jössz s hő hived, a sárga nap, örűl,
s összefogtok s áldott fürtök soka
csügg a szőlőn a nádtetők körűl;
mohos ágat dús almasúly töret
s zamat tölt miden őszi magvakat,
dinnye dagad, feszűl cukros bele
a mogyoróknak s száz bimbó fakad:
késő virág, minőt a méh szeret,
s már azt hiszi: örök a méz-szüret,
mert nyári sejtje csordultig tele.
Ki nem látott még téged? - Kiszököm
s megleslek gyakran csűrök közelén,
ülsz gondtalan a téres küszöbön
s hajad lágyan leng a cséplés szelén,
vagy épp aratsz és mákillat hatol
hozzád s elaltat és nem méri már
sarlód a szomszéd, rezge fű-kalászt;
vagy főd, mint fáradt béresé, hajol
patak tükrére s friss italra vár;
vagy bor-prés mellett les lassú, sovár
szemed, hogy végső cseppjét hullni lásd.
Hol a tavasz nótái? mind halott?
Mi gondod rá! van néked is zenéd:
míg esti felleg sző be halk napot
s a tarlón rózsák színét szűri szét,
a parti fűzfák közt busongva dong
a szúnyograj, mely száll, meg szétomol,
mert kapja-ejti kényén könnyű lég;
kövér nyáj béget s visszazeng a domb,
tücsök cirpel, veresbegy is dalol:
finomka fütty a szérüskert alól
s gyűlő fecskék zajától zúg az ég...
John Keats
(Fordította: Tóth Árpád)
~ ~ ~ Ode to Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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