recital texts FINAL

“Non lo dirò col labbro” from Tolomeo
Georg Friedrich Händel (1685-1759)
Libretto-Nicola Francesco Haym (1679-1730)
Non lo dirò col Labbro,
Che tanto ardir non hà;
Forse con le faville
Dell'avide pupille,
Per dir come tutt'ardo,
Lo sguardo Parlerà.
I will not say it with my lips,
Which have not that courage;
Perhaps the sparks
Of my burning eyes,
Revealing my passion,
My glance will speak.
-Translation by Rowcliffe Brown
“Dove sei, amato bene?” from Rodelinda
Libretto-Nicola Francesco Haym
Dove sei, amato bene?
Vieni l’alma a consolar!
Vieni, vieni amato bene!
Son oppresso da tormenti,
Ed i crudi miei lamenti
Sol con te posso bear.
Where are you, beloved?
Come to console my heart!
Come, come, beloved!
I am beset by sorrow,
And my harsh pains
I can only bear with you.
-Translation by Nicholas Granito and
Waldo Lyman
“Và godendo” from Serse
Libretto- Nicolò Minato (1627-1698) and
Silvio Stampiglia (1664-1725)
Và godendo vezzoso e bello
Quel ruscello la libertà,
E tra l’erbe con onde chiare
Lieto al mare correndo và.
Joyously and graciously ripples,
That free-flowing brooklet,
And with clear waves it runs through the grass
Gaily towards the sea.
-Translation by Nicholas Granito and
Waldo Lyman
Les Berceaux
Gabriel Fauré (1845-1924)
René-François Sully Prudhomme (1839-1907)
Le long du quai, les grands vaisseaux,
Que la houle incline en silence,
Ne prennent pas garde aux berceaux
Que la main des femmes balance,
Mais viendra le jour des adieux,
Car il faut que les femmes pleurent,
Et que les hommes curieux
Tentent les horizons qui leurrent!
Et ce jour-là les grands vaisseaux,
Fuyant le port qui diminue,
Sentent leur masse retenue
Par l'âme des lointains berceaux.
Along the quays, the large ships,
Rocked silently by the surge
Do not heed the cradles
Which the hands of the women rock,
But the day of farewells will come,
For the women are bound to weep,
And the inquisitive men
Must dare the horizons that lure them!
And on that day the large ships,
Fleeing from the vanishing port,
Feel their bulk held back
By the soul of the far away cradles.
-Translation by Sergius Kagen
Automne
Paul Armand Silvestre (1837-1901)
Automne au ciel brumeux, aux horizons navrants.
Aux rapides couchants, aux aurores palies,
Je regarde couler comme l'eau du torrent,
Tes jours faits de mélancolie.
Sur l'aile des regrets, mes esprits emportés,
Comme s'il se pouvait que notre âge renaisse!
Parcourent, en rêvant, les coteaux enchantés,
Où, jadis, sourit ma jeunesse!
Je sens au clair soleil du souvenir vainqueur,
Refleurir en bouquet les roses deliées,
Et monter à mes yeux des larmes, qu'en mon coeur
Mes vingt ans avaient oubliées!
Autumn of misty skies, of heart-rendering horizons,
Of hasty sunsets, of pale dawns,
I see flowing like the waters of a torrent,
Your days filled with melancholy.
My thoughts, carried away on wings of regret,
As if our lifetime could be reborn,
Roam dreaming through the enchanted hills,
Where, in days gone by, my youth delighted!
I feel in the bright sunlight of triumphant recollections,
The scattered roses blooming again in a bouquet,
And I feel tears rising to my eyes, which in my heart
My twenty years had forgotten!
-Translation by Sergius Kagen
Fleur jetée
Paul Armand Silvestre
Emporte ma folie
Au gré du vent,
Fleur en chantant cueillie
Et jetée en rêvant,
Emporte ma folie
Au gré du vent,
Comme la fleur fauchée
Périt l'amour.
