Ophélie, John Everett Millais
Επιμέλεια: Christos Sipsis
Η Σαίξπηρικη Οφηλία υπηρξε ενα απο τα ιδιαιτερα αγαπημενα θεματα των ζωγραφων, των ποιητων των φιλοσοφων και των ψυχαναλυτών.
La mort d'Ophélie
[Au bord]1 d'un torrent, Ophélie
Cueillait tout en suivant le bord,
Dans sa douce et tendre folie,
Des pervenches, des boutons d'or,
Des iris aux couleurs d'opale,
Et de ces fleurs d'un rose pâle,
Qu'on appelle des doigts de mort.
Puis élevant sur ses mains blanches
Les riants trésors du matin,
Elle les suspendait aux branches,
Aux branches d'un saule voisin;
Mais, trop faible, le rameau plie,
Se brise, et la pauvre Ophélie
Tombe, sa guirlande à la main.
Quelques instants, sa robe enflée
La tint encor sur le courant,
Et comme une voile gonflée,
Elle flottait toujours, chantant,
Chantant quelque vieille ballade,
Chantant ainsi qu'une naïade
Née au milieu de ce torrent.
Mais cette étrange mélodie
Passa rapide comme un son;
Par les flots la robe alourdie
Bientôt dans l'abîme profond;
Entraïna la pauvre insensée,
Laissant à peine commencée
Sa mélodieuse chanson.
Ernest-Wilfrid Legouvé
la mort d ophélie, Εugène Delacroix
Translation (from "A French Song Companion" by Graham Johnson and Richard Stokes, slightly edited):
The death of Ophelia
Beside a brook, Ophelia
gathered along the water's bank,
in her sweet and gentle madness,
periwinkles, buttercups,
opal-tinted irises,
and those pale purples
called dead men's fingers.
Then, raising up in her white hands
the morning's laughing trophies,
she hung them on the branches,
the branches of a nearby willow.
But the bough, too fragile, bends,
breaks, and poor Ophelia
falls, the garland in her hand.
Her dress, spread wide,
bore her on the water awhile,
and like an outstretched sail
she floated, still singing,
singing some old ballad,
singing like a naiad
born amidst the stream.
But this strange melody died,
fleeting as a snatch of sound.
Her garment, heavy with water,
soon into the depths
dragged the poor distracted girl,
leaving her melodious song
hardly yet begun.
The death of Ophelia
Beside a brook, Ophelia
gathered along the water's bank,
in her sweet and gentle madness,
periwinkles, buttercups,
opal-tinted irises,
and those pale purples
called dead men's fingers.
Then, raising up in her white hands
the morning's laughing trophies,
she hung them on the branches,
the branches of a nearby willow.
But the bough, too fragile, bends,
breaks, and poor Ophelia
falls, the garland in her hand.
Her dress, spread wide,
bore her on the water awhile,
and like an outstretched sail
she floated, still singing,
singing some old ballad,
singing like a naiad
born amidst the stream.
But this strange melody died,
fleeting as a snatch of sound.
Her garment, heavy with water,
soon into the depths
dragged the poor distracted girl,
leaving her melodious song
hardly yet begun.
Ophelie, Constantin Meunier
Ophelie Thomas Dodd
Ophélie, Alexandre Cabanel
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