Recital: Anneke Stern '22, Soprano

Sposa son disprezzata

Sposa son disprezzata,
fida son oltraggiata,
cieli che feci mai?
E pur egl'è il mio cor
il mio sposo, il mio amor,
la mia speranza.
L'amo ma egl'è infedel
spero ma egl'è crudel,
morir mi lascierai?
O Dio manca il valor
valor e la costanza.

Agostino Piovene

I am wife and I am scorned

I am wife and I am scorned,
I am faithful and I'm outraged.
Heavens, what have I done?
And yet he is my heart,
my husband, my love,
my hope.
I love him, but he is unfaithful,
I hope, but he is cruel,
will he let me die?
O God, valor is missing -
valor and constancy.

L'abbandono

Solitario zeffiretto,
a che movi i tuoi sospiri?
Il sospiro a me sol lice,
ché, dolente ed infelice,
chiamo Dafne che non ode
l'insoffribil mio martir.

Langue invan la mammoletta e la rosa e il gelsomino;

lunge son da lui che adoro,
non conosco alcun ristoro
se non viene a consolarmi
col bel guardo cilestrino.

Ape industre, che vagando
sempre vai di fior in fiore,
ascolta, ascolta.

Se lo scorgi ov'ei dimora,
di' che rieda a chi l'adora,
come riedi tu nel seno
delle rose al primo albor.

Anonymous

The abandonment

Lonely breeze
why do you sigh?
Sighs are meant for me alone
for, grieving and unhappy,
I call on Daphnis who does not hear
my unbearable torment.

The sweet-smelling violet, the rose and the jasmine
      languish in vain;
I am far from him whom I adore,
and I have no relief
unless he comes and console me
with his beautiful blue gaze.

Industrious bee, who always flit
from flower to flower,
listen, listen:

If you find him where he is,
tell him to come back to the one who adores him,
as you come back to the bosom of the roses
at the first light of dawn.

Translation from Italian (Italiano) to English 
copyright © 2003 by Paolo Montanari, reprinted
with permission from the  LiederNet Archive,
https://www.lieder.net/  

Heiß mich nicht reden

Heiss’ mich nicht reden, heiss’ mich schweigen,
Denn mein Geheimnis ist mir Pflicht;
Ich möchte dir mein ganzes Innre zeigen,
Allein das Schicksal will es nicht.
Zur rechten Zeit vertreibt der Sonne Lauf
Die finstre Nacht, und sie muss sich erhellen;
Der harte Fels schliesst seinen Busen auf,
Missgönnt der Erde nicht die tief verborgnen Quellen.
Ein Jeder sucht im Arm des Freundes Ruh,
Dort kann die Brust in Klagen sich ergiessen;
Allein ein Schwur drückt mir die Lippen zu,
Und nur ein Gott vermag sie aufzuschliessen.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe


Waldesgespräch

Es ist schon spät, es ist schon kalt,
Was reit’st du einsam durch den Wald?
Der Wald ist lang, du bist allein,
Du schöne Braut! Ich führ’ dich heim!
„Groß ist der Männer Trug und List,
Vor Schmerz mein Herz gebrochen ist,
Wohl irrt das Waldhorn her und hin,
O flieh! Du weißt nicht, wer ich bin.“
So reich geschmückt ist Roß und Weib,
So wunderschön der junge Leib,
Jetzt kenn’ ich dich—Gott steh’ mir bei!
Du bist die Hexe Loreley.
„Du kennst mich wohl—von hohem Stein
Schaut still mein Schloß tief in den Rhein.
Es ist schon spät, es ist schon kalt,
Kommst nimmermehr aus diesem Wald!“

Joseph von Eichendorff


In der Fremde

Aus der Heimat hinter den Blitzen rot
Da kommen die Wolken her,
Aber Vater und Mutter sind lange tot,
Es kennt mich dort keiner mehr.
Wie bald, ach wie bald kommt die stille Zeit,
Da ruhe ich auch, und über mir
Rauscht die schöne Waldeinsamkeit,
Und keiner kennt mich mehr hier.

Joseph von Eichendorff

Bid me not speak

Bid me not speak, bid me be silent,
For I am bound to secrecy;
I should love to bare you my soul,
But Fate has willed it otherwise.
At the appointed time the sun dispels
The dark, and night must turn to day;
The hard rock opens up its bosom,
Does not begrudge earth its deeply hidden springs.
All humans seek peace in the arms of a friend,
There the heart can pour out its sorrow;
But my lips, alas, are sealed by a vow,
And only a god can open them.




