May (Part 1) - Karel Hynek Mácha

'T was late at eve . . . the first of May,

A night in May . . . 'twas time for love.

A love lure sang the turtle-dove,

Where scented pine groves stretched away.

The tranquil moss sighed love's lament;

Love's sorrow shammed the blooming tree.

A nightingale sang love's melody,

While a rose replied with love's sweet scent.

The lake, hid where the thicket reared.

Expressed its grief in a muffled sound,

Where banks entwined it all around;

The suns of other worlds appeared

And strayed across the azure spheres,

Gleaming above like love's bright tears.

Whole worlds of them appeared at length

Upon the skies—love's timeless seat.

Then, changed to fading stars—whose strength

Was spent by love's o'er sweet extent—

They met, as roaming lovers meet.

The full moon's softly glowing cheeks

So brightly faint, so faintly bright,

Flared to a rosy, blushing light

As when a lover his loved one seeks:

Seeing its image from above,

The moon dies slowly with self-love.

Shadows and lights gleam through a gap,

Cautiously creeping, nigh and nigh,

Embracing self, till by and by

They huddle close in twilight's lap,

And then in one with darkness merge.

With them the trees embrace and surge—

Where dusk and mountain tops entwine,

Sways pine with birch and birch with pine,

The speeding waves new waves submerge

Within the brook—All feel the urge

When love time comes, to seek love's shrine.

Within this rosy evening light,

A maiden rests beneath a tree,

Gazing where the lake and banks match might

And past them, far as the eye can see.

Beneath the hill, the lake shows blue,

Further streaked with a patch of green,

And further still, more green between,

Until all blends into a blue-green hue.

Across the restful evening lake

The maiden casts her tired gaze;

Across the restful evening lake

Now glitters the heaven's starry maze.

Like a fallen angel appears the maid,

Spring's amaranth, drooping in the shade.

Beauty still lingers in her cheeks.

The hour that took her dearest treasure

Wrote in her features much that speaks

About her sorrow's brimful measure.

The twentieth day sped by today.

And 'cross the land, dreams hold their sway.

The smouldering fires quickly die

Even upon the reddish sky

That stretches o'er the blue-black hills.

"He comes not!—He is gone for e'er!

I, whom he spurned, now face despair!"

A painful grief her soul o'er fills

While anguish grips the aching heart,

And with the water's mystic groans

Mingle the maiden's plaintive tones.

Reflected star lights seem to dart

Within her streaming starry tears.

Those burning sparks on her cheeks so cold

Dwindle and die like falling spheres,

And where they fall, all blossoms fold.

Look! As she flits now up and down;

She leans across the mountain's brim,

While the wind plays with her snow-white gown.

Now she stares in the distance dim—

Then, brushing off a shining tear,

She shades her eyes, as if to peer

Into the far-off hazy brown,

Where toward the lake the mountains lean,

The waves reflect the sparkling sheen,

And playful stars each other drown.

Just as a snow-white dove appears

When flying 'neath a sunless cloud,

Or as a water-lily proud

The bluish surface domineers;

Thusyonder where the mountains meet—

Over the waters something fleet

Approaches fast . . . A moment bright,

Then as a stork in a slow flight looms,

No longer a dove or the lilies' blooms,

Now a white sail rocks in the breeze.

A slender oar appears to tease

The churning waters, forming rings.

Each foaming ring an oar enslaves

While borne from skies on gilded wings,

Roses of gold ride on the waves.

"A rapid boat . . . it's near, it's near!

It's he; his plumage, flowers, cloak!"

The boat is fastened at the pier

And up the winding mountain lane

A sailor lightly guides his pace.

Flushed, crimson now the maiden's face.

Behind the oak she hides—to rest;

Advances—stops—springs forth again—

At length to fall upon his chest—

"But who is this?" The moon's bright spell

Illumines someone she knows well:

Her blood stream pauses and she shrieks

"Where's William?"

⁠"List," the man implores,

And whispering he further speaks:

"Near yonder lake, a tower soars

High o'er the trees . . . its shadows cap

The restless waters' sleeping lap;

But deeper yet beneath the waves,

A casement lamp its light engraves;

Your William there now vainly seeks

To still his thoughts of Death's cold cheeks . . .

He learned his shame, learned of your guilt . . .

He slew the man you'll not bemoan,

His father . . . whom he had not known.

Revenge demands more blood be spilt . . .

Hence he must die . . . His peace be near.

When cheeks that now bloom as a rose

Shall fade and o'er the wheel appear,

And limbs shall feel the wheel's dread throes,

Thus he will die, who knew no fear.

For his disgrace and for your vice

Have world's disgrace . . . Be cursed thrice!"

He turns away . . . Then all is still;

At length, he clambers down the hill

Along the path, and finds his boat;

Swiftly he sails . . . as a stork in flight,

Then slowly passes out of sight

As a lily blossom set afloat.

The waves are quiet 'neath the darkened ledge,

Enwrapped within an azure cloak serene:

A sheer white dress floats on the water's edge,

While nature softly whispers: "Geraldine!"

And the waters' murmur: "Geraldine!"

 "Geraldine!"

'tis late at eve—the first of May,

A night in May—'tis time for love,

A love's lure sings the turtle dove.

"Geraldine! Geraldine! Geraldine!"

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Karel Hynek Mácha (1810 – 1836) Czech Republic

Translated by Roderick Aldrich Ginsburg

Source: Wikisource