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Tomten

Viktor Rydberg
Lingua: Svedese


Viktor Rydberg

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[1881]
Versi / En dikt av / A poem by / Poème de : Viktor Rydberg/in runo
Compositori / Kompositörer / Composers / Compositeurs / Säveltäjät :
Lyyli Wartiovaara-Kallioniemi (1907-1970)
Ulf Andersson


Nystrom_God-Jul_23



This beloved poem describing the mysterious peace and quiet of a winter night was originally published in Ny Illustrerad Tidning in 1881. The Swedish word »tomten« refers to a mythological creature from Nordic folklore today typically associated with the winter solstice and the Christmas season. It is generally described as being no taller than 90 cm, having a long white beard, and wearing a conical or knit cap in red or some other bright color.

According to tradition, it lives in the houses and barns of the farmstead, and secretly acts as their guardian. If treated well, it protects the family and animals from evil and misfortune, and may also aid the chores and farm work. However, it is known to be short tempered, especially when offended. Once insulted, it will usually play tricks, steal items and even maim or kill livestock.

There are several compositions to Rydberg's lyrics both in Sweden and in Finland. My favorite - in terms of character and atmosphere - is the one by Finnish Lyyli Wartiovaara-Kallioniemi. Unfortunately, no one seems to have recorded the song in Swedish to her music. The audio file provided is a version composed by Ulf Andersson and performed by Ulf and Bo Andersson.

With this song, I wish all the staff members and friends of this webpage a peaceful Christmas and a decent 2019.

Juha Rämö
Midvinternattens köld är hård,
stjärnorna gnistra och glimma.
Alla sova i enslig gård
djupt under midnattstimma.
Månen vandrar sin tysta ban,
snön lyser vit på fur och gran,
snön lyser vit på taken.
Endast tomten är vaken.

Står där så grå vid ladgårdsdörr,
grå mot den vita driva,
tittar, som många vintrar förr,
upp emot månens skiva,
tittar mot skogen, där gran och fur
drar kring gården sin dunkla mur,
grubblar, fast ej det lär båta,
över en underlig gåta.

För sin hand genom skägg och hår,
skakar huvud och hätta -
»nej, den gåtan är alltför svår,
nej, jag gissar ej detta» -
slår, som han plägar, inom kort
slika spörjande tankar bort,
går att ordna och pyssla,
går att sköta sin syssla.

Går till visthus och redskapshus,
känner på alla låsen -
korna drömma vid månens ljus
sommardrömmar i båsen;
glömsk av sele och pisk och töm
Pålle i stallet har ock en dröm:
krubban han lutar över
fylls av doftande klöver; -

Går till stängslet för lamm och får,
ser, hur de sova där inne;
går till hönsen, där tuppen står
stolt på sin högsta pinne;
Karo i hundbots halm mår gott,
vaknar och viftar svansen smått,
Karo sin tomte känner,
de äro gode vänner.

Tomten smyger sig sist att se
husbondfolket det kära,
länge och väl han märkt, att de
hålla hans flit i ära;
barnens kammar han sen på tå
nalkas att se de söta små,
ingen må det förtycka:
det är hans största lycka.

Så har han sett dem, far och son,
ren genom många leder
slumra som barn; men varifrån
kommo de väl hit neder?
Släkte följde på släkte snart,
blomstrade, åldrades, gick - men vart?
Gåtan, som icke låter
gissa sig, kom så åter!

Tomten vandrar till ladans loft:
där har han bo och fäste
högt på skullen i höets doft,
nära vid svalans näste;
nu är väl svalans boning tom,
men till våren med blad och blom
kommer hon nog tillbaka,
följd av sin näpna maka.

Då har hon alltid att kvittra om
månget ett färdeminne,
intet likväl om gåtan, som
rör sig i tomtens sinne.
Genom en springa i ladans vägg
lyser månen på gubbens skägg,
strimman på skägget blänker,
tomten grubblar och tänker.

Tyst är skogen och nejden all,
livet där ute är fruset,
blott från fjärran av forsens fall
höres helt sakta bruset.
Tomten lyssnar och, halvt i dröm,
tycker sig höra tidens ström,
undrar, varthän den skall fara,
undrar, var källan må vara.

