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Whenever I plunge my arm, like this, In a basin of water, I never miss The sweet sharp sense of a fugitive day Fetched back from its thickening shroud of gray. Hence the only prime And real love-rhyme That I know by heart, And that leaves no smart, Is the purl of a little valley fall About three spans wide and two spans tall Over a table of solid rock, And into a scoop of the self-same block; The purl of a runlet that never ceases In stir of kingdoms, in wars, in peaces; With a hollow boiling voice it speaks And has spoken since hills were turfless peaks. And why gives this the only prime Idea to (me) of a real love-rhyme? And why does plunging (my) arm in a bowl Full of spring water, bring throbs to (my) soul? Well, under the fall, in a crease of the stone, Though where precisely none ever has known, Jammed darkly, nothing to show how prized, And by now with its smoothness opalized, Is a drinking-glass: For, down that pass My lover and I Walked under a sky Of blue with a leaf-wove awning of green, In the burn of August, to paint the scene, And we placed our basket of fruit and wine By the runlet's rim, where we sat to dine; And when we had drunk from the glass together, Arched by the oak-copse from the weather, I held the vessel to rinse in the fall, Where it slipped, and sank, and was past recall, Though we stooped and plumbed the little abyss With long bared arms. There the glass still is. And, as I said, if I thrust my arm below Cold water in basin or bowl, a throe From the past awakens a sense of that time, And the glass we used, and the cascade's rhyme. The basin seems the pool, and its edge The hard smooth face of the brook-side ledge, And the leafy pattern of china-ware The hanging plants that were bathing there. By night, by day, when it shines or lours, There lies intact that chalice of ours, And its presence adds to the rhyme of love Persistently sung by the fall above. No lip has touched it since his and mine In turns therefrom sipped lovers' wine.
Authorship:
- by Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928) [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by Roy Buckle (b. 1926), "Under the waterfall" [text verified 1 time]
Available translations, adaptations, and transliterations (if applicable):
- FRI Frisian (Geart van der Meer) , title 1: "Ûnder de wetterfal", copyright © 2013, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website: 2006-10-11
Line count: 52
Word count: 384
'Ik stek myn earmen, sa't ik no doch, Yn de waskbak mei wetter -- wat ik dan sjoch Is altyd wer dy sa sinnige dei, Tsjin 't tsjuster fan jierren, sa lang al wei. Wat dy dei mij biedt Fan leafde in liet -- Bliuwt mij altyd bij, Wol net bij mij wei. 't Is 't gerûs fan in smelle wetterfal Dy't behindich mar, dêr yn it dal, Oer in platoke fan hurd granyt Nei ûnd'ren stoart en dan kalm wer ferglydt; 't Gebuorl fan in streamke dat altyd duorret, Hoe't frede, oarloch, de wrâld ek feroaret; Dof prottelt it oer stiennen hinne, Sa lang al as hjir heuvels binne.' 'En wêrom sjongt dit wetterliet Fan leafde in liet dat net fergiet? En wêrom fielsto mei dyn earm alhiel Yn saadswetter, 't opljeppen fan dyn siel?' 'Sjoch, under dy fal, yn in spleet fan de stien, Mar wêr presys, dat wit oant hjoed gjinien, Leit djip, allinne fan ús weardearre, Syn glêdens linkenoan opalisearre, Fan ús twaen in glês, Want oer it gers, Dy sinneskyn dei, Sochten wij ús in wei, Myn leafste en ik, mei tekenboeken, Yn de gleonte, ûnder skadige tûken, En de koer mei fruit en wyn setten wij Del nêst it streamke, en dêr ieten wij. En doe't wij twaen út ien glês dronken hienen, Ûnder ikeboskjes dy't dêr stienen, En ik it yn 't wetter omspiele soe, Ûntglied it mij, en gjin fan ús twaen koe, Rikkend mei bleate earms yn 'e djipte, Der bijkomme, hoe't er ek skripte. As ik no myn earms yn in tobke hâld, Of in waskbak, en it wetter is kâld, Dan riist foar mij òp dy dei dêr tegearre, Mei dat glês, en kin ik it wetter hearre -, De waskbak wurdt dy poel, en myn hân Stjit wer tsjin dy hurde rotsrichel oan. En 't blêdpatroan fan al myn kopkereau Wurdt blomkeguod dat heal op 't wetter dreau. 'Ús wyntsjelk leit dêr, djip yn it tsjuster, Net skeind of brutsen, hjoed of juster. In rymwurd yn it ynlik leaflik liet Fan rûzjend wetter, dat oer leafde giet. As lêsten preauwen lippen fan ús elk De wyn fan leafde út dy tsjelk.'
Authorship:
- Translation from English to Frisian copyright © 2013 by Geart van der Meer, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
Contact: licenses@email.lieder.example.net
Based on:
- a text in English by Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928)
This text was added to the website: 2013-04-23
Line count: 52
Word count: 361