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  You are here: home »  literature »  eminescu  » calin

CALIN		CALIN
Autumn come, the dead leaves flying, A cricket somewhere softy crying, A sad breeze whispering at your window, The pane with trembling fingers prying, While you're awaiting gentle sleep Alone before your fireplace lying. What made you start and raise your head. Was is a foot the stairway trying? Aye, 'tis your lover come at last, Around your waist his strong arm plying. Before your face he holds a mirror, Wherein your loveliness espying, You gaze upon its image long And linger, dreaming, smiling, sighing. I Over the hill the moon ascends her fiery crown of crimson deep, Staining the ancient forest red, and the lonely castle keep, And staining red the tumbling waves that from a murmuring fountain well, While down the sweeping valley rolls the solemn music of a bell. Above the river's rocky course rises the castle grim and tall While, clinging fast against its face, a knight is scaling high the wall; Clambering up on hands and knees, and holding tight to crack and edge, Until the rusty bars he breaks that issue from a window ledge. Silently he passes through, and soft, on tiptoe, does he creep Into a secret chamber where the wall is hung with shadow deep And where the starry sky between the bars and tangled creepers gleams And timidly and unassured the broken moonlight softly streams; Where strikes the moon the walls and floor are white as though they had been chalked, But darkness lies where shadows fall, as black as though with charcoal marked. Down from the ceiling to the floor has an enchanted spider spun A wonder web, more light and fair than e'er by human weaver done. It trembles in the silver light as though its veil would surely tear Beneath the weight of misty gems that shine upon its filet there. Beyond the web, in magic sleep, the sovereign's lovely daughter lies, Drenched in the moon's unearthly light, before the knight's enraptured eyes. Beneath the sheet her form he sees, her sleeping body young and fair, For the silken coverings hide it but little from his stare, And here and there her sleeping gown parted a little leaves to show The secret lovely nakedness of girlish limbs as white as snow. Upon her pillow's smooth incline her heavy golden hair is laid, While on her temples gently throb her pulses in a violet shade: Drawn as though in one straight line, in noble and bewitching grace Beneath the curtain of lids, her eyes in slumber seem to beat? While one smooth rounded shapely arm lies nakedly upon the sheet. Her full and gently moving breast in maiden ripeness tender shows And through her lips, a bit apart, her burning breath in silence flows. Her delicate and lovely mouth moves sweetly in a wistful smile, While over her and round her head a mound of fragrant petals pile. But now the knight draws near her bed and stretching out his hand he tears The spider's sparkling wonder web and spills the precious gems it bears. Upon her beauty's nakedness he feeds his hungry heart's desire And scarcely can his breast contain the burning ardour of its fire; Till clasping her to him at last in one long, clinging sweet caress, His scarlet mouth is set on hers, and on her lips his hot lips press. Then taking from her hand a ring, glittering with jewels dear, Turns, and through the moonlit casement goes our dauntless cavalier. II When morning comes, and the wondering maid finds that the web is broken through And in her mirror sees her lips by thirsty kisses bruised and blue, Sadly she smiles and softly says, while gazing on her image white; "O dauntless, dark curled fairy prince, come back again to me tonight". III Each one of us has private notions about sweet maidens and their ways, But no man in his sense will doubt that they Love best themselves to praise. Just as Narcissus saw his face framed in the water's silver glass And finding