terça-feira, 30 de março de 2010


They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate;
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.

Ernest Dowson,

[The title translates, from the Latin, as
'The brief sum of life forbids us the hope of enduring long'
and is from a work by Horace]


Love’s aftermath! I think the time is now
That we must gather in, alone, apart
The saddest crop of all the crops that grow,
Love’s aftermath.
Ah, sweet,—sweet yesterday, the tears that start
Can not put back the dial; this is, I throw,
Our harvesting! Thy kisses chill my heart,
Our lips are cold; averted eyes avow
The twilight of poor love: we can but part,
Dumbly and sadly, reaping as we sow,
Love’s aftermath.

Ernest Dowson


Let us go hence: the night is now at hand;
The day is over-worn, the birds all flown;
And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown
Despair and death; deep darkness o'er the land,
Broods like an owl; we cannot understand
Laughter or tears, for we have only known
Surpassing vanity: vain things alone
Have driven our perverse and aimless band.

Let us go hence, some-whither strange and cold,
To Hollow Lands where just men and unjust
Find end of labour, where's rest for the old,
Freedom to all from love and fear and lust.
Twine our torn hands! O pray the earth enfold
Our life-sick hearts and turn them into dust.

Ernest Dowson


By the sad waters of separation
Where we have wandered by divers ways,
I have but the shadow and imitation
Of the old memorial days.

In music I have no consolation,
No roses are pale enough for me;
The sound of the waters of separation
Surpasseth roses and melody.

By the sad waters of separation
Dimly I hear from an hidden place
The sigh of mine ancient adoration:
Hardly can I remember your face.

If you be dead, no proclamation
Sprang to me over the waste, gray sea:
Living, the waters of separation
Sever for ever your soul from me.

No man knoweth our desolation;
Memory pales of the old delight;
While the sad waters of separation
Bear us on to the ultimate night.

Ernest Dowson


I would not alter thy cold eyes,
Nor trouble the calm fount of speech
With aught of passion or surprise.
The heart of thee I cannot reach:
I would not alter thy cold eyes!

I would not alter thy cold eyes;
Nor have thee smile, nor make thee weep:
Though all my life droops down and dies,
Desiring thee, desiring sleep,
I would not alter thy cold eyes.

I would not alter thy cold eyes;
I would not change thee if I might,
To whom my prayers for incense rise,
Daughter of dreams! my moon of night!
I would not alter thy cold eyes.

I would not alter thy cold eyes,
With trouble of the human heart:
Within their glance my spirit lies,
A frozen thing, alone, apart;
I would not alter thy cold eyes.

Ernest Dowson


Beyond the need of weeping,
Beyond the reach of hands,
May she be quietly sleeping,
In what dim nebulous lands?
Ah, she who understands!

The long, long winter weather,
These many years and days,
Since she, and Death, together,
Left me the wearier ways:
And now, these tardy bays!

The crown and victor’s token!
How are they worth to-day?
The one word left unspoken,
It were late now to say:
But cast the palm away!

For once, ah once, to meet her,
Drop laurel from tired hands:
Her cypress were the sweeter,
In her oblivious lands:
Haply she understands!

Yet, crossed that weary river,
In some ulterior land,
Or anywhere, or ever,
Will she stretch out a hand?
And will she understand?

Ernest Dowson

Amor Umbratilis

A gift of Silence, sweet!
Who may not ever hear;
To lay down at your unobservant feet,
Is all the gift I bear.

I have no songs to sing,
That you should heed or know:
I have no lilies, in full hands, to fling
Across the path you go.

I cast my flowers away,
Blossoms unmeet for you!
The garland I have gathered in my day;
My rosemary and rue.

I watch you pass and pass,
Serene and cold: I lay
My lips upon your trodden, daisied grass,
And turn my life away.

Yea, for I cast you, sweet!
This one gift, you shall take:
Like ointment, on your unobservant feet,
My silence, for your sake.

Ernest Dowson

Villanelle of Sunset

Come hither, Child! and rest:
This is the end of day,
Behold the weary West!

