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Emily Brontë: The Night-Wind (vertaling Cornlis W. Schoneveld)

Emily Brontë

(1818-1848)

 

The Night-Wind

In summer’s mellow midnight,

A cloudless moon shone through

Our open parlour window

And rosetrees wet with dew.

 

I sat in silent musing,

The soft wind waved my hair:

It told me Heaven was glorious.

And sleeping Earth was fair.

 

I needed not its breathing

To bring such thoughts to me,

But still it whispered lowly,

“How dark the woods will be!

 

“The thick leaves in my murmur

Are rustling like a dream,

And all their myriad voices

Instinct with spirit seem.”

 

I said, “Go, gentle singer,

Thy wooing voice is kind,

But do not think its music

Has power to reach my mind.

 

“Play with the scented flower,

The young tree’s supple bough,

And leave my human feelings

In their own course to flow.”

 

The wanderer would not leave me;

Its kiss grew warmer still –

“O come,” it sighed so sweetly,

“I’ll win thee ‘gainst thy will.

 

“Have we not been from childhood friends?

Have I not loved thee long?

As long as thou hast loved the night

Whose silence wakes my song.

 

“And when thy heart is laid at rest

Beneath the church-yard stone

I shall have time enough to mourn

And thou to be alone.”

1840

 

Emily Brontë

De nachtwind

In ‘t milde zomer-nachtuur

Scheen ‘t maanlicht helderblauw

Door de openstaande tuindeur

En rozenboom vol dauw.

 

Ik zat in rust te mijmeren,

Mij roerde zacht de wind:

Hij vond de Hemel roemrijk,

d’ Aard’, slapend, welgezind.

 

Zijn adem kon ik missen

Voor zo ‘n gedachtenlijn,

Maar toch sprak hij weer zachtjes,

“Het bos zal donker zijn!

 

“Het loof ritselt als schimmen

Door mijn geruis geraakt,

En al hun stemmen schijnen

Door geesten wijs gemaakt.”

 

Ik zei, “Ga, goede zanger,

Al klinkt je vlei-lied zoet,

Meen niet dat jouw nocturne

Mijn denken wankelen doet.

 

“Bespeel geurende bloemen,

Raak jonge twijgen aan,

Maar laat mijn mens-gevoelens

Hun eigen weg inslaan.”

 

De zwerver wou niet heengaan;

Zijn kus nam toe in gloed –

“O kom,” zuchtte hij zachtjes,

“Ik win je, wat je ook doet.

 

“Was jij van jongsaf niet mijn vriend?

Mind’ ik je niet allang?

Zo lang je al dol bent op de nacht

Wekt stilte daar mijn zang.

 

“En als op ‘t kerkhof in je graf

Je hart is neergevleid

Heb ik veel tijd voor rouwbeklag

En jij voor eenzaamheid.”

 

Vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld

Uit: Bestorm mijn hart, de beste Engelse gedichten uit de 16e-19e eeuw gekozen en vertaald door Cornelis W. Schoneveld, tweetalige editie. Rainbow Essentials no. 55, Uitgeverij Maarten Muntinga, Amsterdam, 2008, 296 pp, € 9,95 ISBN: 9789041740588

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