Shelley! What a feeling!

qe te mbaj premtimin


AWAKE ! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo ! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.

Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."

And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted -'' Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."

Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.

Iram indeed is gone with all its Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,
And still a Garden by the Water blows....

 

And David's Lips are lockt ; but in divine
High piping Pehlevi, with " Wine ! Wine ! Wine!
Red Wine ! " - the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That yellow Cheek of her's to incarnadine.


Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly - and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.


And look - a thousand Blossoms with the Day
Woke - and a thousand scatter'd into Clay:
And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.


But come with old Khayyam, and leave the Lot
Of Kaikobad and Kaikhosru forgot:
Let Rustum lay about him as he will,
Or Hatim Tai cry Supper - heed them not.


With me along some Strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultan scarce is known,
And pity Sultan Mahmud on his Throne.

 


Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse - and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness -
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.


"How sweet is mortal Sovranty ! " - think some:
Others - "How blest the Paradise to come ! "
Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest;
Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!
 

Look to the Rose that blows about us - " Lo,
Laughing," she says,"into the World I blow:
At once the silken Tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
 

The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes - or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face
Lighting a little Hour or two - is gone.
 

And those who husbanded the Golden Grain,
And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.

postuar nga dreamm:

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse - and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness -
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.


"How sweet is mortal Sovranty ! " - think some:
Others - "How blest the Paradise to come ! "
Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest;
Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!
 

Look to the Rose that blows about us - " Lo,
Laughing," she says,"into the World I blow:
At once the silken Tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
 

The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes - or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face
Lighting a little Hour or two - is gone.
 

And those who husbanded the Golden Grain,
And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.


                    Përkthimi:

Me një copë buk', këtu nën pemë
Një libër vjershash e një qelq me verë
Pran meje ti, lexon një poemë
Dhe dimr' i egër bëhet pranverë.

Dikujt mund t'i duket, shum' e ëmbël vdekja
E kërkon parajsën, i lodhur nga jeta.
Mbërthe vëlla çastin, qe ty të dhurohet,
Se muzik' e dashur sa vjen e largohet.

Trëndafil' i kuq, përkundet në erë
Me qortim na thot': Gëzoni të mjerë.
Qesen e mëndafsht' cop e cop e grisni
Ejani festoni, ejani mos prisni.

Lumturi për botën, zemrat dëshirojne,
dersa behen hi. Por dhe në ndriçojnë
treten si dëborë, në dheun e shkretë,
rrahin për një kohë e heshtin për jetë.

Grurin porsi ari, të urtit e mbollën.
Ndërsa ca të tjerë, pa kujdes e hodhën.
Që të gjithë bashkë, u mblodhën posht' tokës,
Sa do t' dëshironin, të dilnin prej gropës.


Kjo poshtë s'është e Khajamit. E shkruajta për pijetarët:

Shoqëroni verën, me mish të but' pule
Sepse në parajsë, s' gjeni as fasule.
Buka ësht' e forte, n' vend të verës uj,
ëngjëjt nuk t'a varin sepse je i huj.

 

...vazhdimi i "Rubairave"


Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.

They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter - the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, and lie lies fast asleep.

I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where sonic buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.

And this delightful Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River's Lip on which we lean -
Ah, lean upon it lightly ! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen !

Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears -
To-morrow ? - Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years..

You don't love me and don't feel compassion
Don't you think that now I look my best?
Though you look aside you're thrilled with passion
As you put your arms upon my chest.

You are young, so sensitive and zealous,
I am neither bad nor very good to you.
Tell me, did you pet a lot of fellows?
You remember many arms and lips? You do?

They are gone and haven't touched you any,
Gone like shadows, leaving you aflame.
You have sat upon the laps of many,
You are sitting now on mine, without shame.

Though your eyes are closed, and you are rather
Thinking of some one you really trust,
After all, I do not love you either,
I am lost in thought about my dear past.

Don't you call this zeal predestination,
Hasty tie is thoughtless and no good,
Like I set up this unplanned connection,
I will smile when leaving you for good.

You will go the pathway of your own
Just to have your days unwisely spent,
Don't approach the ones not fully grown,
Don't entice the ones that never burnt.

When you walk with someone down the alley
Chatting merrily about love and all
Maybe, I'll be out, walking round shyly,
And again, by chance, I'll meet you, poor soul.

Squaring shoulders, ravishing and winning,
Bending slightly forward, with an air kiss,
You will utter quietly: Good evening!
And I will reply: Good evening, miss.

Nothing will disturb my heart and spirit,
Nothing will perturb me giving pain, -
He who's been in love will not retrieve it,
He who's burnt will not be lit again.
 

YESENIN