Translating Yeats

May 29th is the anniversary of the Fall of Constantinople in 1453, a momentous watershed in late medieval history. The Byzantine Empire had long been gradually receding against the expansion of Ottoman Turks, and in 1453 the final deah-blow was delivered with the capturing of the capital and death of the last emperor, Constantine XI Palaiologos. The history of the Byzantine Empire is a fascinating series of events, often treated by Western Europeans as marginal to the events of Catholic Christendom and consequently less known outside medievalist circles than, say, the history of England or the Papacy. However, the Byzantine Empire was its own centre and a looming entity in the history of the Near East.

There has always been a fascination with Byzantium in the Western mind, treated often as something alien, wildly different. One man who was very intrigued by the strangeness and mystery of the Byzantine Empire was William Butler Yeats, whose two poems on Byzantium evokes the sort of romantic mystification that has clouded more than explained the nature of the Empire and its history. These are both beautiful poems, and for this occasion I will present my favourite of the two - Sailing to Byzantium - together with my own translation into Norwegian. The translation will be followed by a literal rendition so as to show just in what ways I have twisted the original text in order to maintain the meaning, and what compromises the translation has required.

The City of Constantinople as described by John Mandeville,
From MS. Harley 3954, 15thC (East Anglia)
Courtesy of British Library

Sailing to Byzantium

That is no country for old men. The young

In one another’s arms, birds in the trees

– Those dying generations – at their song,

The salmon‐falls, the mackerel‐crowded seas,

Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long

Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.

Caught in that sensual music all neglect

Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,

A tattered coat upon a stick, unless

Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing

For every tatter in its mortal dress,

Nor is there singing school but studying

Monuments of its own magnificence;

And therefore I have sailed the seas and come

To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God’s holy fire

As in the gold mosaic of a wall,

Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,

And be the singing‐masters of my soul.

Consume my heart away; sick with desire

And fastened to a dying animal

It knows not what it is; and gather me

Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take

My bodily form from any natural thing,

But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make

Of hammered gold and gold enamelling

To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;

Or set upon a golden bough to sing

To lords and ladies of Byzantium

Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees —Those dying generations—at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect. An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium. O sages standing in God's holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity. Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20310#sthash.OAEavJht.dpuf

That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees —Those dying generations—at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect. An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium. O sages standing in God's holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity. Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20310#sthash.OAEavJht.dpuf

That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees —Those dying generations—at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect. An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium. O sages standing in God's holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity. Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20310#sthash.OAEavJht.dpuf

That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees —Those dying generations—at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect. An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium. O sages standing in God's holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity. Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20310#sthash.OAEavJht.dpuf

Philosophers in Macedonia and tournaments in Constantinople,
From MS. Harley 3954, 15thC (East Anglia)
Courtesy of British Library

Å segle til Bysants

Dét er ikkje eit land for gamle menn. Dei

unge, arm i arm, fuglane i tre

– forgjengelege ættledd – i deira lei,

til song, kvar sølvsprengd sjø, kvart elvekre,

fugl, fisk og fe i ei stor sommar-rei

gjev pris til fødd, til skapt og døyande.

Av desse tonar fanga, kvar ei slekt

vil gløyme alt om tidlaust intellekt.

Ein kall er helst ein ubetydeleg ting,
ein rivna frakk oppå ein staur, so sant
då ikkje sjela klappar høgt og syng

for kvar ei kjøtleg rift i baug og spant.

Dei lærer ikkje song, men ser ikring
sin stordoms reisverk bygd på kvar ein kant;
og derfor seglar eg og søkjer glans

i keisaren sin helga by: Bysants.

De prestar som står i Guds helga loge
som mosaikken i ein gullgjord mur,
kom frå den helga logen, piler frå bogen,
og lær mi sjel å meistre moll og dur.
Kom et mitt hjarta opp; sjukleg av hugen

og bunde til eit døyand' kreatur,
det veit'kje kva det er; lat meg ta del
i den store æva sitt narrespel.

Når naturen slepp meg vil eg ikkje ta
min kropp frå noko som naturen hev,
men frå emalje, gull so tynt som blad,
ja slikt dei greske gullsmedane gjev
ein keisar som vil ut av svevnen dra;

ell' som vert sett på gullkvist og der kved
til vyrde menn og kvinner i Bysants
om kva som kjem, som er og eingong fanst.

Psellos and his pupil the Emperor, Byzantine mosaic c.800
Courtesy of Wikimedia

To Sail to Byzantium

That is not a country for old men. The

Young, arm in arm, the birds in trees,

- Those transient generations - in their direction

To song each silver-laden sea, each river-trout,

Fowl, fish and livestock in one big summer-throng

Give praises to the born, the created and the dying.

By these tones made captive, each family

Will forget all about timeless intellect.

And old man is rather an unimportant thing,

A tattered coat upon a stick, unless

The soul don't loudly clap and sing

For each a fleshly wound in prow and frame.

They do not learn song, but see around

The structures of their greatness on every side

And therefore I sail to seek splendour

In the emperor's hallowed city: Byzantium.

You priests who stand in God's hallowed fire,

As the mosaic of a golden wall,

Come from the hallowed fire, arrows from the bow,

And teach my soul to master majors and minors.

Come eat up my heart; sickened by the will

And fastened to a dying creature

It knows not what it is; and let me take part

In the great deception of eternity.

When nature releases me I will not take

My body from anything that nature has,

But from enamel, gold as thin as leaves,

Yes such the Grecian goldsmiths will give

An emperor who wants to depart from sleep;

Or which is set upon a golden bough and there chants

To high-born men and women of Byzantium

Of what will come, what is and what once was.

Byzantine mosaic allegedly depicting the soul in the body and outside the body
Courtesy of Wikimedia