Wallace Stevens, De gong fan in partikulariteit

 
De gong fan in partikulariteit

Hjoed krite de blêden, hingjend oan swypkjende tûken,
Dochs wurdt it winterske neat in bytsje minder.
It sit noch fol sniekontoer en iiskûleur.

De blêden krite… Men hâldt ôf en heart inkeld it kriten.
It is in drok kriten, dat immen oars oangiet.
En al seit men dat men diel útmakket fan alles,

Der is in konflikt, der is wjerstân mei muoid,
En diel útmeitsje is in ynspanning dy’t ôfnimt:
Men fielt it libben fan wat no ienris libben jout.

De blêden krite. It is net in kriten fan himelsk achtslaan,
Of it pûsten fan karbûstige helden, of minsklik kriten.
It is it kriten fan blêden dy’t net oan harsels ûntstige,

By brek oan fantasia, sûnder mear betsjutting as:
Sy binne yn it finale finen fan it ear, yn it ding
Sels, oant einlings it kriten echt nimmen oangiet.

 

The Course of a Particular

Today the leaves cry, hanging on branches swept by wind,
Yet the nothingness of winter becomes a little less.
It is still full of icy shades and shapen snow.

The leaves cry . . . One holds off and merely hears the cry.
It is a busy cry, concerning someone else.
And though one says that one is part of everything,

There is a conflict, there is a resistance involved;
And being part is an exertion that declines:
One feels the life of that which gives life as it is.

The leaves cry. It is not a cry of divine attention,
Nor the smoke-drift of puffed-out heroes, nor human cry.
It is the cry of leaves that do not transcend themselves,

In the absence of fantasia, without meaning more
Than they are in the final finding of the ear, in the thing
Itself, until, at last, the cry concerns no one at all.

 

Foar it earst publisearre yn The Hudson Review, foarjier 1951.

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