Midvinternattens köld är hård,
stjärnorna gnistra och glimma.
Alla sova i enslig gård
gott intill morgontimma.
Månen sänker sin tysta ban,
snön lyser vit på fur och gran,
snön lyser vit på taken.
Endast tomten är vaken.

inviata da Juha Rämö - 21/12/2018 - 17:30




Lingua: Finlandese

Traduzione finlandese / Finnish translation / Traduction finnoise / Finsk översättning / Suomennos: Valter Juva (1865 - 1922) 1906




Audio link to the song composed by Lyyli Wartiovaara-Kallioniemi and performed by Vesa-Matti Loiri
TONTTU

Pakkasyö on, ja leiskuen
pohja loimuja viskoo.
Kansa kartanon hiljaisen
yösydänuntaan kiskoo.
Ääneti kuu käy kulkuaan,
puissa lunta on valkeanaan,
kattojen päällä on lunta.
Tonttu ei vaan saa unta.

Ladosta tulee, hankeen jää
harmaana uksen suuhun,
vanhaan tapaansa tirkistää
kohti taivasta kuuhun;
katsoo metsää, min hongat on
tuulensuojana kartanon,
miettivi suuntaan sataan
ainaista ongelmataan.

Partaa sivellen aprikoi,
puistaa päätä ja hasta –
tätä ymmärtää ei voi,
»ei, tää pulma on vasta;» –
heittää tapaansa järkevään
taas jo pois nämä vaivat pään,
lähtee toimiin ja työhön,
lähtee puuhiinsa yöhön.

Aitat ja puodit tarkastain,
lukkoja koittaa nytkyin, –
lehmät ne lehdoista näkee vain
unta kahleissa kytkyin;
suitset ja siimat ei selkään soi
ruunan, mi myöskin unelmoi:
torkkuen vasten seinää,
haassa se puree heinää. –

Lammasten luo käy karsinaan,
makuulla tapaa ne ukko;
kanat jo katsoo, pienallaan
istuu ylinnä kukko;
kopissa Vahti hyvin voi,
herää ja häntää liehakoi,
tonttu harmajanuttu
Vahdille kyllä on tuttu.

Puikkii ukko jo tupahan,
siellä on isäntäväki,
tontulle arvoa antavan
näiden jo aikaa näki;
varpain hiipivi lasten luo,
nähdäkseen sulot pienet nuo,
ken sitä kummeksis juuri:
hälle se riemu on suuri.

Isän ja pojan on nähnyt hän
puhki polvien monten
nukkuvan lasna; mut mistähän
tie oli avutonten?
Polvet polvien tietämiin
nousi, vanheni, läks, – mihin niin?
Ongelma, josta halaa
selkoa, noin taas palaa!

Latoon, parvelle pyrkii vaan,
siellä hän pitää majaa:
pääskyn naapuri suovallaan
on liki räystään rajaa;
vaikka pääsky nyt poissa on,
keväällä tuoksuun tuomiston
kyllä se saapuu varmaan
seurassa puolison armaan.

Silloin aina se sirkuttaa
monta muistoa tieltä,
ei toki tunne ongelmaa,
näin joka kiusaa mieltä.
Seinän raosta loistaa kuu,
ukon partahan kumottuu,
liikkuu parta ja hulmaa,
tonttu se miettii pulmaa.

Vaiti metsä on, alla jään
kaikki elämä makaa,
koski kuohuvi yksinään,
humuten metsän takaa.
Tonttu puoleksi unissaan
ajan virtaa on kulkevinaan,
tuumii, minne se vienee,
missä sen lähde lienee.

Pakkasyö on, ja leiskuen
pohja loimuja viskoo.
Kansa kartanon hiljaisen
aamuhun unta kiskoo.
Ääneti kuu käy laskemaan,
puissa lunta on valkeanaan,
kattojen päällä on lunta.
Tonttu ei vaan saa unta.

inviata da Juha Rämö - 21/12/2018 - 17:33




Lingua: Inglese

Traduzione inglese / English translation / Traduction anglaise / Engelsk översättning / Englanninkielinen käännös: Charles Wharton Stork (1881 - 1971)

Fonte / Source / Källa / Lähde: Anthology of Swedish Lyrics from 1750 to 1915)

THE HOUSE-GOBLIN

Cold is the night, and still, and strange,
Stars they glitter and shimmer.
All are asleep in the lonely grange
Under the midnight's glimmer.
On glides the moon in gulfs profound;
Snow on the firs and pines around.
Snow on the roofs is gleaming.
All but the goblin are dreaming.

