Author Topic: Samuel Taylor Coleridge -> Σάμιουελ Τέιλορ Κόλεριτζ, Σάμιουελ Τέιλορ Κόουλριτζ  (Read 9379 times)

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Samuel Taylor Coleridge (21 October 1772 – 25 July 1834) was an English poet, Romantic, literary critic and philosopher who, with his friend William Wordsworth, was a founder of the Romantic Movement in England and a member of the Lake Poets. He is probably best known for his poems The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Kubla Khan, as well as for his major prose work Biographia Literaria. His critical work, especially on Shakespeare, was highly influential, and he helped introduce German idealist philosophy to English-speaking culture. He coined many familiar words and phrases, including the celebrated suspension of disbelief. He was a major influence, via Emerson, on American transcendentalism.

Throughout his adult life, Coleridge suffered from crippling bouts of anxiety and depression; it has been speculated that he suffered from bipolar disorder, a mental disorder which was unknown during his life. Coleridge chose to treat these episodes with opium, becoming an addict in the process. This addiction would affect him in the future.



Samuel Taylor Coleridge in 1795

Poems published in Translatum:

« Last Edit: 16 Sep, 2018, 08:58:04 by Frederique »
Τι μπορείς να περιμένεις από μια μέρα που ξεκινάει με το πρωί της Δευτέρας;


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Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Rime Of The Ancient Mariner
« Reply #1 on: 30 May, 2007, 20:45:49 »
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Rime Of The Ancient Mariner



Hear the rime of the Ancient Mariner
See his eyes as he stops one of three
Mesmerises one of the wedding guests
Stay here and listen to the nightmares of the Sea.

And the music plays on, and the bride passes by
Caught by his spell and the Mariner tells his tale.

Driven south to the land of the snow and ice
To a place where nobody's been
Through the snow fog flies the albatross
Hailed in God's name, hoping good luck it brings.

And the ship sails on, back to the North
Through the fog and the ice the albatross follows on

The mariner kills the bird of good omen
His shipmates cry against what he's done
But when the fog clears, they justify him
And make themselves part of the crime.

Sailing on and on and North across the sea
Sailing on and on and North 'till all is calm.

The albatross begins with its vengeance
A terrible thirst a curse has begun
His shipmates blame bad luck on the Mariner
About his neck, the dead bird is hung.

And the curse goes on and on at sea
And the curse goes on and on for them and me.

"Day after day, day after day, we stuck nor breath nor motion
As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean
Water, water, everywhere and all the boards did shrink
Water, water, everywhere nor any drop to drink."

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1798-1834)
« Last Edit: 11 May, 2011, 16:16:33 by Frederique »

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Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Frost at Midnight
« Reply #2 on: 30 May, 2007, 21:03:37 »
Λες να έχει αναπτυχθεί ένα είδος τηλεπάθειας μετά από τέτοιο ανελέητο translatosurfing;;:PP
Πάντως είναι ένα υπέροχο ποίημα, από τους καλύτερους ποιητές της Romantic Period και αρκετά πεσιμιστής για να λατρεύω όλα του τα ποιήματα:)
Ορίστε ένα ακόμα αγαπημένο (ένεκα του ότι το Rime of the Ancient Mariner και το Christabel είναι τεράστια)

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Frost at Midnight

The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud–and hark, again ! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings : save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not ;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.
   But O ! how oft,

How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come !
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams !
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book :
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike !

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,

Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the intersperséd vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought !
My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes ! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,

Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,

Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.


