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Mittwoch, 18. Februar 2009
Zwei Gedichte des Literaturnobelpreisträgers von 1923: William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
kulturtempel, 18:51h
DEATH
NOR dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again,
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath
He knows death to the bone —
Man has created death.
Aus: The Winding Stair and other poems (1933)
THOSE DANCING DAYS ARE GONE
COME, let me sing into your ear;
Those dancing days are gone,
All that silk and satin gear;
Crouch upon a stone,
Wrapping that foul body up
In as foul a rag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
The moon in a silver bag.
Curse as you may I sing it through;
What matter us the knave
That the most could pleasure you,
The children that he gave,
Are somewhere sleeping in a top
Under a marble flag?
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
The moon in a silver bag.
I thought it out this very day,
Noon upon the clock,
A man may put pretence away
Who leans upon a stick,
May sing, and sing until he drop,
Whether to maid or hag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
The moon in a silver bag.
Aus: Words For Music Perhaps XIX
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS (1865-1939)
Literatur Nobelpreis 1923
NOR dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again,
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath
He knows death to the bone —
Man has created death.
Aus: The Winding Stair and other poems (1933)
THOSE DANCING DAYS ARE GONE
COME, let me sing into your ear;
Those dancing days are gone,
All that silk and satin gear;
Crouch upon a stone,
Wrapping that foul body up
In as foul a rag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
The moon in a silver bag.
Curse as you may I sing it through;
What matter us the knave
That the most could pleasure you,
The children that he gave,
Are somewhere sleeping in a top
Under a marble flag?
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
The moon in a silver bag.
I thought it out this very day,
Noon upon the clock,
A man may put pretence away
Who leans upon a stick,
May sing, and sing until he drop,
Whether to maid or hag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
The moon in a silver bag.
Aus: Words For Music Perhaps XIX
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS (1865-1939)
Literatur Nobelpreis 1923
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