Edwin Arlington Robinson
Head Tide December 22, 1869 – New York Citi April 6, 1935
Walt Whitman
The master-songs are ended, and the man
That sang them is a name. And so is God
A name; and so is love, and life, and death,
And everything. But we, who are too blind
To read what we have written, or what faith
Has written for us, do not understand:
We only blink, and wonder.
Last night it was the song that was the man,
But now it is the man that is the song.
We do not hear him very much to-day:
His piercing and eternal cadence rings
Too pure for us --- too powerfully pure,
Too lovingly triumphant, and too large;
But there are some that hear him, and they know
That he shall sing to-morrow for all men,
And that all time shall listen.
The master-songs are ended? Rather say
No songs are ended that are ever sung,
And that no names are dead names. When we write
Men's letters on proud marble or on sand,
We write them there forever.
That sang them is a name. And so is God
A name; and so is love, and life, and death,
And everything. But we, who are too blind
To read what we have written, or what faith
Has written for us, do not understand:
We only blink, and wonder.
Last night it was the song that was the man,
But now it is the man that is the song.
We do not hear him very much to-day:
His piercing and eternal cadence rings
Too pure for us --- too powerfully pure,
Too lovingly triumphant, and too large;
But there are some that hear him, and they know
That he shall sing to-morrow for all men,
And that all time shall listen.
The master-songs are ended? Rather say
No songs are ended that are ever sung,
And that no names are dead names. When we write
Men's letters on proud marble or on sand,
We write them there forever.
Walt Whitman
Oda a mester-dal, az énekes
már puszta név. És név az isten is;
s a szerelem, az élet és halál
mind puszta szó. Vakok vagyunk
olvasni önnön verseinket, s amit
a hűség írt, nem birjuk érteni:
pislogva bámulunk csak.
Múlt éjjel a dal volt a férfi, és
ma csak a dal zenél,
s bizony alig-alig hogy halljuk őt:
metsző, örök kadenciája túl
tiszta nekönk – túlontúl árható,
túl diadalmas és lenyűgöző.
De van, ki hallja már, és tudja is,
hogy holnap mindeneknek ő dalol,
s minden kor felfigyel rá.
A mester-dal oda?! – Inkább igaz,
hogy dalnak vége nem szakad soha,
s a név se pusztul el. Véssük akár
büszke márványra vagy homokra is:
megmaradunk mindörökké.
Fordította: Tellér Gyula
Volt Vitmen
Majstorske pesme svršene su, a čovek
Koji ih pevaše je ime. A tako je i Bog
Ime; tako i ljubav, život, smrt,
I sve. No mi, koji smo suviše slepi
Da čitamo šta smo pisali, il šta je
Vera pisala za nas, ne shvatamo:
Trepćemo samo, čudimo se.
Prošle je noći pesma bila čovek,
A sad opet čovek jeste pesma.
Ne čujemo ga danas sasvim dobro:
Njegova večna, prodorna kadenca
Nama suviše čisto zvuči – prejako –
Suviše pobedno u ljubavi, preogromna;
Ali ga neki čuju, i oni znaju
Da će on sutra pevati za sve ljude,
I da će sva vremena slušati ga.
Majstorske pesme svršene su? Pre će biti
Da nema kraja pesma, ikad pevana,
I da nijedno ime nije mrtvo. Pisali
Ljudska slova na gordom mramoru il pesku,
Pišemo ih zauvek.
Prevod: Branka Lalić i Ivan V. Lalić
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