Poems (Eminescu)/Sonnets
SONNETS
By secret love of thee I thought it right
To keep full silence, deemed this pleasèd thee,
I in thy looks saw an eternity
Of dreams consuming with their high delight.
I can no more. My longing, love’s great might
Lends wingèd words to that sweet mystery,
And, all on fire, I would consumèd be
In that dear heart that would with mine unite.
That I am burning how canst thou not feel?
My lips with thirst for thee are parched and dry;
Fair maid, alone thou canst my fever heal.
A breath of thine alone may soothe my sigh,
And when thou smil’st my thought with joy doth reel,
O end my pain—come to my breast, come nigh!
Like clouds o’er plains have passed the years so long,
And back again they’ll never more be wiled,
They charm no longer as they charmed, beguiled
The youth, those tales and riddles, that sweet song,
Scarce understood, delightful for the child,
With meaning full, for which I much did long—
In vain surrounds me now thy shadows’ throng
O hour of mystery, O twilight mild!
Of life’s dear past how can I hear the chimes,
And make thee tremble now again, my soul?
In vain I play my lyre, in vain I hearken:
’Tis dumb the lovely voice of those old times,
My youth is far, my joy is lost, the whole,
And Time runs fast behind… My mind doth darken!
’Tis gone the life of Venice with its pride—
No songs are heard, nor seen are lights of balls,
On marble stairs, on portals, in the halls,
The moon’s pale rays alone all whitening glide.
In the canals Oceanus wailing calls…
He only will forever young abide,
Fain would he give life’s breath to his sweet bride,
His sounding waves are beating mouldering walls.
A churchyard silence o’er the town doth lower.
A priest whom ages left in his old fane,
St Mark strikes sinister the midnight hour.
In rhythmic numbers, softly, in deep strain,
In language sibylline sounds from the tower:
„The dead do not awake—it is in vain.“
(Posthumous)
How terrible the ocean’s wrath can be!
He roars with rage and foaming arms will send
To rule the world and to the clouds ascend,
Till spent by storm he sinks back sullenly.
How vainly frightful thunderbolts defend
The heaven… In the blue vault he doth see
His palace, a strong fortress, on which he
With grim assault his power would extend.
By lightning wounded, down he seems to fall,
With whispered tales a breeze his anger stills,
And in his depth is mirrored heaven’s high hall.
What he had so desired a dream fulfils:
They are now his, the moon, the stars and all,
He murmurs happily, with joy he thrills.