Karel Hynek Macha. Translation by Edith Pargeter Czech original. 1. Late evening, on the first of May— The twilit May—the time of love. Meltingly called the . Karel Hynek Mácha was born in in an old part of Prague where his father was the foreman at The epic romantic poem Máj (May) was written in Czech. Karel Hynek Mácha Every Czech child, by the time he or she is nine or ten, can quote the opening lines of May, “Byl pozdní večer – první máj.
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Meltingly called the turtle-dove, Where rich and sweet pinewoods lay.
There never—never—never an end! To dalliance woos the turtle-dove: What is this rout of terror and pain? Jul 19, Anet rated it it was amazing Shelves: Views Read Edit View history. Swift as the stork’s flight, beating fast, Dwindling, dwindling, a lily at last, Over the lake in the mountains hiding. The clamour stills around—a hush falls on the crowd— Till babel bursts anew, with many a cry and loud: Whispered of love the mosses frail, The flowering tree as sweetly lied, The rose’s fragrant sigh replied To love-songs of the nightingale.
Late evening, on the first of May— The twilit May—the time of love. The official cause of death was cholerina, a form of cholera, but some sources claim he died of pneumonia or salmonella.
Hushed are the waters, dark, forlorn, In deep dusk all things crouch mchx cover. The guard is fled, fast-closed the door. An eventide of May on a rocky, desolate shore: Above the far dark hills the last radiance blazed. In sombre march thereto company is come; Now all men move aside—the felon stands alone.
But also just a great choice for anybody loving quality in literature. May is a very special piece nj Czech literature and from now on it’s in my heart too. This month we are celebrating a major Czech literary anniversary.
Far is that lost dream now, a shadow no more found, Like visions of white towns, deep in the waters drowned, The last indignant thoughts of the defeated dead, Their unremembered names, the clamour of old fights, The worn-out northern lights after their gleam is fled, The untuned harp, whose strings distil no more delights, The deeds of time gone by, quenched starlight overhead, Heresy’s pilgrimage, the loving, lovely dead, The deep, forgotten grave, etrnal board and bed, The smoke of burned-out fires, the scattered bell’s chime— Like the song of dead swam, like Eden snatched away, So is my childhood time— But what of following time?
Light laughter on the lips, deep grief in the heart’s core. The entering wind sighing Circles the cell like murdered felons crying, And stirs the prisoner’s tresses.
The turtledove, closing the canto, cries “Jarmila! The words build an atmosphere.
Here wakes a clamorous cry, babel of human baying, As from the gates of the town the hungry man-pack races. From far the people haste, a swift stream rushing by, And ever swells the food, a river strongly rolling, A mighty multitude, its voice to thunder tolling; The unhappy felon comes, led forth at dawn to die.
Forward I spurred in fear, there where the safe town hailed me, And asked what wheel, what bones were these which grimly grew there, The old innkeeper told the story all men knew there- The story I have told-and on that wheel impaled me. On me a longer closes— Away, thought! We can see all the beauty of the landscape. So I decided to read it in Czech.
Whitely the lake’s green glass the flight of birds receives, And fleets of little craft, and small, swift-rowing shallops, Pattern the dim blue waves with glancing, fiery scallops. May 03, Frank Rogers rated it really liked it. Still, mchha some dream will time repay, Or sleep too deep for dreaming? Column by column the sombre vault’s recesses Melt into darkness.
Remembrance of green years and kind Brings back a young man’s dreams to mind; The prisoner’s eyes with tears are flowing, And in his heart a great pain growing— A lost world how shall the seeker find? Silver and shade agreeing!