Kochanowski, Jan Lament XVII http://www.wolnelektury.pl/lektura/laments http://wolnelektury.pl/katalog/lektura/treny-tren-xvii Prall, Dorothea Kozioł, Paweł Lech, Justyna Niedziałkowska, Marta Fundacja Nowoczesna Polska Renesans Liryka Tren Publikacja zrealizowana w ramach projektu Wolne Lektury (http://wolnelektury.pl). Reprodukcja cyfrowa wykonana przez Bibliotekę Narodową z egzemplarza pochodzącego ze zbiorów BN. Dofinansowano ze środków Ministra Kultury i Dziedzictwa Narodowego. http://wolnelektury.pl/katalog/lektura/laments-lament-xvii http://polona.pl/item/333575/1/ Jan Kochanowski, Laments, University of California Press, Berkeley 1920 Domena publiczna - Dorothea Prall xml text text 2014-11-18 enghttp://redakcja.wolnelektury.pl/media/cover/image/5434652960_5eca0b6b29_o.jpg Evening Light Kenitra, Geraint Rowland, CC BY 2.0 http://redakcja.wolnelektury.pl/cover/image/3804 Jan Kochanowski Laments Lament XVII God hath laid his hand on me:/ He hath taken all my glee,/ And my spirit's emptied cup/ Soon must give its life-blood up. If the sun doth wake and rise,/ If it sink in gilded skies,/ All alike my heart doth ache,/ Comfort it can never take. From my eyelids there do flow/ Tears, and I must weep e'en so/ Ever, ever. Lord of Light,/ Who can hide him from thy sight! Though we shun the stormy sea,/ Though from war's affray we flee,/ Yet misfortune shows her face/ Howsoe'er concealed our place. Mine a life so far from fame/ Few there were could know my name;/ Evil hap and jealousy/ Had no way of harming me. But the Lord, who doth disdain/ Flimsy safeguards raised by man,/ Struck a blow more swift and sure/ In that I was more secure. Poor philosophy, so late/ Of its power wont to prate,/ Showeth its incompetence/ Now that joy proceedeth hence. Sometimes still it strives to prove/ Heavy care it can remove;/ But its little weight doth fail/ To raise sorrow in the scale. Idle is the foolish claim/ Harm can have another name:/ He who laughs when he is sad,/ I should say was only mad. Him who tries to prove our tears/ Trifles, I will lend mine ears;/ But my sorrow he thereby/ Doth not check, but magnify. Choice I have none, I must needs/ Weep if all my spirit bleeds./ Calling it a graceless part/ Only stabs anew my heart. All such medicine, dear Lord,/ Is another, sharper sword./ Who my healing would insure/ Will seek out a gentler cure. Let my tears prolong their flow./ Wisdom, I most truly know,/ Hath no power to console:/ Only God can make me whole.