La main qui t'a touchée
Fuit ma main sans retour.
Que le vent qui te sèche
O pauvre fleur,
Tout à l'heure si fraîche
Et demain sans couleur,
Que le vent qui te sèche,
O pauvre fleur,
Que le vent qui te sèche,
Sèche mon coeur!
Carry away my passion
At the will of the wind,
Flower, gathered with a song
And thrown away in a dream.
Carry away my passion
At the will of the wind,
Like a cut flower
Perishes love.
The hand that has touched you
Shuns my hand forever;
Let the wind that withers you
Oh, poor flower,
A while ago so fresh,
And tomorrow colorless,
Let the wind that withers you,
Oh, poor flower,
Let the wind that withers you,
Wither my heart.
-Translation by Sergius Kagen
Heidenröslein
Franz Peter Schubert (1797-1828)
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832)
Sah ein Knab' ein Röslein stehn,
Röslein auf der Heiden,
War so jung und morgenschön,
Lief er schnell, es nah zu sehn,
Sah's mit vielen Freuden.
Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,
Röslein auf der Heiden.
A boy saw a little rose,
A little rose on the heath;
It was so young and freshly beautiful
That he quickly ran to look at it up close,
And it was a great joy to see.
Little rose, rose, red rose,
Little rose on the heath.
Knabe sprach: Ich breche dich,
Röslein auf der Heiden!
Röslein sprach: Ich steche dich,
Daß du ewig denkst an mich,
Und ich will's nicht leiden.
Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,
Röslein auf der Heiden.
The boy said: “I shall pick you,
Little rose on the heath.”
The little rose said: “I shall prick you so hard
That you will always remember me,
And I won’t endure it.”
Little rose, rose, red rose,
Little rose on the heath.
Und der wilde Knabe brach’s
Röslein auf der Heiden;
Röslein wehrte sich und stach,
Half ihm doch kein Weh und Ach,
Mußt es eben leiden.
Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,
Röslein auf der Heiden.
And the impetuous boy
Picked the little rose on the heath;
The rose defended itself and pricked him,
But his lamenting was of no use,
And he had to endure it.
Little rose, rose, red rose,
Little rose on the heath.
-Translation by Stanley Appelbaum
Das Veilchen
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791)
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Ein Veilchen auf der Wiese stand,
Gebückt in sich und unbekannt;
Es war ein herzigs Veilchen.
Da kam ein’ junge Schäferin
Mit leichtem Schritt und munterm Sinn
Daher, daher,
Die Wiese her, und sang.
A violet stood in the meadow,
Withdrawn and unknown;
It was a charming violet.
There came a young shepherdess
With light tread and cheerful mind
Walking in the meadow and singing.
Ach! denkt das Veilchen, wär' ich nur
Die schönste Blume der Natur,
Ach, nur ein kleines Weilchen,
Bis mich das Liebchen abgepflückt
Und an dem Busen matt gedrückt!
Ach nur, ach nur
Ein Viertelstündchen lang!
“Ah,” the violet thinks, “if only I were
The loveliest flower in nature,
Ah, just for a little while,
Until my darling has picked me
And crushed me to death on her bosom,
Ah, only for a quarter of an hour!”
Ach, aber ach! das Mädchen kam
Und nicht in acht das Veilchen nahm;
Ertrat das arme Veilchen.
Es sank und starb und freut' sich noch:
Und sterb' ich denn, so sterb' ich doch
Durch sie, durch sie,
Zu ihren Füßen doch.
(Das arme Veilchen!
Es war ein hezigs Veilchen.)
Ah, but alas! the girl came
And didn’t even notice the violet,
She stepped on the poor violet.
It sank and died, and yet it was happy:
“Even if I am dying, I am still dying
Because of her, and at her feet.”
(The poor violet!
It was a charming violet.)
