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Shakespeare sevenler sorum size
yıldızları süpürürsün , farkında olmadan
güneş kucağındadır, bilemezsin
bir çocuk gözlerine bakar arkan dönüktür
ciğerinde kuruludur orkestra , duymazsın
koca bir sevdadır yaşamakta olduğun ,
anlamazsın uçar gider , koşsan da tutamazsın
Şunun orjinal metni lazım, gözlerinizden öpüyor teşekkür ediyorum.
güneş kucağındadır, bilemezsin
bir çocuk gözlerine bakar arkan dönüktür
ciğerinde kuruludur orkestra , duymazsın
koca bir sevdadır yaşamakta olduğun ,
anlamazsın uçar gider , koşsan da tutamazsın
Şunun orjinal metni lazım, gözlerinizden öpüyor teşekkür ediyorum.
net olmamakla birlikte iki ihtimal var. çeviri yapanın soneyi değiştirdiği rivayet ediliyor:
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
ya da
Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again. And then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked
I cried to dream again.
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
ya da
Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again. And then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked
I cried to dream again.
- ingenue
(28.03.11 20:09:02)
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