he was fair, at once the lover and the loved one was. If we could only see the maid when she essays her winning airs, When all alone with with round eyes she at her mirrored image stares, See the provoking, pouting lips moving to call herself by name, And she herself more lovable than all the world does soft acclaim; He that is wise in maidens' ways would read her secret at a glace, And know the lovely lass has grown aware of her own elegance. Idol thou, o thief of wits, great blue eyes and golden hair, The worship of your maiden heart has chosen too an idol fair ! What does she whisper secretly, what words of love does she bestow Upon the figure mirrored there, which she regards from top to toe? "A beauteous dream I had indeed, a fairy prince who came by night. I almost squeezed the life from him, my arm about him clasped so tight. And thus it is, with outstretched arms, my gaze my image does caress When I before my mirror stand alone in all my nakedness, And like a cloak against my sides my heavy hanging golden hair, When I regard myself and smile, and fain would kiss my shoulder bare, Until the blood mounts to my face for very shame of my desires, O fairy prince why don't you come to quench the flame my being fires, If in my body I rejoice, if I find pleasure in my eyes, It is because I see 'tis there the wonders of his passion rise; The love I love I lavish on myself is only of his love a part. Mouth, learn wisdom's quick restraint, lest you betray my loving heart Even to him who steals by night to the couch on which his loved one lies, Be passionate as a woman is, but as an artful child be wise". IV So every night the fairy prince does to her bedside softly creep And with a sweet enchanted kiss awake her gently from her sleep. And when he to the window goes to flee before the dawn away, She will retain him with her eyes and humbly pleading she will say: "O stay, o go not with the dawn, think of the fiery vows you made, Do not depart, may black-locked prince, o luckless and ill-fated shade. You will not find in wandering through all the endless ways of space A soul to love you as I do, you will not find a fairer face. Sweet is the shadow of your eyes with depth of sadness unsurpassed, May no one on your, luckless course the evil eye upon you cast". Then to her bed he comes again, about her waist her his strong arms steal, She whispers words of tender love, whispers which her fiery kisses seal. He murmurs "Whisper on, dear love, and let thy eyes' soft mystery Speak on in meaningless sweet words, that full of meaning are to me. Life's golden moment, swift as light, as transient as the rising smoke, I dream entire when with my hands thy mouth and shapely arm I stroke, When on my breast you lean your head feeling my heart's enamoured beat And I in passion press my lips upon your rounded shoulder sweet; And when our thirsty lips unite, I drink thy breath into my soul, Our hearts grown heavy in our breasts, that each the other's pain console. When, lost in ecstasy of love, you hold your burning cheek to mine, And when your long, soft golden hair about my neck you gently twine, And when at last you close your eyes and generously your kisses give, Then am I happiest of men, the height of joy superlative... And you... but no, I have no words, my tongue is tied and cannot move, I would, and yet I cannot speak... I cannot tell you how I love". Thus would they talk and so much say, such happiness was in them springing, Yet often was their discourse checked, their lips so often sweetly clinging, Thus clasped in close embrace they lay, drinking of lover's joy their fill. Till silent grew their lips at last, although their eyes were speaking still And bashfully she covered up her face, with soft confusion red, And hid her tearful eyes within her shining hair of golden thread. V Now white and waxen is your face that ruddy like an apple shone, And your smooth and