August 28, 2019 posted by

Karel Hynek Macha. Translation by Edith Pargeter Czech original. 1. Late evening, on the first of May— The twilit May—the time of love. Meltingly called the . Karel Hynek Mácha was born in in an old part of Prague where his father was the foreman at The epic romantic poem Máj (May) was written in Czech. Karel Hynek Mácha Every Czech child, by the time he or she is nine or ten, can quote the opening lines of May, “Byl pozdní večer – první máj.

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And the wind, the smoke-wreaths plying, To the moveless men is crying: Be one among us, know us well, No more be doomed alone to dwell. I read the synopsis and it didn’t sound interesting at all. Undeterred, he published it himself, printing copies in April of No winds blow more, nor waves complain, Nor even the far, sweet kaerl of pain, And in the bosom in the cell Dead silence, utter darkness dwell.

Karel Hynek Mácha: A leading poet of Czech Romanticism

Evening once more, the first of May- The twilit May-the time of love. Deep your seducer’s blood has stained him, That stroke a parricide arraigned him. How rich the night! A moment proves Now as the stork’s grave flight it looms, No dove so flies nor lily blooms, But a white sail rocked kkarel hasting breezes. And deep compassion folds its hands on every heart.

May – Karel Hynek Macha

What charm this heart can move? The pale, dead face of the head is softly silvered o’er, Silvered the silent mound, hushed by the lake-shore, As in the evening hush the moon’s fair face is raised. Considered the “pearl” of Czech poetry, it is a tale of seduction, revenge, and patricide. So dies the dreaded Forest King! A monstrous bird’s extended wing, From peak to peak the cloud is driven, Under one vast pall gathering In blackest marriage earth and heaven.


Not mine the deed!

The sunset is being mirrored onto his skull. Still paler, paler grows its light, Till fails at last the exhausted spark, And absolute and moveless dark On all beyond lies dreaming. Here in the womb Of veriest midnight shines some beam Of moon or star—there—hideous gloom, There never—never—never a gleam, Only the dark for ever.

Karel Hynek Mácha: the poet of lovers

At midnight is the funeral hour. In the far mountains’ dark confine Pine leans to birch and birch to pine. Burns This pioneer of Czech Romanticism died November 6, at the tender age of It is prefaced by a rather crude patriotic paean that is Macha’s acknowledgment of his era’s ,cha for patriotism in Czech literature, which he otherwise ignores in favor of international romanticism.

There are no discussion topics on this book yet. The entering wind sighing Circles the cell like yynek felons crying, And stirs the prisoner’s tresses.

And the wind, the smoke-wreaths plying, To the moveless men is crying: May Karel Hynek Macha. If you are a seller for this product, would you like to suggest updates through jj support? Goodreads helps you keep track of books you want to read. Sinks the fire, still waning-waning, Till the broad and bounteous heaven Melts in nightly dews of sorrow, And the earth to grief is given. Want to Read saving….


Column by column the sombre vault’s recesses Melt into darkness. Old Town Hall tower vantage point for biggest ever photograph of Prague. Long he stands frozen there aghast, Till thrusting off his helpless fears, Out of the cell he flies in haste.

Karel Hynek Macha – May

Whitely the lake’s green glass the flight of birds receives, And fleets of little craft, and small, swift-rowing shallops, Pattern the dim blue waves with glancing, fiery scallops. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. The village has come to see the execution and so there is a lot of posturing as we climb up the mountain.

A hillock by the lake-shore rises, A stake thereon, a wheel raised lightly, Whereon a bleached skull glistens whitely, While ghostly rout a dance devises, About the high wheel revelling rightly. Over the rocks his light step rings, By a known path he climbs and closes.

As clouds the moon’s face veil and cover, He draws their web his spirit over; Thought into thought flows undesigning. Interesting poem, too bad I can’t read a word in Czech.

Here wakes a clamorous cry, babel of human baying, As from the gates of the town the hungry man-pack races.