Sleep rounds with equal zest
Man's toil and children's play;
Come hither, Child! and rest.

My white bird, seek thy nest,
Thy drooping head down lay:
Behold the weary West!

Now are the flowers confest
Of slumber: sleep, as they!
Come hither, Child! and rest.

Now eve is manifest,
And homeward lies our way:
Behold the weary West!

Tired flower I upon my breast,
I would wear thee alway:
Come hither, Child! and rest;
Behold, the weary West!

Ernest Dowson


Strange grows the river on the sunless evenings!
The river comforts me, grown spectral, vague and dumb:
Long was the day; at last the consoling shadows come:
Sufficient for the day are the day’s evil things!

Labour and longing and despair the long day brings;
Patient till evening men watch the sun go west;
Deferred, expected night at last brings sleep and rest:
Sufficient for the day are the day’s evil things!

At last the tranquil Angelus of evening rings
Night’s curtain down for comfort and oblivion
Of all the vanities observed by the sun:
Sufficient for the day are the day’s evil things!

So, some time, when the last of all our evenings
Crowneth memorially the last of all our days,
Not loth to take his poppies man goes down and says,
“Sufficient for the day were the day’s evil things!”

Ernest Dowson

"April Love"

We have walked in Love’s land a little way,
We have learnt his lesson a little while,
And shall we not part at the end of day,
With a sigh, a smile?

A little while in the shine of the sun,
We were twined together, joined lips, forgot
How the shadows fall when the day is done,
And when Love is not.

We have made no vows—there will none be broke,
Our love was free as the wind on the hill,
There was no word said we need wish unspoke,
We have wrought no ill.

So shall we not part at the end of day,
Who have loved and lingered a little while,
Join lips for the last time, go our way,
With a sigh, a smile?

Ernest Dowson


Vitae Summa Brevis Spem Nos Vetat Incohare Longam
"The brief sum of life forbids us the hope of enduring long"

THEY are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.

Ernest Dowson


ALL that I had I brought,
Little enough I know;
A poor rhyme roughly wrought,
A rose to match thy snow:
All that I had I brought.

Little enough I sought:
But a word compassionate,
A passing glance, or thought,
For me outside the gate:
Little enough I sought.

Little enough I found:
All that you had, perchance!
With the dead leaves on the ground,
I dance the devil's dance.
All that you had I found.

Ernest Dowson


Pale amber sunlight falls across
The reddening October trees,
That hardly sway before a breeze
As soft as summer: summer's loss
Seems little, dear! on days like these.

Let misty autumn be our part!
The twilight of the year is sweet:
Where shadow and the darkness meet
Our love, a twilight of the heart
Eludes a little time's deceit.

Are we not better and at home
In dreamful Autumn, we who deem
No harvest joy is worth a dream?
A little while and night shall come,
A little while, then, let us dream.

Beyond the pearled horizons lie
Winter and night: awaiting these
We garner this poor hour of ease,
Until love turn from us and die
Beneath the drear November trees.

Ernest Dawson


Love heeds no more the sighing of the wind
Against the perfect flowers: thy garden's close
Is grown a wilderness, where none shall find
One strayed, last petal of one last year's rose.

O bright, bright hair! O mount like a ripe fruit!
Can famine be so nigh to harvesting?
Love, that was songful, with a broken lute
In grass of graveyards goeth murmuring.

Let the wind blow against the perfect flowers,
And all thy garden change and glow with spring:
Love is grown blind with no more count of hours
Nor part in seed-tune nor in harvesting.

Ernest Dowson


What land of Silence,
Where pale stars shine
On apple-blossom
And dew-drenched vine,
Is yours and mine?

The silent valley
That we will find,
Where all the voices
Of humankind
Are left behind.

There all forgetting,
Forgotten quite,
We will repose us,
With our delight
Hid out of sight.

The world forsaken,
And out of mind
Honour and labour,
We shall not find
The stars unkind.

And men shall travail,
And laugh and weep;
But we have vistas
Of Gods asleep,
With dreams as deep.