lovely cheeks have shrunken grown and thin and wan. Now from your eyes your silken tresses wipe many a sad despairing tear That from your broken heart is sent. Disenchanted you appear, Standing thus before your window, with no word upon your lips. Now you raise your long wet lashes, and out of the room your sad soul slips, Soaring up the limpid heavens where the tireless lark does fly. You would call for him to take you with him up the shining sky. The bird flies on quite unawares while you with tearful eyes remain, Your luckless lips devoid of speech, trembling as though in pain. O do not quench in useless weeping the light that gleams from your blue eyes; Do not forget that in their tears the secret of their beauty lies. Thus, silver drops, from heaven's space, the falling stars descend like rain, But ere they cross the deep blue vault they are each one re-caught again, For should they weep their tears away the heavens would be blind and bare. Fruitless is it that you essay to span the lofty dome of air. The night of moonshine and of stars, of streams like mirrors shining bright Cannot be likened anyway unto the tomb's dark endless night. It does but lend your beauty charm if now and then a tear be shed, But if you drain the fountains dry, how shall they be replenished? Let the colour gain your cheeks, as proud and lovely as a rose, Your youthful cheeks that now are pale as violet shaded mountain snows. Your eyes give back their violet night that all eternity endears, But which so swiftly destroyed beneath the track of bitter tears. Who is there who is mad enough to burn on coals an emerald rare, That all its lovely lustrous shine be lost and squandered in the air? You veil your eyes' dark brilliancy to waste your beauty unbeguiled, And knows the world not what it lacks. O weep no more, you hapless child. VI O king, with long and tangled beard, like twisted hanks of cotton wool, There is no wisdom in your brains: with bran and dust your skull is full. Are you well pleased to be alone, you sorry joker, weak and old, Poor are you now in very truth, that once had riches beyond words. Your daughter you have driven out, to some far corner of the earth, That in a mean and lonely hut to a young prince she should give birth. In vain you send your messengers to search for her the whole world round, For not a single one of them can guess the place she may be found. VII Grey are the autumn evenings now; the water of the lake is grey, A thousand ripples cross its face to hide among the reeds away; While through the forest gently sighs a wind that takes the withered leaves  And shakes them softly to the ground, a passing wind that sadly heaves The boughs. Till now the forest branches stripped of all their leaves are bare And does the lonely moon unchecked her beams of silver squander there. In melancholy harmonies the brook is murmuring its distress The wailing breeze snaps off a twig and nature dons her saddest dress. But who is this that wanders down the steep and winding forest track, This youth who o'er the valley throws his eagle eyes of fiery black? O dark-haired prince, seven years have passed since when you climbed the castle wall, Have you forgot the lovely maid that loved you well and gave you all? Now in the open field he sees a little, bright, bare footed child Endeavouring to drive along a quacking brood of ducklings wild. "Good day to you, my lad", he cries... "Good day brave stranger," says the lad. "Tell me what's your name young man". "Calin, the name my father had. Whenever I my mother ask whose boy I am she says the same: A fairy prince your father is, and Calin also is his name". And as he listens only he knows how his heart leaps up with joy To see this child that drives the ducks and recognize him as his boy Hi enters now the narrow hut where, at a wooden bench's end, A rush light in an earthen pot its feeble yellow light does serend. Two large