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Hírek

Keats, John: La belle Dame sans merci (La Belle Dame Sans Merci Szerb nyelven)

Keats, John portréja

La Belle Dame Sans Merci (Angol)


Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful, a faery's child:
Her hair was long, her foot was ligh,
And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery's song.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said,
"I love thee true!"

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gazed and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild, sad eyes---
So kissed to sleep.

And there we slumbered on the moss,
And there I dreamed, ah! woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dreamed
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cried---"La belle Dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill side.

And that is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.


La belle Dame sans merci (Szerb)

Samotni, bledi, viteže, čuj me,
     kud bludi korak tvoj?
Jezerom već su trske suve,
     minuo ticâ poj.
 
Viteže nesrećni, o šta te muči,
     kakav te skoli jad?
Veverica već je lešnike zbrala,
     prestade poljska rad.
 
Na čelu tvome ja ljiljan vidim,
     groznice vlažan dar,
na obrazima klonulu ružu,
     usahnu sva joj čar.
 
– Ja gospu sretoh poljima ovim,
     prelepu, vile kći,
dugačkih vlasi i hoda laka,
     divljina okom joj zri.
 
Ispletoh venac za čelo njeno,
     grivne i mirisan pâs,
ona me pogleda čežnjivim okom,
     zajeca blag joj glas.
 
Popeh je tada na vranca moga,
     slep za sav božji svet,
povita stasa pevaše pesmu,
     vilinskih reči splet.
 
Korenja dade mi i divljeg meda,
     i rose pitku slast,
i stranim jezikom prozbori meni:
     ti si sva moja strast!
 
Vilinskoj špilji povede mene,
     uzdah iz grudi gna,
i divlje oči, tužne joj oči
     celivah sve do sna.
 
I tu sanjasmo na mahovini,
     i snih, vaj srcu mom!
poslednji sanak koji prosanjah
     na bregu ledenom.
 
Kraljeve, ratnike, kneževe videh.
     Bleđi od smrti svi,
vikahu: „Zanavek zarobi tebe
     la belle Dame sans merci!”
 
Njine otpale usne u tami
     zijahu pretnjom zlom,
iz sna se prenuh i videh – ležim
     na lednom bregu tom.
 
I eto zašto samotnom, bledom,
     sad bludi korak moj,
mada su jezerom trske već suve
     i ticâ minu poj.



FeltöltőP. T.
Az idézet forrásahttp://feherilles.blogspot.hu

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