A Forest Dialogue

It is already late, already cold,
Why ride lonely through the forest?
The forest is long, you are alone,
You lovely bride! I’ll lead you home!
‘Great is the deceit and cunning of men,
My heart is broken with grief,
The hunting horn echoes here and there,
O flee! You do not know who I am.’
So richly adorned are steed and lady,
So wondrous fair her youthful form,
Now I know you—may God protect me!
You are the enchantress Lorelei.
‘You know me well—from its towering rock
My castle looks silently into the Rhine.
It is already late, already cold,
You shall never leave this forest again!’




In a Foreign Land

From my homeland, beyond the red lightning,
The clouds come drifting in,
But father and mother have long been dead,
Now no one knows me there.
How soon, ah! how soon till that quiet time
When I too shall rest
Beneath the sweet murmur of lonely woods,
Forgotten here as well.

Translations by Richard Stokes, author of The Book
of Lieder (Faber, 2005); provided courtesy of Oxford
Lieder (www.oxfordlieder.co.uk)

El paño moruno

Al paño fino, en la tienda,
una mancha le cayó.
Por menos precio se vende,
porque perdió su valor.
¡Ay!

Gregorio Martínez Sierra


Nana

Duérmete, niño, duerme,
duerme, mi alma,
duérmete, lucerito,
de la mañana.
Naninta, nana.
duérmete, lucerito
de la mañana.

Anonymous

The Moorish cloth

On the delicate fabric in the shop
there fell a stain.
It sells for less
for it has lost its value
Ay!




Lullaby

Sleep, little one, sleep,
sleep, my darling,
sleep, my little
morning star.
Lullay, lullay,
sleep, my little
morning star.

Translations by Jacqueline Cockburn and Richard Stokes
published in The Spanish Song Companion
(Gollancz, 1992);provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder
(www.oxfordlieder.co.uk)

C'est l'extase langoureuse

C’est l’extase langoureuse,
C’est la fatigue amoureuse,
C’est tous les frissons des bois
Parmi l’étreinte des brises,
C’est, vers les ramures grises,
Le chœur des petites voix.
Ô le frêle et frais murmure!
Cela gazouille et susurre,
Cela ressemble au cri doux
Que l’herbe agitée expire …
Tu dirais, sous l’eau qui vire,
Le roulis sourd des cailloux.
Cette âme qui se lamente
En cette plainte dormante
C’est la nôtre, n’est-ce pas?
La mienne, dis, et la tienne,
Dont s’exhale l’humble antienne
Par ce tiède soir, tout bas?


Il pleure dans mon cœur

Il pleure dans mon cœur
Comme il pleut sur la ville;
Quelle est cette langueur
Qui pénètre mon cœur?
Ô bruit doux de la pluie
Par terre et sur les toits!
Pour un cœur qui s’ennuie
Ô le bruit de la pluie!
Il pleure sans raison
Dans ce cœur qui s’écœure.
Quoi! nulle trahison? …
Ce deuil est sans raison.
C’est bien la pire peine
De ne savoir pourquoi
Sans amour et sans haine,
Mon cœur a tant de peine.


Spleen

Les roses étaient toutes rouges
Et les lierres étaient tout noirs.
Chère, pour peu que tu te bouges,
Renaissent tous mes désespoirs.
Le ciel était trop bleu, trop tendre,
La mer trop verte et l’air trop doux.
Je crains toujours,—ce qu’est d’attendre!—
Quelque fuite atroce de vous.
Du houx à la feuille vernie
Et du luisant buis je suis las,
Et de la campagne infinie
Et de tout, fors de vous, hélas!

Paul Verlaine

It is languorous rapture

It is languorous rapture,
It is amorous fatigue,
It is all the tremors of the forest
In the breezes’ embrace,
It is, around the grey branches,
The choir of tiny voices.
O the delicate, fresh murmuring!
The warbling and whispering,
It is like the soft cry
The ruffled grass gives out …
You might take it for the muffled sound
Of pebbles in the swirling stream.
This soul which grieves
In this subdued lament,
It is ours, is it not?
Mine, and yours too,
Breathing out our humble hymn
On this warm evening, soft and low?


Tears fall in my heart

Tears fall in my heart
As rain falls on the town;
What is this torpor
Pervading my heart?
Ah, the soft sound of rain
On the ground and roofs!
For a listless heart,
Ah, the sound of the rain!
Tears fall without reason
In this disheartened heart.
What! Was there no treason? …
This grief’s without reason.
And the worst pain of all
Must be not to know why
Without love and without hate
My heart feels such pain.


Spleen

All the roses were red
And the ivy was all black.
Dear, at your slightest move,
All my despair revives.
The sky was too blue, too tender,
The sea too green, the air too mild.
I always fear—oh to wait and wonder!—
One of your agonizing departures.
I am weary of the glossy holly,
Of the gleaming box-tree too,
And the boundless countryside
And everything, alas, but you!

Translations © Richard Stokes, author of
A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000);
provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder (www.oxfordlieder.co.uk)