An Anthology of Czechoslovak Poetry/Slovak Poetry/Hviezdoslav
HVIEZDOSLAV
(1849–1921)
Hviezdoslav was the pen name of Pavel Országh, who was born in Vyšní Kubín. He won recognition as the outstanding Slovak author of the century, and he was so highly regarded as poet and dramatist that his death was felt as a national loss. He was always a pronounced advocate of union between the Czechs and the Slovaks.
LOSS
The spring has gone. And I have lost the flowers
I might have gathered from its meadow-grass.
I merely marked the sudden spring aspire
Up through the turf in frost and golden fire,
And, as I dallied, saw that glory pass
As swiftly as the rainbow of June showers.
Ah, maiden beauty, fleeting are thy hours!
I might have gathered from its meadow-grass.
I merely marked the sudden spring aspire
Up through the turf in frost and golden fire,
And, as I dallied, saw that glory pass
As swiftly as the rainbow of June showers.
Ah, maiden beauty, fleeting are thy hours!
Summer has gone. And I have missed the gleaning
I might have gathered from its harvest-field.
I merely marked the flaming wheat-waves swaying
Across the leas where summer winds were playing;
But as I gazed, time seized that yellow yield
And fate forestalled my frantic intervening—
Ah, love, at last I know thy tragic meaning!
I might have gathered from its harvest-field.
I merely marked the flaming wheat-waves swaying
Across the leas where summer winds were playing;
But as I gazed, time seized that yellow yield
And fate forestalled my frantic intervening—
Ah, love, at last I know thy tragic meaning!
Autumn has come. Bare stubbled prairies taunt me
In my sad brooding on what might have been.
Across the sky the haggard mists are weaving
A fog-shroud for the dying sun’s receiving;
And fears of these dark days, bereavement’s keen
Heart-hunger and deep thirst of spirit haunt me.
Alas, the terrors of love’s winter daunt me!
Translated by Watson Kirkconnell
In my sad brooding on what might have been.
Across the sky the haggard mists are weaving
A fog-shroud for the dying sun’s receiving;
And fears of these dark days, bereavement’s keen
Heart-hunger and deep thirst of spirit haunt me.
Alas, the terrors of love’s winter daunt me!
Translated by Watson Kirkconnell
A LIVING SONG
The living song was ever sung so chaste,
It is no wonder that it dies away
Just as a word the wanton winds may waste.
It is no wonder that it dies away
Just as a word the wanton winds may waste.
The living song was ever sung so shy,
It is no wonder that it flies away
Just as a shrinking foot will treason fly.
It is no wonder that it flies away
Just as a shrinking foot will treason fly.
The living song was ever sung so plain,
It is no wonder that not learned breasts
But nature’s hearts can mark its sweet refrain.
It is no wonder that not learned breasts
But nature’s hearts can mark its sweet refrain.
The living song was ever so sincere,
It is no wonder that its source is hid
And not where roars the torrent wild, unclear.
It is no wonder that its source is hid
And not where roars the torrent wild, unclear.
The living song was ever sung so bright,
It is no wonder, not the autumn’s stems
But spring’s fair blossoms gave it wondrous light.
It is no wonder, not the autumn’s stems
But spring’s fair blossoms gave it wondrous light.
The living song was ever sung with love,
And it will hide in quiet peace away.
Blaze out with flame and power to the heavens above!
Translated by Clarence A. Manning
And it will hide in quiet peace away.
Blaze out with flame and power to the heavens above!
Translated by Clarence A. Manning
THE BLOODY SONNETS
No. I
Song has no place in these high days of pain:
Fate calls for blood, that, splashed from heart to hand,
Is cast abroad to consecrate the land
And from dead stones draw golden ears of grain.
Blood brings the splendor of the sun again,
Lighting our darkness with a flashing brand;
Blood brings the dawn that men may understand;
Blood brings the bread of Freedom to sustain.
Only by blood, outpoured in rage and flame,
Can we destroy the stubble and the tares—
Sweeping away our slavery and shame
Like putrid flotsam that a swift stream bears.
And while that cleansing tide leaps on in flood,
Mere song is silenced in the Song of Blood.
Translated by Watson Kirkconnell
Fate calls for blood, that, splashed from heart to hand,
Is cast abroad to consecrate the land
And from dead stones draw golden ears of grain.
Blood brings the splendor of the sun again,
Lighting our darkness with a flashing brand;
Blood brings the dawn that men may understand;
Blood brings the bread of Freedom to sustain.
Only by blood, outpoured in rage and flame,
Can we destroy the stubble and the tares—
Sweeping away our slavery and shame
Like putrid flotsam that a swift stream bears.
And while that cleansing tide leaps on in flood,
Mere song is silenced in the Song of Blood.
Translated by Watson Kirkconnell