round cakes he finds are set to bake upon the hearth's rude stone; One shoe is flung beneath a beam and one behind the door is thrown. An old and dented coffee-mill somewhere in a corner lies, While near the fire a sleek tomcat purrs and cleans its ears and eye Beneath the icon of a saint, hanging be smoked upon the wall, A little candela is hung, as poppy seed its flame is small. Below the icon on a shelf are thyme and mint arranged in heaps, From which throughout the darkened hut a hot and peppery fragrance seeps. Upon the dingy plaster walls and on the stone besmeared with clay The infant, with a charcoal stick, has drawn, to wile the time away, Pigs with corkscrew curling tails and little trotters drawn like twigs, The kind that really most become all self-respecting piggie-wigs. Across the tiny window frame a bladder stretched in place of glass, Through which but faint and gloomy rays into the cottage dimly pass. Upon a bed of simple boards, motionless the princess lies, Her face towards the window turned, but closed in sleep her lovely eyes. He sits beside her on the bed, he lays his hand upon her brow, And sadly he caresses her, he sighs and fondles her, and now, Bending down his lips to her, quietly her name he calls, Till, opening her drowsy eyes o'er which a fringe of lashes falls, Terrified she starts and stares, believing it is all a dream; Fain would she smile but does not dare, she is afraid yet dares not scream. He lifts her from her narrow bed and holds his arms around her fast, His heart so beats within his breast he feels that it must burst at last. She stares at him and still she stares, but not a single world is said Then laughs with brimming tearful eyes, before this miracle afraid. Around her finger long and white she twists a mesh of raven hair, Then falls upon his ready breast to hide from him her blushes there. He smoothes away the kerchief that wraps and covers up her head, And tenderly with burning lips does kiss that crown of golden thread. She raises her face to his, her eyes, in which sparkling tears spring And fondly their lips unite, and each does to the other cling. VIII If through the copper woods you pass, the silver woods shine far away, There you will hear a thousand throats proclaim the forest's roundelay. The grass beside the bubbling spring shines like snow in sunlight fair And blue flowers drenched in moisture rise and tremble in the perfumed air. It seems the tall and ancient trees have souls beneath their bar concealed, Souls that oft amid their boughs by singing voices are revealed, While down the hidden forest glades, beneath the twilight's silver haze, One sees the rapid brooklets leap along their shining pebbly ways. In hurrying, gleaming ripples bright, sighing among the flowers they go And tumbling down the torrent's track murmur and gurgle as they flow, Swelling in liquid masses clear over the shallow gravel beds, A swirling, eddying, dancing stream, on which the moon her silver sheds. Many small blue butterflies, and many a swarm of golden bees Busy at visiting the honey flowers pass in among the trees, And a host of darting, shining flies of different kinds and hues Make the summer air vibrate with colours that the eyes confuse. Beside the sleepy trembling lake, its waters softly glimmering, Stands a long table over which the torches' flames are shimmering. Emperors and empresses from North and South and West and East Are come to meet the lovely bride and celebrate that weddings feast, Paladins with golden hair and dragons dressed in wondrous mail, Magicians and astrologers, and the clown Pepele happy and pale. Above them all the aged king sits in his royal high-backed chair, Upon his head he wears a crown, has trimmed his beard and combed his hair, Bolt upright on cushions high he sits, his sceptre in his hand And is, lest flies should trouble him, by willow bearing pages fanned. Now out of the forest's