Read Complete Works of James Joyce Online
Authors: Unknown
My cot alas that dear old shady home
Where oft in youthful sport I played
Upon thy verdant grassy fields all day
Or lingered for a moment in thy bosom shade.
His quaint-perched aerie on the crags of Time
Where the rude din of this . . . century
Can trouble him no more.
A translation of Horace’ Odes, III 13
Brighter than glass Bandusian spring
For mellow wine and flowers meet,
The morrow thee a kid shall bring
Boding of rivalry and sweet
Love in his swelling horns. In vain
He, wanton offspring, deep shall stain
Thy clear cold streams with crimson rain.
The raging dog star’s season thou,
Still safe from in the heat of day,
When oxen weary of the plough
Yieldst thankful cool for herds that stray.
Be of the noble founts! I sing
The oak tree o’er thine echoing
Crags, thy waters murmuring.
Are you not weary of ardent wa
y
s
Are you not weary of ardent ways,
Lure of the fallen seraphim?
Tell no more of enchanted days.
Your eyes have set man’s heart ablaze
And you have had your will of him.
Are you not weary of ardent ways?
Above the flame the smoke of praise
Goes up from ocean rim to rim.
Tell no more of enchanted days.
Our broken cries and mournful lays
Rise in one eucharistic hymn.
Are you not weary of ardent ways?
While sacrificing hands upraise
The chalice flowing to the brim,
Tell no more of enchanted days.
And still you hold our longing gaze
With languorous look and lavish limb!
Are you not weary of ardent ways?
Tell no more of enchanted days.
I only ask you to give me your fair han
d
s
I only ask you to give me your fair hands.
Ah, dearest, this one grace, it will be the last.
How fast are they fled, halcyon days, how fast.
Nor you nor I can arrest time’s running sands.
Enough that we have known the pleasure of love
Albeit pleasure, fraught with an heartfelt grief.
Though our love season hath been marvellous
Yet we have loved and told our passion — (ending.])Then fade the uncertain day and come the night.
La scintille de l’allumette
Qui se cachait entre vos mains
A ensorcelé ma cigarette —
Ah, l’étoile de l’allumette!
Il me plait bien d’observer
A translation of Paul Verlaine’s “Chanson d’automne”
A voice that sings
Like viol strings
Through the wane
Of the pale year
Lulleth me here
With its strain.
My soul is faint
At the bell’s plaint,
Ringing deep;
I think upon
A day bygone
And I weep.
Away! Away!
I must obey
This drear wind,
Like a dead leaf
In aimless grief
Drifting blind.
Scalding tears shall not ava
i
l
Scalding tears shall not avail,
Love shall be to us for aye
An heart-breaking tale.
Ah, how fast your warm heart beats
Fluttering upon my breast.
Lay aside your deep unrest;
We have eaten all the sweets;
The golden fruit falls from the tree
Yea, for this love of mine
I have given all I had;
For she was passing fair,
And I was passing mad.
All flesh, it is said,
Shall wither as the grass;
The fuel for the oven
Shall be consumed, alas!
We will leave the village behi
n
d
We will leave the village behind,
Merrily, you and I,
Tramp it smart and sing to the wind,
With the Rommany Rye.