Frost at Midnight was a poem written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge in February 1798. Part of the conversation poems, the poem discusses Coleridge's childhood experience in a negative manner and emphasizes the need to be raised in the countryside. The poem expresses hope that Coleridge's son, Hartley, would be able to experience a childhood that he could not and become a true "child of nature". The view of nature within the poem has a strong Christian element in that Coleridge believed that nature represents a physical presence of God's word and that the poem is steeped in Coleridge's understanding of Neoplatonism. In terms of criticism, Frost at Midnight has been well received by critics and seen as the best of the conversation poems.
« Last Edit: 11 May, 2011, 16:13:36 by Frederique »
Τι μπορείς να περιμένεις από μια μέρα που ξεκινάει με το πρωί της Δευτέρας;


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Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Frost at Midnight
« Reply #3 on: 11 Dec, 2009, 21:04:57 »
Λες να έχει αναπτυχθεί ένα είδος τηλεπάθειας μετά από τέτοιο ανελέητο translatosurfing;;:PP
Πάντως είναι ένα υπέροχο ποίημα, από τους καλύτερους ποιητές της Romantic Period και αρκετά πεσιμιστής για να λατρεύω όλα του τα ποιήματα:)
Ορίστε ένα ακόμα αγαπημένο (ένεκα του ότι το Rime of the Ancient Mariner και το Christabel είναι τεράστια)

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Frost at Midnight

The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud–and hark, again ! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings : save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not ;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.
   But O ! how oft,

How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come !
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams !
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book :
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike !

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,

Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the intersperséd vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought !
My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes ! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,

Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,

Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.


Frost at Midnight was a poem written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge in February 1798. Part of the conversation poems, the poem discusses Coleridge's childhood experience in a negative manner and emphasizes the need to be raised in the countryside. The poem expresses hope that Coleridge's son, Hartley, would be able to experience a childhood that he could not and become a true "child of nature". The view of nature within the poem has a strong Christian element in that Coleridge believed that nature represents a physical presence of God's word and that the poem is steeped in Coleridge's understanding of Neoplatonism. In terms of criticism, Frost at Midnight has been well received by critics and seen as the best of the conversation poems.
« Last Edit: 11 May, 2011, 16:14:44 by Frederique »

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Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Kubla Khan
« Reply #4 on: 11 May, 2011, 16:10:07 »
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Kubla Khan

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover !
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war !


The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,

That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Communicate. Explore potentials. Find solutions.

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Re: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
« Reply #5 on: 15 Sep, 2018, 14:12:30 »

Work Without Hope

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—   
The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—   
And Winter, slumbering in the open air,   
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!   
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,            
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.   
 
Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,   
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.   
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,   
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!    
With lips unbrighten’d, wreathless brow, I stroll:   
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?   
Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,   
And Hope without an object cannot live.


Δουλειά χωρίς ελπίδα

Όλα δουλεύουν στην πλάση. Για δες: τα μελίσσια βουίζουν,
απ' τις φωλιές τους οι σάλιαγκοι βγήκαν· στρουθιά φτερουγίζουν.
Kαι να που κι ο γέρος χειμώνας κι αυτός στο γαλάζιο του απείρου
έχει στα μάτια του, κάτι σαν φως ανοιξιάτικου ονείρου.
Mόνος εγώ μέσα σ' όλα με δίχως δουλειά τριγυρνάω,
κι ούτ' αγαπώ, κι ούτε μέλι τρυγώ, κι ούτε πια τραγουδάω.

Kι όμως γνωρίζω κάτι άγνωστους όχτους που αμάραντ' ανθίζουν,
ξέρω κρυμμένες πηγές που το νέκταρ σε ρυάκια σκορπίζουν.
Για άλλους αμάραντ', αλίμονο γι' άλλους αν θέλετ' ανθίστε·
όχι! για με μην ανθίστε. Mακριά μου ρυάκια κυλήστε·
μ' έν' αστεφάνωτο μέτωπο φεύγω, με χείλη φρυγμένα,
κι αν με ρωτάς ποιος με πνίγει καημός, άκου τούτο από μένα:
δίχως ελπίδα η δουλειά νέκταρ μέσα σε κόσκινο χύνει,
και δίχως κάποιο σκοπό η ελπίδα δε ζει μήτ' εκείνη.


μετάφραση: Λάμπρος Πορφύρας
Ανθολογία της ευρωπαϊκής και αμερικανικής ποιήσεως, επιμέλεια Κλ. Β. Παράσχος, Συμεωνίδης