black retreat advances Calin, by his side, Her hand within her bridegroom's hand, his radiant and smiling bride. As they come near one hears the leaves rustle beneath her rich long dress. She has her cheeks flushing with pleasure and her eyes sparkling with joy. Sweeping almost to the ground billows her soft and golden hair, Falling about her shapely arms and over her white shoulders bare. Gracefully indeed she moves, carries herself with noble mien, Upon her brow she wears a star and in her hair blue flowers are seen. The king bids all the guests to seat themselves, the feast is then begun. For bridesmaid does he name the moon, for groomsman names the sun. The guests about the table sit according to their rank and years, The cobza and the violin play softly to delighted ears. But what strange music sounds beside? Low as a swarm of bees it hums. The guests in wonder stare, but none can tell from whence it comes. Till they descry a cobweb vast hung like a bridge across the glade O'er which a multitude of beasts rush by in murmuring cascade. Ants in hundreds carrying sacks of flour and little lumps of yeast In their strong mouths, to bake puddings and cakes for the wedding feast, Bees with honey from the comb and pure gold dust upon their thighs, From which the woodworm, goldsmith fine, will make fantastic jewelleries. Till lastly comes the wedding train, a cricket bears the usher's rod, While round him leaps a host of fleas, their tiny feet in iron shod. In a portentous velvet robe straddles a great potbellied drone, Who in a drowsy nasal drawl mimics the priestly monotone. Grasshoppers pull a nutshell coach, the cobweb shakes as it goes by Within it, curling his moustache, reclines the bridegroom butterfly. And after him there comes a host of butterflies of every sort In light hearted cavalcade, playful, gallant, full of sport. Mosquitoes form the orchestra, here are beetles, there are snails. The bride, a timid violet moth, shelters behind her trailing veils. Upon the table spread, the nimble usher cricket takes a spring, Rises upon his hind legs, bows, and clicks his spurs so that they ring; Then coughs and buttons up his coat and says, ere the amazement ceased, "Pardon us, Lords And Ladies, if we have by yours our wedding feast." Translated by Corneliu M. Popescu		Toamna frunzele colindã, Sun-un grier sub o grindã, Vântul jalnic bate-n geamuri Cu o mânã tremurândã, Iarã tu la gura sobei Stai ca somnul sã te prindã. Ce tresari din vis deodatã? Tu auzi pãsind în tindã -- E iubitul care vine De mijloc sã te cuprindã Si în fata ta frumoasã O sã tie o oglindã, Sã te vezi pe tine însãti  Visãtoare, surâzândã. I Pe un deal rãsare luna, ca o vatrã de jãratic, Rumenind strã vechii codri si castelul singuratic S-ale râurilor ape, ce sclipesc fugind în ropot -- De departe-n vãi coboarã tânguiosul glas de clopot ; Pe deasupra de prãpãstii sunt zidiri de cetãtuie, Acãtat de pietre sure un vioinic cu greu le suie ; Asezând genunchiu si mânã când pe-un colt când pe alt colt Au ajuns sã rupã gratii ruginite-a unei bolti Si pe-a degerelor vârfuri în ietacul tãinuit Intrã -- unde zidul negru într-un arc a-ncremenit. Ci prin flori întretesute, printre gratii luna moale Sfiicioasã si smeritã si-au vãrsat razele sale ; Unde-ajung par vãruite zid, podele, ca de cridã, Pe-unde nu -- pãrea cã umbra cu cãrbune-i zugrãvitã. Iar de sus pân-în podele un painjãn prins de vrajã A tesut subtire pânzã strãvezie ca o mreajã ; Tremurând ea licureste si se pare a se rumpe, Încãrcatã de o burã, de un colb de pietre scumpe. Dupã pânza de pãinjãn doarme fata de-mpãrat ; Înecatã de luminã e întinsã în crivat. Al ei chip se zugrãveste plin si alb : cu ochiu-l mãsuri Prin usoara-nvinetire a subtirilor mãtãsuri ; Ici sicolo a ei hainã s-a desprins din sponci s-aratã Trupul alb în goliciunea-i, curãtia eide fatã. Rãsfiratul pãr de aur peste perini se-mprãstie, Tâmpla bate linistitã ca o