-Translation by Stanley Appelbaum
Three Songs, Op. 45
Samuel Barber (1910-1981)
“Now I have Fed and Eaten up the Rose”
James Joyce (1882-1941) from the German of
Gottfried Keller
Now have I fed and eaten up the rose
Which then she laid within my stiff-cold hand.
That I should ever feed upon a rose
I never had believed in liveman's land.
Only I wonder was it white or red
The flower that in the darkness my food has been.
Give us, and if Thou give, thy daily bread,
Deliver us from evil, Lord, Amen.
“A Green Lowland of Pianos”
Czeslaw Milosz (1911-2004) from the Polish of
Jerzy Harasymowicz
in the evening
as far as the eye can see
herds
of black pianos
up to their knees
in the mire
they listen to the frogs
they gurgle in water
with chords of rapture
they are entranced
by froggish, moonish spontaneity
after the vacation
they cause scandals
in a concert hall
during the artistic milking
suddenly they lie down
like cows
looking with indifference
at the white flowers
of the audience
at the gesticulating
of the ushers
“O Boundless, Boundless Evening”
Christopher Middleton (1926- ) from the German of
George Heym
O boundless, boundless evening. Soon the glow
Of long hills on the skyline will be gone,
Like clear dream country now, rich-hued by sun.
O boundless evening where the cornfields throw
The scattered daylight back in an aureole.
Swallows high up are singing, very small.
On every meadow glitters their swift flight,
In woods of rushes and where tall masts stand
In brilliant bays. Yet in ravines beyond
Between the hills already nests the night.
Zwei Gesänge, Op. 91
Johannes Brahms (1833-1897)
“Gestillte Sehnsucht”
Friedrich Rückert (1788-1866)
In goldnen Abendschein getauchet,
Wie feierlich die Wälder stehn!
In leise Stimmen der Vöglein hauchet
Des Abendwindes leises Wehn.
Was lispeln die Winde, die Vögelein?
Sie lispeln die Welt in Schlummer ein.
Stepped in the golden light of evening,
How solemnly the forest stands!
In the soft voices of birds breathes
The gentle stirring of the evening wind.
What whisper the wind and the little birds?
They whisper the world to sleep.
Ihr Wünsche, die ihr stets euch reget
Im Herzen sonder Rast und Ruh!
Du Sehnen, das die Brust beweget,
Wann ruhest du, wann schlummerst du?
Beim Lispeln der Winde, der Vögelein,
Ihr sehnenden Wünsche, wann schlaft ihr ein?
Desires which always arise
In the heart that is without peace or rest,
Longings that trouble the soul,
When will you rest, when will you cease?
To the sounds of whispering wind and the birds,
You longing desires, when will you be lulled to sleep?
Ach, wenn nicht mehr in goldne Fernen
Mein Geist auf Traumgefieder eilt,
Nicht mehr an ewig fernen Sternen
Mit sehnendem Blick mein Auge weilt;
Dann lispeln die Winde, die Vögelein
Mit meinem Sehnen mein Leben ein.
When no longer into golden distances
My spirit hastens on wings of dreams,
No longer on the eternal distant stars
My eyes are fixed with a longing gaze;
Then the winds, the birds shall lull
My life and my longings.
-Translation by Waldo Lyman
“Geistliches Wiegenlied”
Emmanuel von Geibel (1815-1884) from the Spanish of
Lope Felix de Vega Carpio
Die ihr schwebet um diese Palmen
In Nacht und Wind,
Ihr heil’gen Engel, stillet die Wipfel!
Es schlummert mein Kind.
You who fly above these palm trees
In the night and the wind,
You holy angels, silence the treetops!
My child is asleep.
Ihr Palmen von Bethlehem in Windesbrausen,
Wie mögt ihr heute so zornig sausen!
O rauscht nicht also, schweiget,
Neiget euch leis und lind,
Stillet die Wipfel! Es schlummert mein Kind.