Gray he stands at the barnyard door,
Gray by the drifts of white there,
Looks, as oft he has looked before,
Up at the moon so bright there;
Looks at the woods, where the fir-trees tall 
Shut the grange in with their dusky wall;
Ponders —some problem vexes, 
Some strange riddle perplexes — 

Passes his hand o'er beard and hair,
Shaking his head and cap then: 
"Nay, that riddle's too hard, I swear,
I'll ne'er guess it mayhap then."
But, as his wont is, he soon drives out
All such thoughts of disturbing doubt. 
Frees his old head of dizziness. 
And turns him at once to business.

First he tries if the locks are tight. 
Safe against every danger.
Each cow dreams in the pale moonlight
Summer dreams by her manger.
Dobbin, forgetful of bits that gall.
Dreams like the cows in his well-filled stall, 
Leaning his neck far over 
Armfuls of fragrant clover.

Then through the bars he sees the sheep.
Watches how well they slumber.
Eyes the cock on his perch asleep.
Round him hens without number.
Carlo wakes at the goblin's tread,
Wags then his tail and lifts his head;
Well acquainted the two are, 
Friends that both tried and true are.

Last the goblin slips in to see 
How all the folk are faring.
Long have they known how faithfully
He for their weal is caring.
Treading lightly on stealthy toes. 
Into the children's room he goes, 
Looks at each tiny treasure: 
That is his greatest pleasure.

So has he seen them, sire and son, 
Year by year in that room there 
Sleep first as children every one. 
Ah, but whence did they come there? 
This generation to that was heir. 
Blossomed, grew old, and was gone - but where?
That is the hopeless, burning
Riddle ever returning.

Back to the barn he goes to rest.
Where he has fixed his dwelling
Up in the loft near the swallow's nest. 
Sweet there the hay is smelling.
Empty the swallow's nest is now. 
Back though he'll come when the grass and bough
Bud in the warm spring weather,
He and his mate together.

Always they twitter away about
Places through which they've travelled,
Caring naught for the goblin's doubt. 
Though it were ne'er unravelled. 
Through a chink in one of the walls 
Moonlight on the old goblin falls, 
White o'er his beard it wanders;
Still he puzzles and ponders.

Forest and field are silent all, 
Frost their whole life congealing.
Save that the roar of the waterfall 
Faintly from far is stealing.
Then the goblin, half in a dream.
Thinks it is Time's unpausing stream. 
Wonders whither 't is going.
And from what spring 't is flowing.

Cold is the night, and still, and strange.
Stars they glitter and shimmer.
All yet sleep in the lonely grange
Soundly till morn shall glimmer.
Now sinks the moon in night profound;
Snow on the firs and pines around,
Snow on the roofs is gleaming.
All but the goblin are dreaming.

inviata da Juha Rämö - 21/12/2018 - 17:34




Lingua: Inglese

Traduzione inglese 2 / English translation 2 / Traduction anglaise 2 / Engelsk översättning 2 / Englanninkielinen käännös 2: Anna Krook (1850 - 1926)
ROBIN GOODFELLOW

Midwinter's nightly frost is hard -
Brightly the stars are beaming;
Fast asleep is the lonely Yard,
All, at midnight, are dreaming.
Clear is the moon, and the snow-drifts shine,
Glistening white, on fir and pine,
Covers on rooflets making.
None but Robin is waking.

Grey, he stands by the byre-door,
Grey, in the snow appearing;
Looks, as ever he did before,
Up, at the moonlight peering;
Looks at the wood, where the pine and fir
Stand round the farm, and never stir;
Broods on an unavailing
Riddle, forever failing;

Runs his hand through his hair and beard -
Gravely, his head a-shaking -
»Harder riddle I never heard,
Vainly, my head I'm breaking.» -
Chasing, then, as his wont for aye,
Such unsolvable things away,
Robin trips, without hustling,
Now, about duty bustling.