umbrã viorie, Si sprâncenele arcate fruntea albã i-o încheie, Cu o singurã trãsurã mãiestrit le încondeie ; Sub pleoapele închise globii ochilor se bat, Bratul ei atârnã lenes peste marginea de pat ; De a vârstii ei cãldurã fragii sânului se coc,  A ei gurã-i desclestatã de-a suflãrii sale foc, Ea zâmbind îsi miscã dulce a ei vuze mici, subtiri ; Iar pe patu-i si la capu-i presurati-s trandafiri. Iar voinicul s-apropie si cu mâna sa el rumpe Pânza cea acoperitã de un colb de poetre scumpe ; A frumsetii haruri goale ce simtirile-i adapã, Încãperile gândirii mainu pot sã le încapã. El în brate prinde fata, peste fatã i se-nclinã, Pune gura lui fierbinte pe-a ei buze ce suspinã, Si inelul scump i-l scoare de pe degetul cel mic -- S-apoi pleacã iar în lume nãzdrãvanul cel voinic. II Ea a doua zi se mirã, cum de firele sunt rupte, Si-n oglind-ale ei buze vede vinete si supte -- Ea zâmbind si trist se uitã, sopoteste blând din gurã : -- "Zburãtor cu negre plete, vin' la noapte de mã furã". III Fiecine cum i-e vrerea, despre fete samã deie-si -- Dar ea seamãnã celora îndrãgiti de singuri ei-si. Si Narcis vãzându-si fata în oglinda sa, isvorul, Singur fuse îndrãgitul, singur el îndrãgitorul. Si de s-ar putea pe dânsa cineva ca sã o prindã, Când cu ochii mari, sãlbateci, se priveste în oglindã, Subtiindu-si gura micã si chemându-se pe nume Si fiindu-si sie dragã cum nu-i este nime-n lume, Atunci el cu o privire nãlucirea i-ar discoasã Cum cã ea -- frumoasa fata -- a ghicit cã e frumoasã.  Idol tu ! rãpire mintii ! cu ochi mari si pãrul des, Pentr-o inimã fecioarã mândru idol ti-ai ales ! Ce soprste ea în tainã, când priveste cu mirare Al ei chip gingas si tânãr, de la cap pân' la picioare? "Vis frumos avut-am noaptea. A venit un zburãtor Si strângându-l tare-n brate, era mai ca sã-l omor... Si de-aceea când mã caut în pãretele de-oglinzi Singuricã-n cãmãrutã brate albe eu întinz Si mã-mbrac în pãrul galben, ca în strai usor tesut, Si zãrind rotundu-mi umãr mai cã-mi vine sã-l sãrut. Si atunci de sfiiciune mi-iese sângele-n obraz -- Cum nu viine zburãtorul, ca la pieptul lui sã caz? Dacã boiul mi-l înmlãdiiu, dacã ochii mei îmi plac, E temeiul cã acestea fericit pe el îl fac. Si mi-s dragã mie însãmi, pentru cã-i sunt dragã lui -- Gurã tu ! învatã minte, nu mã spune nimãnui, Nici chiar lui, când vine noaptea lângã patul meu tiptil,  Doritor ca o femeie, si viclean ca un copil !" IV Astfel vine-n toatã noaptea zbutãtor la al ei pat. Se trezi sin somn deodatã de sãrutu-i fermecat ; Si atuncea când spre usã el se-ntoarse ca sã fugã, Ea-l opreste-n loc cu ochii si c-o mult smeritã rugã : - "O rãmâi, rãmâi la mine, tu cu viers duios de foc, Zburãtor cu plete negre, umbrã fãrã de noroc Si nu crede cã în lume, singurel si rãtãcit, Nu-i gãsi un suflet tânãr ce de tine-i îndrãgit. O, tu umbrã pieritoare, cu adâncii tristi ochi, Dulci-s ochii umvrei tale -- nu le fie de diochi !" El s-aseazã lângã dânsa si o prinde de mijloc, Ea sopteste vorbe arse de al buzelor ei foc : - "O sopteste-mi -- zice dânsul -- tu cu ochi plini d-eres Dulci cuvinte nentelse, însã pline de-nteles. Al vietii vis de aur ca un fulger, ca o clipã-i, Si-l visez, când cu-a mea mânã al tãu brat rotund îl pipãi,  Când pui capul tu pe pieptu-mi si bãtãile îi numeri, Când sãrut cu-mpãtimire ai tãi albi si netezi umeri Si când sorb al tãu rãsuflet în suflarea vietii mele Si când inima ne creste de un dor, de-o dulce jele ; Când pierdutã razimi fruntea de-arzãtorul meu obraz, Pãrul tãu bãlai si moale de mi-l legi dupã grumaz, Ochii tãi pe jumãtate de-i închizi, mi-ntinzi o gurã, Fericit mã simt atuncea cu asupra de mãsurã. Tu ! !... nu vezi... nu-ti aflu nume... Limba-n gurã mi se leagã Si nu pot sa-ti spun odatã, cât -- ah ! cât îmi esti de dragã !" Ei soptesc, multe si-ar spune si nu stiu de-unde sã-nceapã, Cãci pe rând si-astupã gura, când cu gura se adapã ; Unu-n bratele altuia, tremurând ei se sãrutã, Numai