请问有谁知道马克思致燕妮的英文诗?如果有其他的经典英文诗就更好．多谢拉!

请问有谁知道马克思致燕妮的英文诗?如果有其他的经典英文诗就更好．多谢拉!
请问有谁知道马克思致燕妮的英文诗?如果有其他的经典英文诗就更好．多谢拉!

请问有谁知道马克思致燕妮的英文诗?如果有其他的经典英文诗就更好．多谢拉!
献给燕妮.马克思
Dedicated to
Jenny Von Westphalen [1]
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Written:in November 1836;
Source:Marx and Engels,Collected Works,vol.1,International Publishers,1975;
Transcribed:by [email protected].
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*
From the Book of Love (Part I) [2]
Concluding Sonnets to Jenny
I
Take all,take all these songs from me
That Love at your feet humbly lays,
Where,in the Lyre’s full melody,
Soul freely nears in shining rays.
Oh!if Song’s echo potent be
To stir to longing with sweet lays,
To make the pulse throb passionately
That your proud heart sublimely sways,
Then shall I witness from afar
How Victory bears you light along,
Then shall I fight,more bold by far,
Then shall my music soar the higher;
Transformed,more free shall ring my song,
And in sweet woe shall weep my Lyre.
II
To me,no Fame terrestrial
That travels far through land and nation
To hold them thrillingly in thrall
With its far-flung reverberation
Is worth your eyes,when shining full,
Your heart,when warm with exultation,
Or two deep-welling tears that fall,
Wrung from your eyes by song’s emotion.
Gladly I'd breathe my Soul away
In the Lyre’s deep melodious sighs,
And would a very Master die,
Could I the exalted goal attain,
Could I but win the fairest prize —
To soothe in you both joy and pain.
III
Ah!Now these pages forth may fly,
Approach you,trembling,once again,
My spirits lowered utterly
By foolish fears and parting’s pain.
My self-deluding fancies stray
Along the boldest paths in vain;
I cannot win what is most High,
And soon no more hope shall remain.
When I return from distant places
To that dear home,filled with desire,
A spouse holds you in his embraces,
And clasps you proudly,Fairest One.
Then o'er me rolls the lightning’s fire
Of misery and oblivion.
IV
Forgive that,boldly risking scorn
The Soul’s deep yearning to confess,
The singer’s lips must hotly burn
To waft the flames of his distress.
Can I against myself then turn
And lose myself,dumb,comfortless,
The very name of singer spurn,
Not love you,having seen your face?
So high the Soul’s illusions aspire,
O'er me you stand magnificent;
’tis but your tears that I desire,
And that my songs you only enjoyed
To lend them grace and ornament;
Then may they flee into the Void!
From the Book of Songs [3]
To Jenny
I
Words — lies,hollow shadows,nothing more,
Crowding Life from all sides round!
In you,dead and tired,must I outpour
Spirits that in me abound?
Yet Earth’s envious Gods have scanned before
Human fire with gaze profound;
And forever must the Earthling poor
Mate his bosom’s glow with sound.
For,if passion leaped up,vibrant,bold,
In the Soul’s sweet radiance,
Daringly it would your worlds enfold,
Would dethrone you,would bring you down low,
Would outsoar the Zephyr-dance.
Ripe a world above you then would grow.
To Jenny
I
Jenny!Teasingly you may inquire
Why my songs “To Jenny” I address,
When for you alone my pulse beats higher,
When my songs for you alone despair,
When you only can their heart inspire,
When your name each syllable must confess,
When you lend each note melodiousness,
When no breath would stray from the Goddess?
’tis because so sweet the dear name sounds,
And its cadence says so much to me,
And so full,so sonorous it resounds,
Like to vibrant Spirits in the distance,
Like the gold-stringed Cithern’s harmony,
Like some wondrous,magical existence.
II
See!I could a thousand volumes fill,
Writing only “Jenny” in each line,
Still they would a world of thought conceal,
Deed eternal and unchanging Will,
Verses sweet that yearning gently still,
All the glow and all the Aether’s shine,
Anguished sorrow’s pain and joy divine,
All of Life and Knowledge that is mine.
I can read it in the stars up younder,
From the Zephyr it comes back to me,
From the being of the wild waves’ thunder.
Truly,I would write it down as a refrain,
For the coming centuries to see —
LOVE IS JENNY,JENNY IS LOVE’s NAME.
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There are actually many females in the world,
And some of them are beautiful.
But where could I find again a face
Whose every feature, even every wrinckle
Is a reminder of my life
The greatest and sweetest memories?