“Have Mercy, o God, on our King,
Lend your ear and hear
The prayer of our whole Land…
Give Him many days,
Anoint His brow with Thy Grace,
Have Mercy, o God, on our King!”
(Nichifor Crainic, (1889-1972). Poet)
“Have Mercy, o God, on our King,
Lend your ear and hear
The prayer of our whole Land…
Give Him many days,
Anoint His brow with Thy Grace,
Have Mercy, o God, on our King!”
(Nichifor Crainic, (1889-1972). Poet)
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Aiurea,
L-ai strigat pe Dumnezeu,
Ce-a coborât adânc, în trupul tău,
Să-ti dea curaj să-nvingi la drumuri noi.
Care-a fost împăratul
Ce te-a-njosit? Unde-ai plecat?
Te căutăm, dar încă nu te ştim…
Străjerii tăi se uită-n vârf de munţi şi-aşteaptă
Pasul tău.
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James FENTON
I serve an unjust lord.
Exile is an early tomb.
The heart bleeds dark.
Death is a journey home.
By the bright dew on the hill,
By the sharp blade of the moon,
I shall wake my grieving men.
I shall make that journey soon
“Cântecul Generalului”
Înrolat în război, de pripas,
Exilul îi pare-un mormânt
Inima-i e sângerândă s-ajungă devreme acas’…
Fiindcă Moartea-i de veghe, mergând.
Luna luceşte pe spadă.
Roua, pe frunza deasă
Voi deştepta soldaţii mei, în grabă;
Curând mă voi întoarce-acasă.
Versiune în limba Română de Constantin ROMAN, Londra
© 2015 Copyright Constantin ROMAN, London
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Miss Helen Slingsby was my maiden aunt,
And lived in a small house near a fashionable square
Cared for by servants to the number of four.
Now when she died there was silence in heaven
And silence at her end of the street.
The shutters were drawn and the undertaker wiped his feet —
He was aware that this sort of thing had occurred before.
The dogs were handsomely provided for,
But shortly afterwards the parrot died too.
The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece,
And the footman sat upon the dining-table
Holding the second housemaid on his knees —
Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived.
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La chair est triste, hélas ! et j’ai lu tous les livres.
Fuir ! là-bas fuir ! Je sens que des oiseaux sont ivres
D’être parmi l’écume inconnue et les cieux !
Rien, ni les vieux jardins reflétés par les yeux,
La chair est triste, hélas ! et j’ai lu tous les livres.
Fuir ! là-bas fuir ! Je sens que des oiseaux sont ivres
D’être parmi l’écume inconnue et les cieux !
Rien, ni les vieux jardins reflétés par les yeux,
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Un jeune âne amoureux d’une noble cavale,
Lui demanda la main (le sabot de devant).
— Mais… vous êtes du peuple, et moi — je suis pur sang,
Je vous ferai cocu! lui promit-elle.
— J’avale
Tout ce que vous voudrez! dit l’âne sans émoi,
Car…
Moralité:
Promettre c’est noble, tenir serait bourgeois…
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When in old age he found himself the master of Peterhouse, Cambridge, he reviewed “Religion and Public Doctrine in Modern England” by Maurice Cowling, the history don, who had secured him the Mastership of the oldest Cambridge College. Cowling was the guru to such Conservative Party luminaries as Peregrine Worsthorne and Colin Welch of the Telegraph, and to that extent he was a person of influence. “The subject is the intellectual history of our time and the great spiritual crisis in which we have found ourselves,” Trevor-Roper wrote. “I find, on reading it, that this intellectual history has unfolded itself, and this crisis has been observed, and is to be resolved, almost entirely within the walls of Peterhouse.”
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Când soarele-şi purta cernită faţa,
Plângând durerea zeilor din ceruri,
M-a dezarmat, surprins, şi fără vlagă,
Privirea ta ce m-a făcut ostatec.
Putere nu aveam să fug, pribeagul,
Căci suferind, adânc, atunci plecat-am
Fără-ndoieli, mereu urmându-mi soarta,
Când dintr-odată m-a lovit necazul.
Când dorul m-a surprins, aflându-şi calea
Direct în suflet, aţintind săgeata,
Nestăvilind a plânsului şuvoaie.
Căci mie-mi pare-o lipsă de onoare,
Fiind înarmat cu arcul, să se-ascundă,
Să mă rănească în această stare!
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Jacques PRÉVERT
Chanson de la Seine
La Seine a de la chance
Elle n’a pas de souci
Elle se la coule douce
Le jour comme la nuit
Et elle sort de sa source
Tout doucement, sans bruit…
Sans sortir de son lit
Et sans se faire de mousse,
Elle s’en va vers la mer
En passant par Paris.
Ce noroc are Sena
Fiind lispită de griji
Şi se duce la vale,
Fără zor, zi de zi,
Când din munţi izvoreşte
Liniştită, tiptil…
Fiindu-i grije să fie
Între maluri curgând,
Să ajungă la mare,
Prin Paris străbătând.
(Rendered in Romanian by Constantin ROMAN
© 2013 Copyright Constantin ROMAN)
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