At Heliade Poem by Peter Mamara

by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)

If Apollo would let me choose from assorted wreaths,
I would not choose a garland with fresh delicate flowers
— Other than the imposing wreath for the ancient writer.
I would not choose the lyre that vibrates with desire,
But the one which proudly, inspires in me self-respect
And fires up in me the inspiration of an ancient Vestal.

The garland that bonds with the buoyant souls,
On the inspired brow
Surrounded by light-coloured and curly hair,
That garland is nice.
But a laurel wreath placed on a cool brow
With silver hair weaved in a sacred way, it is sublime.

The song that Aeolus gently sings is like a dream,
When cheerless, the phantoms come to sleep in water lilies,
And angels sleep on white bosoms of flowers.
Sublime is the song when the wind roars and flows
After the murky waves go wild and then break
And fizz like furies, and then roar scarily.

Old Heliade you… It is your song,
Similarly to what a prophesy of Jeremiah says,
About the way a snowstorm takes its revenge
Flying from cloud to cloud.
I shall pray to Eratos so like you I can sing, bard you.
If not in my entire life, my dying song at least,
It shall be like your ‘curse'…
Then, I can die after I would sing it.

(1867 June 18/30)

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