Gnomic Stanzas
Mountain snow, everywhere white;
A raven's custom is to sing;
No good comes of too much sleep.
Mountain snow, white the ravine;
By rushing wind trees are bent;
Many a couple love one another
Though they never come together.
Mountain snow, tossed by the wind;
Broad full moon, dockleaves green;
Rarely a knave's without litigation.
Mountain snow, swift the stag;
Usual in Britain are brave chiefs;
There's need of prudence in an exile.
Mountain snow, hunted stag;
Wind whistles above the eaves of a tower;
Heavy, O man, is sin.
Mountain snow, leaping stag;
Wind whistles above a high white wall;
Usually the calm are comely.
Mountain snow, stag in the vale;
Wind whistles abowe the rooftop;
There's no hiding evil, no matter where.
Mountain snow, stag on the shore;
Old man must feel his loss of youth;
Bad eyesight puts a man in prison.
Mountain snow, stag in a ditch;
Bees are asleep and snug;
Thieves and a long night suit each other.
Mountain snow, deer are nimble;
Waves wetten the brink of a shore;
Let the skilful hide his purpose.
Mountain snow, speckled breast of a goose;
Strong are my arm and shoulder;
I hope I shall not live to a hundred.
Mountain snow, bare tops of reeds;
Bent tips of branches, fish in the deep;
Where there's no learning, cannot be talent.
Mountain snow, red feet of hens;
Where it chatters, water's but shallow;
Big words add to any disgrace.
Mountain snow, swift the stag;
Rarely a thing in the world concerns me;
To warn the unlucky does not save them.
Mountain snow, fleece of white;
It's rare that a relative's face is friendly
If you visit him too often.
Mountain snow, white house-roofs;
If tongue were to tell what the heart may know
Nobody would be neighbours.
Mountain snow, day has come;
Every sad man sick, half-naked the poor;
Every time, a fool gets hurt.
Commentary
Translated by Anthony Conran.
I have been accused (not without cause, it must be said) by various members of the list (Hi Vikram!) of having ‘a passion for obscure Celtic twilight thingies’. While I think that that particular characterization is a bit harsh, I must confess to a soft corner for balladry and alliterative verse, chansons de geste and Homeric epics - in short, the repertoire of the archetypal wandering minstrel.
I also like today’s offering for its demonstration of ‘how poetry began’, so to speak. Think about it: what was originally just a collection of proverbs1 is cast into a specific form to aid memorization2; structure and pattern follow, and before you know it, you have a poem.
— Thomas