ochiul e vorbaret, iarã limba lor e mutã,  Ea-si acopere cu mâna fata rosã de sfialã,  Ochii-n lacrimi si-i ascunde într-un pãr ca de petealã. V S-au fãcut ca ceara albã fata rosã ca un mãr Si atâta de subtire, sã o tai cu-n fir de pãr. Si cosita ta bãlaie o aduni la ochi plângând, Inimã fãr' de nãdejde, suflete bãtut de gând. Toatã ziua la fereastrã suspinând nu spui nimicã, Ridicând a tale gene, al tãu suflet se ridicã ; Urmãrind pe ceruri limpezi cum pluteste-o ciocârlie, Tu ai vra sã spui sã spui sã ducã cãtre dânsul o solie, Dar ea zboarã... tu cu ochiul plutitor si-ntunecos Stai cu buze disclestate de un tremur dureros. Nu-ti mai scurge ochii tineri, dulcii cerului fiastri, Nu uita cã-n lacrimi este taina ochilor albastri. Stele rare din tãrie cad ca picuri de argint Si seninul cer albastru mândru lacrimile-l prind ; Dar dacã ar cãdea toate, el rãmâne trist si gol, N-ai putea sã faci cu ochii înãltimilor ocol -- Noaptea stelelor, a lunei, a oglinzilor de râu Nu-i ca noaptea cea mocnitã si pustie din sicriu ; Si din când în când vãrsate, mândru lacrimile-ti sed, Dar de seci întrag izvorul, atunci cum o sã te vãd ? Prin ei curge rumenirea, mândrã, ca de trandafiri, Si zãpada viorie din obrajii tãi subtiri -- Apoi noaptea lor albastrã, a lor dulce vecinicie, Ce usor se mistuieste prin plânsorile pustie... Cine e nerod sã ardã în cãrbuni smaraldul rar S-a lui vecinicã lucire s-o striveascã în zadar ? Tu-ti arzi ochi si frumseta... Dulce noaptea lor se stânge, Si nici stii ce pierde lumea. Nu mai plânge, nu mai plânge ! VI O, tu crai cu barba-n noduri ca si câltii când nu-i perii, Tu în cap nu ai grãunte, numai pleavã si puzderii. Bine-ti pare sã fii singur, crai bãtrân fãrã de minti,  Sã oftezi dup-a ta fatã, cu ciubucul între dinti ? Sã te primbli si sã numeri scânduri albe în cerdac ? Mult bogat ai fost odatã, mult rãmas-ai tu sãrac ! Alungat-o ai pe dânsa ca departe de pãrinti În coliba împistritã ea sã nasc-un pui de print. În zadar ca s-o mai cate tu trimiti în lume crainic, Nimeni n-a afla locasul, unde ea s-ascunde tainic. VII Surã-i sara cea de toamnã ; de pe lacuri apa surã Înfunda miscarea-i creatã între stuf la iezãturã ; Iar pãdurea lin suspinã si prin frunzele uscate Rânduri, rânduri trece-un fremãt, ce le scuturã pe toate. De când codrul, dragul codru, troienindu-si frunza toatã, Îsi deschide-a lui adâncuri, fata lunei sã le batã,  Tristã-i firea, iarã vântul sperios vo creangã farmã -- Singuratece isvoare fac cu valurile larmã. Pe potica dinspre codri, cine oare se coboarã ? Un voinic cu ochi de vultur lunga vale o mãsoarã. Sapte ani de când plecat-ai, zburãtor cu plete negre, S-ai uitat de soarta mândrei, iubitoarei tale fete ! Si pe câmpul gol el vede un copil umblând descult Si cercând ca sã adune într-un cârd bobocii multi. - "Bunã vreme, mãi bãiete !" -- "Multãmim, voinic strãin !" - "Cum te cheamã, mãi copile ?" -- "Ca pe tatã-meu -- Cãlin Mama-mi spune câteodatã, de-o întreb: a cui-s, mamã ? 'Zburãtoru-ti este tatã si pe el Cãlin îl cheamã'." Când l-aude, numai dânsul îsi stia inima lui, Cãci copilul cu bobocii era ciar copilul lui. Atunci intrã în colibã si pe capãtu-unei laiti, Lumina cu mucul negru într-un hârb un ros opait ; Se coceau pe vatra surã souã turte în cenusã, Un papuc e sub o grindã, iarã altul dupã usã ; Hârâitã, noduroasã stã în colb râsnita veche, În cotlon torcea motanul pieptãnându-si o ureche ; Sub icoana afumatã unui sfânt cu comãnac Arde-n candel-o luminã cât un sâmbure de mac; Pe-a icoanei policioarã, busuioc si mint-uscatã  Împlu casa-ntunecoasã de-o mireasmã pipãratã ; Pe cuptiorul uns cu humã si pe coscovii pãreti Zugrãvit-au c-un cãrbune copilasul cel istet Purcelusi cu coada sfredel si cu bete-n loc de labã, Cum mai bine i se sede unui purcelus de treabã. O besicã-n loc de sticlã e întinsã-n ferãstruie Printre care trece-o dungã mohorâtã si gãlbuie. Pe un pat de scânduri goale doarme tânãra nevastã În