Goes to the larder and tool-house fine,
Every padlock trying -
See! by moonlight, in stalls, the kine,
Dreaming of summer, are lying;
Heedless of harness and whip and team,
Pollë, stabled, has, too, a dream:
Manger and crib, all over,
Fill with sweet-smelling clover.

Robin goes to the lambs and sheep -
See! they are all a-dreaming!
Goes to the hens, where the cock will sleep,
Perched, with vanity teeming;
Karo, in kennel, so brave and hale,
Wakes up and gladly wags his tail;
Karo, he knows his brother,
Watchman, they love each other.

Lastly, Robin will steal to see
The masterfolks, loved so dearly;
Long have they liked his industry,
Now, they honour him, clearly;
Stealing on tiptoe, soon he nears
Nursery cots, the little dears;
None must grudge him the pleasure;
This is his greatest treasure.

Thus he has seen them, sire and son,
Endless numbers of races;
Whence are they coming, one by one,
All the slumbering faces?
Mortals succeeding mortals, there,
Flourished, and aged, and went - but where?
Oh, this riddle, revolving,
He will never cease solving!

Robin goes to the hay-shed loft,
There, is his haunt and hollow,
Deep in the sweet-smelling hay, aloft,
Near the nest of the swallow;
Empty, now, is the swallow's nest,
But when spring is in blossom drest,
She for home will be yearning,
Will, with her mate, be returning.

Then she'll twitter, and sing, and chat
Much of her airy travel,
Nothing, though, of the riddle that
Robin can never unravel.
Through a chink in the hay-shed wall,
Lustrous moonbeams on Robin fall,
There, on his beard, they're blinking,
Robin’s brooding and thinking.

Mute is the wold, is nature all,
Life is so frozen and dreary;
From afar, but the rapids' call,
Murmuring, sounds so weary.
Robin listens, half in a dream,
Fancies he hears the vital stream,
Wonders whither it's going,
Whence its waters are flowing.

Midwinter's nightly frost is hard -
Brightly the stars are beaming.
Fast asleep is the lonely Yard,
All till morn will be dreaming.
Faint is the moon; and the snow-drifts shine,
Glistening white on fir and pine,
Covers on rooflets making.
None but Robin is waking.

inviata da Juha Rämö - 21/12/2018 - 17:35




Lingua: Italiano

Traduzione italiana / Italiensk översättning / Italian translation / Traduction italienne / Italiankielinen käännös: Danila Oppio

Questa deliziosa poesia, che descrive la misteriosa pace e la quiete di una notte d'inverno, fu pubblicata per la prima volta nel Ny Illustrerad Tidning (“Nuovo Giornale Illustrato”) nel 1881. La parola svedese tomten indica una creatura mitologica del folklore nordico tipicamente associata al solstizio d'inverno e al periodo natalizio. Generalmente lo si descrive come non più alto di 90 cm, con una lunga barba bianca e con sulla testa un berretto conico o di maglia, rosso o di un altro colore vivace.

Secondo la tradizione, vive nelle abitazioni e nelle stalle della fattoria, e fa loro segretamente da guardiano. Se viene ben trattato, protegge la famiglia e gli animali dal male e dalla sventura, e può anche aiutare nei lavori di casa e agricoli. Tuttavia è noto anche per il suo caratteraccio, specie se viene offeso. Se insultato, gioca di solito brutti scherzi, ruba delle cose e addirittura mutila o ammazza del bestiame.

La poesia di Rydberg è stata messa in musica parecchie volte, sia in Svezia che in Finlandia. La mia preferita, per carattere e atmosfera, è quella della compositrice finlandese Lyyli Wartiovaara-Kallioniemi (1907-1970). Purtroppo, sembra che nessuno abbia inciso la canzone in svedese sulla sua musica. Il video riporta una versione composta da Ulf Andersson e cantata da Ulf e Bo Andersson.