You palms of Bethlehem, in the raging wind,
How can you rustle so angrily today,
Do not sough thus, be silent,
Sway softly and gently.
Silence the treetops! My child is asleep.
Der Himmelsknabe duldet Beschwerde;
Ach, wie so müd er ward vom Leid der Erde.
Ach nun im Schlaf, ihm, leise gesänftigt,
Die Qual zerrinnt,
Stillet die Wipfel, es schlummert mein Kind.
The Child of Heaven suffers pain;
He was so weary of the sorrows of the earth.
Now gently soothed in sleep,
The agony leaves him.
Silence the treetops, my child is asleep.
Grimmige Kälte sauset hernieder,
Womit nur deck ich des Kindleins Glieder!
O all ihr Engel, die ihr geflügelt
Wandelt im Wind,
Stillet die Wipfel, es schlummert mein Kind.
Bitter cold descends,
With what can I cover my child’s limbs!
All you angels, who on wings,
Hover in the air,
Silence the treetops, my child is asleep.
-Translation by Waldo Lyman
Selections from Quatro liriche su parole di poeti armeni
Ottorino Respighi (1879-1936)
“No, non è morto il figlio tuo”
Anonymous, from the Armenian of
Constant Zarian (1885-1969)
No, non è morto il figlio tuo;
Oh, non è morto, non è morto.
Se n'è andato pel giardino:
Ha raccolto tante rose;
Se n'è inghirlandata la fronte:
Ed ora dorme al loro dolce odore,
Al loro dolce odore.
No, you son is not dead;
Oh, is not dead, is not dead.
He has gone to the garden:
Has collected so many roses;
He has been adorned with garlands about his forehead:
And now he sleeps with the sweet smell of laurel,
The sweet smell of laurel.
“La mamma è come il pane caldo”
Anonymous, from the Armenian of
Constant Zarian
La mamma è come il pane caldo:
Chi ne mangia si sente pago.
Il babbo è come il vino schietto:
Chi ne beve si sente ebbro.
Il fratello è come il sole:
Esso schiara monti e valli.
Mother is like warm bread:
Whoever eats her feels satisfied.
Father is like strong wine:
Whoever drinks him feels inebriated.
Brother is like the sun:
He brightens the mountain and valley,
“Io sono la madre”
Anonymous, from the Armenian of
Constant Zarian
Io sono la Madre...
Per sempre, per sempre è partito
Il Figliuolo mio crocefisso.
Io sono la Madre...
Ho le pupille, ho le pupille fisse
Su la strada senza fine,
Dov'è passato il mio Signore.
Io sono il Cuore, dolore e lagrima,
Il pianto di colui ch'è morto.
Io sono la Madre, Mariam,
L'ora dell'angoscia che freme d'intorno,
La mano lucente del mio Figliuolo
Che si è crocefisso.
Io sono la Madre.
I am the Mother…
Forever, forever is departed
My crucified son.
I am the Mother…
I have my eyes, I have my eyes fixed
On the street without end
Where my Lord passed.
I am the Heart, sad and weeping,
The tear of he who is dead.
I am the Mother, Mary,
The hour of agony which chills the inside,
The illuminated hand of my son
Who is crucified.
I am the Mother.
“Parto, parto” from La Clemenza de Tito
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
Libretto-Pietro Metastasio (1698-1782)
Parto, parto, ma tu ben mio,
Meco ritorna in pace;
Sarò qual più ti piace,
Quel che vorrai faro.
I go, I go, but, you my beloved,
Make peace with me again,
I will be that which pleases you most,
What you wish I will do.
Guardami, e tutto obblio,
E a vendicarti io volo;
A questo sguardo solo
Da me si penserà.
Look at me, and I will forget everything,
And I fly to avenge you;
Of this look alone,
I will think.
Ah qual poter, oh Dei!
Donaste alla beltà.
Ah what power, oh God,
Did you give to beauty.