mocnitul întuneric si cu fata spre fereastã. El s-asazã lângã dânsa, fruntea ei o netezeste, O desmiardã cu durere, suspinând o drãgosteste, Pleacã gura-i la ureche, blând pe nume el o cheamã, Ea ridicã somnoroasã lunga genelor maramã, Spãriet la el se uitã... i se pare cã viseazã,  Ar zâmbi si nu se-ncrede, ar rãcni si nu cuteazã. El din patu-i o ridicã si pe pieptul lui si-o pune, Inima-i zvâcneste tare, viata-i parcã se rãpune. Ea se uitã, se tot uitã, un cuvânt mãcar nu spune, Râde doar cu ochii-n lacrimi, spãriatã de-o minune, S-apoi îi suceste pãrul pe-al ei deget alb, subtire, Îsi ascunde fata rosã l-a lui piept duios de mire. El stergarul i-l desprinde si-l împinge lin la vale, Drept în crestet o sãrutã pe-al ei pãr de aur moale Si bãrbia i-o ridicã, s-uitã-n ochii-i plini de apã, Si pe rând s-astupã gura, când cu gura se adapã. VIII De treci codri de aramã, de departe vezi albind S-auzi mândra glãsuite a pãdurii de argint. Acolo, lângã isvoarã, iarba pare de omãt, Flori albastre tremur ude în vãzduhul tãmâiet ; Pare-cã si trunchii vecinici poartã suflete sub coajã, Ce suspinã printre ramuri cu a glasului lor vrajã. Iar prin mândrul întuneric al pãdurii de argint Vezi isvoare zdrumicate peste pietre licurind ; Ele trec cu harnici unde si suspinã-n flori molatic, Când coboarã-n ropot dulce din tãpsanul prãvãlatic, Ele sar în bulgãri fluizi peste prundul din rãstoace, În cuibar rotind de ape, peste care luna zace. Mii de fluturi mici albastri, mii de roiuri de albine Curg în râuri sclipitoare peste flori de miere pline, Împlu aerul vãratic de mireasmã si rãcoare Apopoarelor de muste sãrbãtori murmuitoare. Lângã lacul care-n tremur somnoros si lin de bate, Vezi o masã mare-ntinsã cu fãclii prea luminate, Cãci din patru pãrti a lumii împãrati si-mpãrãtese Au venit ca sã serbeze nunta ginfasei mirese ; Feti-frumosi cu pãr de aur, zmei cu solzii de otele, Cititorii cei de zodii si sãgalnicul Pepele. Iatã craiul, socru mare, rezemat în jilt cu spatã, El pe capu-i poartã mitrã si-i cu barba pieptãnatã ; Tapãn, drept, cu schiptru-n mânã, sede-n perine de puf Si cu crengi îl apãr pagii de muscute si zãduf... Acum iatã din codru si Cãlin mirele iese,  Care tine-n a lui mânã, mâna gingasei mirese. Îi fosnea uscat pe frunze poala lung-a albei rochii, Fata-i rosie ca mãrul, de noroc i-s umezi ochii ; La pãmânt mai cã-i ajunge al ei pãr de aur moale, Care-i cade peste brate, peste umerele goale. Astfel vine mlãdioasã, trupul ei frumos îl poartã, Flori albastre are-n pãru-i si o stea în frunte poartã. Socrul roagã-n capul mesei sã pofteascã sã se punã Nunul mare, mândrul soare si pe nunã, mândra lunã. Si s-aseazã toti la masã, cum li-s anii, cum li-i rangul, Lin vioarele rãsunã, iarã cobza tine hangul. Dar ce zgomot se aude ? Bâzâit ca de albine? Toti se uitã cu mirare si nu stiu de unde vine, Pânã vãd pãinjenisul între tufe ca un pod, Peste care trece-n zgomot o multime de norod. Trec furnici ducând în gurã de fãinã marii saci, Ca sã coacã pentru nuntã si plãcinte si colaci; Si albinele-aduc miere, aduc colb mãrunt de aur,  Ca cercei din el sã facã cariul, care-i mester faur. Iatã vine nunta-ntreagã -- vornicel i-un greierel,  Îi sar purici înainte cu potcoave de otel; În vesmânt de catifele, un bondar rotund în pântec Somnoros pe nas ca popii glasuieste-ncet un cântec ; O cojitã de alunã trag locuste, podu-l scutur,  Cu musteata rãsucitã sede-n ea un mire flutur; Fluturi multi, de multe neamuri, vin în urma lui un lant,  Toti cu inime usoare, toti sãgalnici si berbanti. Vin tântarii lãutarii, gândãceii, cãrãbusii, Iar mireasa vioricã i-astepta-ndãrãtul usii. Si pe masa-mpãrãteascã sare-un greier, crainic sprinten, Ridicat în douã labe, s-a-nchinat bãtând din pinten; El tuseste, îsi încheie haina plinã de sireturi: - "Sã iertati, boieri, ca nunta s-o pornim si noi alãturi". 1876, 1 noiembrie Mihail Eminescu
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