Con questa canzone, auguro allo staff e ai membri di questo sito un buon Natale e un felice 2019. - Juha Rämö (tr. RV)

Nota. La traduzione italiana che segue, proveniente dal blog L'armonia delle parole, è stata pubblicata dal blogger, Renzo Montagnoli, pochi giorni fa (18 dicembre 2018). Il fatto che l'autrice, Danila Oppio, riporti la poesia come pubblicata sul “New Illustrated Newspaper” fa quantomeno sospettare che la traduzione sia stata eseguita da una qualche traduzione inglese. A nome mio personale, e dell'intero staff delle CCG/AWS, auguro anch'io un buon 25 dicembre e un felice anno nuovo a Juha Rämö, ringraziandolo per questo piccolo capolavoro. [RV]
TOMTEN

Avvinte nel freddo notturno glaciale
Le stelle scintillano e brillano.
Tutti dormono nella fattoria solitaria
sprofondata nella notte invernale.
La luna prosegue il suo percorso,
fa luccicare la neve su pini e abeti,
e splende bianca sui tetti. 
Solo Tomte veglia.

Sta lì, così grigio, vicino al basso fienile.
Grigio, contro il potere bianco.
E osserva, come i precedenti inverni,
sotto il freddo bagliore lunare.
Poi il suo sguardo si sposta
in direzione del bosco di abeti e pini.
Circonda la fattoria in una ruvida linea,
trattenendo, in modo implacabile
un enigma che non ha chiave.

Fa scorrere la mano tra capelli e barba,
scuote la testa e il berretto
"No, l'enigma è troppo difficile,
no, non lo comprendo".
Poi, scrollando in fretta la testa
caccia via i molesti pensieri
e torna al compito che gli compete.
Si dirige verso la fattoria

della quale conosce tutte le serrature.
Le mucche nella stalla,
nella fredda luce lunare, sognano l’estate.
Privo d’imbracatura, frusta e renne,
il vecchio pony ha ancora un sogno:
la mangiatoia piena di fragrante trifoglio. 
Va quindi alla recinzione delle pecore,
vede che, accucciate, dormono tranquille.

Va poi dai polli, dove il gallo si pavoneggia
orgoglioso della sua alta cresta,
sopra i nidi colmi di calda paglia fresca.
Il cane si sveglia muove la coda, come per dire:
"vecchio amico, compagno, siamo giunti alla fine".
Tomte gironzola per l'ultima volta
a osservare le persone della casa.
Ben conosce la grande stima

che le rende sicure della sua fedele cura.
Va a vegliare vicino ai letti dei bambini
e accarezza piano i loro capini.
Non ci si sbaglia a immaginare il suo piacere:
questi sono il suo tesoro più grande.
Li ha visti, da padre in figlio, in figlio,
per lunghe generazioni, dormire come fanciulli.
Ma da dove sono venuti? Sono arrivate famiglie,

e altre se ne sono andate, fiorite, invecchiate;
ma dove la vita è trascorsa? 
E per un attimo ancora, rimane senza risposta.
Lentamente si gira verso il soppalco:
lì ha vissuto, è la sua fortezza, e il suo riposo,
alto nel profumo del fieno, vicino al nido della rondine.
Ora quel nido è vuoto, ma in primavera,
quando tra foglie e fiori, gli uccellini torneranno a cantare,

probabilmente la rondine tornerà,
con il suo piccolo compagno. 
Poi racconterà del viaggio, cinguettando
a tutti coloro che la ascoltano
e torna così, di rimbalzo, la vecchia domanda,
che vaga inquieta nella mente di Tomte.
Attraverso le crepe nella parete del fienile
la luna illumina la sua barba, e Tomte continua a pensare.

Silenziosa è la foresta e tutta la terra
avvolta nel freddo invernale.
Solo la cascata lontana sussurra e sospira all’orecchio.
Tomte ascolta e, a metà del sogno, 
gli sembra di udire l’infinito flusso del tempo
e si chiede a cosa sia legato. Qual è la sua fonte?
Avvinte nel freddo notturno glaciale,
le stelle brillano e scintillano.

Tutti dormono in quella fattoria solitaria
mentre s’avvicina la nebbia del mattino.
La luna sta terminando il suo tranquillo vagare,
la neve imbianca il pino e l’abete,
brillando scintillante sui tetti. 
Solo Tomte veglia. 

