Oscar Wilde - Flower of Love (Croatian translation)

Oscar Wilde – Flower of Love

Croatian translation

English

Original lyrics

Flower of Love

Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common clay

I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.

From the wildness of my wasted passion I had struck a better, clearer song,

Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled with some Hydra-headed wrong.

Had my lips been smitten into music by the kisses that but made them bleed,

You had walked with Bice and the angels on that verdant and enamelled meed.

I had trod the road which Dante treading saw the suns of seven circles shine,

Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening, as they opened to the Florentine.

And the mighty nations would have crowned me, who am crownless now and without name,

And some orient dawn had found me kneeling on the threshold of the House of Fame.

I had sat within that marble circle where the oldest bard is as the young,

And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the lyre's strings are ever strung.

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out the poppy-seeded wine,

With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead, clasped the hand of noble love in mine.

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush the burnished bosom of the dove,

Two young lovers lying in an orchard would have read the story of our love;

Would have read the legend of my passion, known the bitter secret of my heart,

Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as we two are fated now to part.

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by the cankerworm of truth,

And no hand can gather up the fallen withered petals of the rose of youth.

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you -ah! what else had I a boy to do? -

For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the silent-footed years pursue.

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and when once the storm of youth is past,

Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death the silent pilot comes at last.

And within the grave there is no pleasure, for the blindworm battens on the root,

And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of Passion bears no fruit.

Ah! what else had I to do but love you? God's own mother was less dear to me,

And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an argent lily from the sea.

I have made my choice, have lived my poems, and, though youth is gone in wasted days,

I have found the lover's crown of myrtle better than the poet's crown of bays.

Croatian

Translation

Cvijet ljubavi

Dušo, ne krivim te, jer bila je moja greška, da nisam bio napravljen od obične gline

Uspeo bih se na veće visine još neosvojene, vidio puniji zrak, duži dan.

Iz divljine svoje potrošene strasti stvorio bih bolju, jasniju pjesmu,

Upalio neko jasnije svjetlo šire slobode, borio se s nekom nepravdom s Hidrinom glavom.

Imao usne pretvorene u glazbu poljupcima od kojih su samo krvarile,

Hodao si s Biceom i anđelima na tom zelenom i pocakljenom Mediteranu.

Koračao bih putem kojim je Dante, hodajući, vidio sunca sedam krugova kako sjaju,

Da! slučajno bih vidio kako se nebesa otvaraju, kao što su se otvarala Firentincu.

I moćni narodi bi me okrunili, koji sam sada bez krune i bez imena,

I neka orijentalna zora bi me našla kako klečim na pragu Kuće Slave.

Sjedio bih u tom mramornom krugu gdje je najstariji bard poput mladih,

I iz svirale vječno kaplje med, a žice lire su vječno napete.

Keats bi podigao svoje himenske kovrče iz vina s makom,

S ambrozijskim ustima poljubio bi mi čelo, stisnuo ruku plemenite ljubavi u mojoj.

I u proljeće, kada jabučni behar okrzne polirana prsa golubice,

Dvoje mladih ljubavnika ležeći u voćnjaku pročitalo bi priču o našoj ljubavi;

Pročitali bi legendu o mojoj strasti, saznali gorku tajnu mog srca,

Ljubili se kao što smo se mi ljubili, ali nikada se ne bi rastali kao što je sada nama suđeno rastati se.

Jer grimizni cvijet našeg života jede crv istine,

I nijedna ruka ne može pokupiti pale uvele latice ruže mladosti.

Ipak mi nije žao što sam te volio - ah! što sam drugo, dječak, mogao učiniti? -

Jer gladni zubi vremena proždiru, a tihonoge godine tjeraju.

Bez kormila, plutamo kroz nepogode, i kad jednom prođe oluja mladosti,

Bez lire, bez lutnje ili zbora, Smrt, tihi pilot, napokon stigne.

I u grobu nema zadovoljstva, jer spori crv pripija se uz korijen,

I Želja drhti u pepelu, a drvo Strasti ne donosi plod.

Ah! što sam drugo trebao učiniti nego te voljeti? Božja majka mi je bila manje draga,

I manje draga Citeranka koja se uzdiže poput srebrnog ljiljana iz mora.

Izabrao sam svoj put, živio sam svoje pjesme i, iako je mladost nestala u protraćenim danima,

Otkrio sam da je ljubavnikova kruna od mirte bolja od pjesnikove krune od lovora.

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User	Time ago
D_000	3 hours 2 min

Translated by: Božica Cvjetković

Submitted by

bozica cvjetkovic on 2025-11-07

Translations of "Flower of Love"

Croatian

Russian

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