Heinrich Heine - besides that, he's a poet

from Seraphine

Night has come with silent footsteps,
  On the beaches by the ocean;
And the waves, with curious whispers,
  Ask the moon, "Have you a notion

"Who that man is? Is he foolish,
  Or with love is he demented?
For he seems so sad and cheerful,
  So cast down yet so contented."

And the moon, with shining laughter,
  Answers them, "If you must know it,
He is both in love and foolish;
  And, besides that, he's a poet!"

I was planning to move on to Heine's satirical poems, but I am enjoying the lyrics too much. This one at least has a joke at Heine's own expense. I don't have the German handy, so I have no idea what Louis Untermeyer may have done here - my guess is the translation is pretty free.

The metaphors are all simple, excellent examples of the pathetic fallacy: night's "silent footsteps", the waves' "curious whispers", the moon's "shining laughter." A lovely poem, and a good joke.

I've ignored Heine the ballad-writer, too. His complicated version of the Tannhäuser legend sparked the interest of Richard Wagner. Here's a simpler example:

There was an aged monarch,
  His heart was sad, his hair was grey;
Alas, poor fool, he took him
  A wife that was young and gay!

There was a handsome page-boy,
  Light was his heart and gold his hair;
The silken train he carried
  Of that queen so young and fair.

Dost thou know my story,
  So sweet, so sad to tell?
Death was the lovers' portion
  Because they loved too well.

I especially like Heine's refusal to tell the story. You already know it. Poetry can get away with this.

All tranlsations so far have been from The Poetry and Prose of Heinrich Heine (1948), edited by Frerick Ewen, which uses a variety of translators.

Sir Patrick Spens - O wha is this has done this deid

"Sir Patrick Spens" exists in several versions, and dates from who knows when. It could be from a quite old source, or it could be as new as the 17th century. Sometimes I think it's the greatest poem in the language. It's a little long for this sort of post, but that won't bother anyone - Greatest Poem in the Language!

Sir Patrick Spens

The king sits in Dunfermling toune,
Drinking the blude-reid wine:
O whar will I get guid sailor,
To sail this schip of mine?

Up and spak an eldern knicht,
Sat at the kings richt kne:
Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That sails upon the se.

The king has written a braid letter,
And sign'd it wi' his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the sand.

The first line that Sir Patrick red,
A loud lauch lauched he;
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his e'e.

O wha is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don to me,
To send me out this time o' the yeir,
To sail upon the se!

Mak haste, mak haste, my mirry men all,
Our guid schip sails the morne:
O say na sae, my master deir,
For I feir a deadlie storme.

Late, late yestereen I saw the new moone,
Wi' the auld moone in hir arme,
And I feir, I feir, my deir master,
That we will com to harme.

O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
To weet their cork-heild schoone;
Bot lang owre a' the play were playd,
Thair hats they swam aboone.

O lang, lang may their ladies sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand,
Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spens
Cum sailing to the land.

O lang, lang may the ladies stand,
Wi' thair gold kems in their hair,
Waiting for their ain deir lords,
For they'll se thame na mair.

Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour,
It's fiftie fadom deip,
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi the Scots lords at his feit.

It's the two stanzas in the middle that really do it, right? It's the laugh of Sir Patrick, followed by the tear. Maybe it's just the laugh. There's a narrative compression here that one can find in the Old Testament, and in early Spanish ballads. Probably other places, but not many. The real story is packed into a few lines, a few words.

UPDATE: There are a half dozen versions of this poem. I prefer the minimalist version. A discerning commenter prefers more shipboard action:

We hadna sailed a league, a league,
A league but only twa,
Till cauld and watry grew the wind,
Come hailing owre them a’.

We hadna sailed a league, a league,
A league but only three,
Till cold and watry grew the wind,
And grumly grew the sea.

‘Wha will come,’ the captain says,
‘And take my helm in hand?
Or wha’ll gae up to my topmast,
And look for some dry land?

‘Mount up, mount up, my pretty boy,
See what you can spy;
Mount up, mount up, my pretty boy,
See if any land we’re nigh.’

‘We’re fifty miles from shore to shore,
And fifty banks of sand;
And we have all that for to sail
Or we come to dry land.’

‘Come down, come down, my pretty boy,
I think you tarry lang;
For the saut sea’s in at our coat-neck
And out at our left arm.

‘Come down, come down, my pretty boy,
I fear we here maun die;
For thro and thro my goodly ship
I see the green-waved sea.’

And I was worried it was too long. It's so good people just want more.