23/12/2018 - 05:47


Thank you, Riccardo Venturi, for your Christmas wishes and for having restructured the page. I would very much appreciate if you could correct the layout of the English translation by Charles Wharton Stork (11 instead of now 8 verses). The original I submitted did have 11 verses, but something happened on its way from icy Finland to the bit universe. Maybe the Tomten has played one of its tricks.

By the way, here's an audio link to a resitation of the poem by Torgny Lindgren,



and (here) a link to a 1941 film version of the poem with English subtitles.

Juha Rämö - 23/12/2018 - 10:38


I have corrected the layout of both Charles Stork's English version and Danila Oppio's Italian version. A special thank for showing Torgny Lindgren's reading of the poem: I have known Torgny Lindgren in person, and he also presented me a copy of his Ormens väg på hälleberget with his signature and dedication. This was long ago. Torgny Lindgren died on 16 March 2017; may he rest in peace.

Riccardo Venturi - 23/12/2018 - 12:49


Thank you very much for the corrections.

I just noticed that the above hyperlink leads to a wrong Ulf Andersson. It's not the one from Swedish Örnsköldsvik but another one from Finnish Perniö / Pernå (see https://www.uppslagsverket.fi/sv/sok/v...)

Juha Rämö - 23/12/2018 - 13:13




Lingua: Finlandese

Traduzione finlandese 2 / Finnish translation 2 / Traduction finnoise 2 / Finsk översättning 2 / Suomennos 2: Yrjö Jylhä (1903 - 1956)

With this 2nd Finnish version of Viktor Rydberg's great poem I wish all the staff members, contributors and friends of this webpage a peaceful Christmas time and a happy new year 2020.

god jul
TONTTU

Tuima talven on pakkanen,
tähdet kiiluvat yössä.
Kansa kartanon hiljaisen
nukkuu jo, uupunut työssä.
Verkkaan vaeltaa kiekko kuun,
lunta täynnä on oksat puun.
Kattojen päällä on lunta,
tonttu ei vaan saa unta.

Ometan ukselle vaiti jää
harmaana hankea vasten,
kuuta taivaalla tirkistää
tuttuna vanhain ja lasten,
katsoo muuria hongiston
takana nukkuvan kartanon,
pohtien iäti uutta
ongelman salaisuutta.

Kouransa partaan ja tukkaan vie,
puistaa päätä ja hilkkaa:
"Ei, tämä pulmista vaikein lie,
ei, tämä järkeä pilkkaa."
Heittää, niin kuin jo kiire ois,
moiset pulmat ja mietteet pois,
lähtee toimeen ja työhön,
lähtee puuhiinsa yöhön.

Aitat tutkii hän peljäten
lukkojen auki jäävän -
lehmät lehdoista uneksien
torkkuvat oljilla läävän.
Ruuna myös unen heinää syö,
suitset ja siimat ei selkään lyö.
Seimeensä saa se tuohon
tuoreen ja tuoksuvan ruohon.

Lampaat ja vuonat karsinaan
makuulle jättää ukko.
Kanatkin nukkuvat orsillaan,
ylinnä ylpeä kukko.
Koppiinsa Vahti vainun saa,
nousee ja häntää heiluttaa,
tonttu harmajanuttu
Vahdille kyllä on tuttu.

Pirttiin puikkii hän nähdäkseen
isäntäväkensä oivan
tietäen heidän siunanneen
tonttunsa työn ja hoivan.
Sitten hiipii hän lasten luo
nähdäkseen vesat hennot nuo.
Ken sitä kummeksis juuri,
hälle se onni on suuri.

Halki sukujen vaihtuvain
seuras hän ihmeellistä
näkyä pienten nukkujain -
mistä he saapuivat, mistä?
Polvi varttui ja ahkeroi,
vanheni, lähti - mut minne, oi?
Ongelma eessä on jälleen,
selvittämättä tälleen.

Viimein jää ladon parveen hän,
siellä hän vartoo kesää
tuoksussa heinän lämpimän
lähellä pääskysen pesää.
Vaikka pääsky nyt poissa on,
kukkiin noustessa nurmikon
saapuu se tänne varmaan
seurassa puolison armaan.

