedyn hi, Hunaist ymhell ohoni.	THE BARD Translation by Paul Carey Jones The profound bard under foreign soil, - the hands That will never part; The intense eyes behind a dense door, The eyes that cannot open. Tender is the moon tonight - over the peat Of Trawsfynydd climbing; You, sad, and beneath your stone, By a dark trench resting Trawsfynydd! Over its stones - you travelled Across Eryri’s peaks; You trod over her bracken, You sleep far away from her.
16 BRIGHT IS THE RING OF WORDS R L Stevenson Bright is the ring of words When the right man rings them, Fair the fall of songs When the singer sings them, Still they are carolled and said - On wings they are carried - After the singer is dead And the maker buried. Low as the singer lies In the field of heather, Songs of his fashion bring The swains together. And when the west is red With the sunset embers, The lover lingers and sings And the maid remembers.
17 PROUD SONGSTERS Thomas Hardy The thrushes sing as the sun is going, And the finches whistle in ones and pairs, And as it gets dark loud nightingales In bushes Pipe, as they can when April wears, As if all Time were theirs. These are brand-new birds of twelve-months’ growing, Which a year ago, or less than twain, No finches were, nor nightingales, Nor thrushes, But only particles of grain, And earth, and air, and rain.