Silloin se laulaa ja tirskuttaa
matkamuistoja tieltä,
mutta ei tunne ongelmaa,
näin joka vaivaa mieltä.
Seinän raosta paistaa kuu
vanhuksen rintaan heijastuu,
kuunsäde kimaltaa partaan
tontun miettivän, hartaan.

Vaiti metsä on lintuineen,
luonnon mahlat on jäässä,
koski vain ihan hiljalleen
pauhaa matkojen päässä.
Tonttu lumoissa kuutamon
kuulevinaan ajan virtaa on,
miettii, minne se vienee,
missä sen lähde lienee.

Tuima talven on pakkanen,
tähdet kiiluvat yöhön,
kansa kartanon hiljaisen
nukkuu aamuun ja työhön.
Verkkaan laskee jo kiekko kuun,
lunta täynnä on oksat puun.
Kattojen päällä on lunta,
tonttu ei vaan saa unta.

inviata da Juha Rämö - 16/12/2019 - 13:02




Lingua: Inglese

Traduzione inglese 3 / English translation 3 / Traduction anglaise 3 / Engelsk översättning 3 / Englanninkielinen käännös 3: Steven Michelsen

https://cdn4.imgbb.ru/user/54/543553/2...


With this 3rd English version of Viktor Rydberg's great poem I wish all the staff members, contributors and friends of this webpage a peaceful Christmas and a decent new year 2022.
TOMTEN

Deep in the grip of the midwinter cold
The stars glitter and sparkle.
All are asleep on this lonely farm,
Deep in the winter night.
The pale white moon is a wanderer,
snow gleams white on pine and fir,
snow gleams white on the roofs.
Only tomten is awake.

Gray, he stands by the low barn door,
Gray by the drifted snow,
Gazing, as many winters he's gazed,
Up at the moon's chill glow,
Then at the forest where fir and pine
Circle the farm in a dusky line,
Mulling relentlessly
A riddle that has no key.

Rubs his hand through his beard and hair,
Shakes his head and his cap.
"No, that question is much too deep,
I cannot fathom that."
Then making his mind up in a hurry,
He shrugs away the annoying worry;
Turns at his own command,
Turns to the task at hand.

Goes to the storehouse and toolshop doors,
Checking the locks of all,
While the cows dream on in the cold moon's light,
Summer dreams in each stall.
And free of harness and whip and rein,
Even Old Pålle dreams again.
The manger he's drowsing over
Brims with fragrant clover.

The tomte glances at sheep and lambs
Cuddled in quiet rest.
The chickens are next, where the rooster roosts
High above straw filled nests.
Burrowed in straw, hearty and hale,
Karo wakens and wags his tail
As if to say, "Old friend,
Partners we are to the end."

At last the tomte tiptoes in
To see how the housefolk fare.
He knows full well the strong esteem
They feel for his faithful care.
He tiptoes into the children's beds,
Silently peers at their tousled heads.
There is no mistaking his pleasure:
These are his greatest treasure.

Long generations has he watched
Father to son to son
Sleeping as babes. But where, he asks,
From where, from where have they come?
Families came, families went,
Blossomed and aged, a lifetime spent,
Then-Where? That riddle again
Unanswered in his brain!

Slowly he turns to the barnyard loft,
His fortress, his home and rest,
High in the mow, in the fragrant hay
Near to the swallow's nest.
The nest is empty, but in the spring
When birds mid leaves and blossoms sing,
And come with her tiny mate.

Then will she talk of the journey tell.
Twittering to all who hear it,
But nary a hint for the question old
That stirs in the tomte's spirit.
Now through cracks in the haymow wall
The moon lights tomte and hay and all,
Lights his beard through the chinks,
The tomte ponders and thinks.

Still is the forest and all the land,
Locked in this wintry year.
Only the distant waterfall
Whispers and sighs in his ear.
The tomte listens and, half in dream,
Thinks that he hears Time's endless stream,
And wonders, where is it bound?
Where is its source to be found?

Deep in the grip of the midwinter cold,
The stars glitter and sparkle.
All are asleep on this lonely farm,
Late in this winter night.
The pale white moon is a wanderer,
Snow gleams white on pine and fir,
Snow gleams white on the roofs.
Only tomten is awake.

inviata da Juha Rämö - 21/12/2021 - 23:14




Lingua: Tedesco

Traduzione tedesca / German translation / Traduction allemande / Tysk översättning / Deutsche Übersetzung / Saksankielinen käännös: Lukas Wolfgang Börner

https://live.staticflickr.com/7265/701...


Mit dieser deutschen Version von Viktor Rydbergs großartigem Gedicht wünsche ich allen Mitarbeitern, Mitwirkenden und Freunden dieser Internetseite ein friedliches Weihnachtsfest und ein anständiges neues Jahr 2022.
DER WICHTEL

Die Winternacht ist kalt und hart.
Die Sterne glitzern, funkeln.
Zu dieser Stund ruht alles zart
im stillen Hof im Dunkeln.
Der Mond geht seine leise Bahn.
Der Schnee glänzt weiß auf dunklem Tann.
Der Schnee glänzt weiß am Dache.
Der Wichtel hält hier Wache.

Er steht am dunklen Scheunentor
vergraut vor dem Geschneibe
und schaut wie dutzendfach zuvor
hinauf zur Mondenscheibe.
Schaut hin zum Tann, zur Fichte bald –
wie dunkle Mauern steht der Wald.
Das Rätsel aller Wesen
sucht er indes zu lösen.

Fährt mit der Hand durch Bart und Haar,
doch schüttelnd mit dem Haupte
spricht er: »Solch Rätsel – welch ein Narr,
der es zu lösen glaubte!«
Der Wichtelmann erhebt sich nun,
um seine Pflicht wie stets zu tun,
stapft los – und sucht indessen,
das Rätsel zu vergessen.

Vorm Schuppen und Geräteraum,
da prüft er alle Schlösser.
Am Krippchen einen Sommertraum
erträumen Küh und Rösser.
Vergessen Zug und Peitschenknall
träumt Pålle tief in ihrem Stall
mit Speichel auf den Lippen
von kleegefüllten Krippen.

Er geht zum Stall von Lamm und Schaf,
die träumen auch schon lange.
Im Hühnerstall schläft alles brav,
der Hahn auf höchster Stange.
Der Karo in dem Hundehaus
schläft sich im warmen Strohbett aus.
Der Wichtel mag ihn leiden –
Vertraute sind die beiden.

Dann stapft er still zum Bauernhaus.
Er lässt sich’s nicht verwehren
und schaut auch nach den Menschen aus,
die allesamt ihn ehren.
Zum Kinderzimmer schleicht entzückt
der Wichtel stumm und still beglückt
und stellt sich auf die Zehen,
die Kinderlein zu sehen.

So sah er alle, Vater, Sohn,
und sieht noch heut verschwommen
wohl jegliche Generation.
Woher sind sie gekommen?
Die Ahnen blühten, welkten in
den Jahren, gingen – doch wohin?
Und wie vom Wind getragen
kam eine jener Fragen.

Er klettert auf das Scheunendach
zum Grübeln allenthalben.
Dort hat er Wohnung und Gemach
ganz nah dem Nest der Schwalben.
Ach, leer steht ihre Wohnung jetzt –
doch hat der Lenz erst eingesetzt,
lässt sich die Schwalbe wieder
mit ihrem Mann hier nieder.

Dann singt sie lieblich vor sich hin,
von ihren weiten Reisen.
Indes lässt jener seinen Sinn,
erneut ums Rätsel kreisen.
Die Scheunenbretter sind nicht dicht,
auf seinen Bart fällt Mondenlicht
und glitzert dort recht heiter,
er aber grübelt weiter.

Der Wald und die Umgebung liegt
gefangen dort im Eise.
Der Wasserfall, der nie versiegt,
rauscht stetig, leise, leise.
Der Wichtel, davon ganz betört,
beschließt, dass er das Leben hört.
Fragt sich, wohin es ginge
und wo der Quell entspringe.

Die Winternacht ist kalt und hart.
Die Sterne glitzern, funkeln.
Zu dieser Stund ruht alles zart
im stillen Hof im Dunkeln.
Der Mond geht seine leise Bahn.
Der Schnee glänzt weiß auf dunklem Tann.
Der Schnee glänzt weiß am Dache.
Der Wichtel hält hier Wache.

inviata da Juha Rämö - 21/12/2021 - 23:16




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