A land of Silence,
Where pale stars shine
On apple-blossoms
And dew-drenched vine,
Be yours and mine!

Ernest Dowson

'Chanson sans Paroles'

In the deep violet air,
Not a leaf is stirred;
There is no sound heard,
But afar, the rare
Trilled voice of a bird.

Is the wood’s dim heart,
And the fragrant pine,
Incense, and a shrine
Of her coming? Apart,
I wait for a sign.

What the sudden hush said,
She will hear, and forsake,
Swift, for my sake,
Her green, grassy bed:
She will hear and awake!

She will hearken and glide,
From her place of deep rest,
Dove-eyed, with the breast
Of a dove, to my side:
The pines bow their crest.

I wait for a sign:
The leaves to be waved,
The tall tree-tops laved
In a flood of sunshine,
This world to be saved!

In the deep violet air,
Not a leaf is stirred;
There is no sound heard,
But afar, the rare
Trilled voice of a bird.

Ernest Dowson

'In Spring '

See how the trees and the osiers lithe
Are green bedecked and the woods are blithe,
The meadows have donned their cape of flowers,
The air is soft with the sweet May showers,
And the birds make melody:
But the spring of the soul, the spring of the soul,
Cometh no more for you or for me.

The lazy hum of the busy bees
Murmureth through the almond trees;
The jonquil flaunteth a gay, blonde head,
The primrose peeps from a mossy bed,
And the violets scent the lane.
But the flowers of the soul, the flowers of the soul,
For you and for me bloom never again.

Ernest Dowson
in 'The Poems of Ernest Dowson'

A coronal

Violets and leaves of vine,
Into a frail, fair wreath
We gather and entwine:
A wreath for Love to wear,
Fragrant as his own breath,
To crown his brow divine
All day till night is near.
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.

Violets and leaves of vine
For Love, that lives a day,
We gather and entwine.
All day till Love is dead,
Till eve falls, cold and gray,
These blossoms, yours and mine,
Love wears upon his head.
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.

Violets and leaves of vine
Poor Love, when poor Love dies,
We gather and entwine.
This wreath, that lives a day,
Over his pale, cold eyes,
Kissed shut by Proserpine,
At set of sun we lay:
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.

Ernest Dowson
from 'Verses',published 1896

'When I am old'

When I am old,
And sadly steal apart,
Into the dark and cold,
Friend of my heart!
Remember, if you can,
Not him who lingers,
But that other man,
Who loved and sang,
And had a beating heart,
When I am old!

When I am old,
And all Love’s ancient fire
Be tremulous and cold:
My soul’s desire!
Remember, if you may,
Nothing of you and me
But yesterday,
When heart on heart
We bid the years conspire
To make us old.

When I am old
And ev’ry star above
Be pitiless and cold:
My life’s one love!
Forbid me not to go:
Remember nought of us
But long ago,
And not at last,
How love and pity strove
When I grew old.

Ernest Dowson


Around were all the roses red
The ivy all around was black.

Dear, so thou only move thine head,
Shall all mine old despairs awake!

Too blue, too tender was the sky,
The air too soft, too green the sea.

Always I fear, I know not why,
Some lamentable flight from thee.
I am so tired of holly-sprays
And weary of the bright box-tree,

Of all the endless country ways;
Of everything alas! save thee.

Ernest Dowson


Ernest Christopher Dowson
(2 August 1867 – 23 February 1900),

born in Lee, London, was an English poet, novelist and writer of short stories associated with the Decadent movement.

Dowson attended The Queen's College, Oxford, but left before obtaining a degree. In November 1888, he started work with his father at Dowson and Son, a dry-docking business in Limehouse, east London, established by the poet's grandfather. He led as active a social life as he could, carousing with medical students and law pupils, going to music halls, taking the performers to dinner, and so forth. At the same time he was working assiduously at his writing. He was a member of the Rhymers' Club, which included W. B. Yeats and Lionel Johnson. He was also a frequent contributor to the literary magazines The Yellow Book and The Savoy. Dowson collaborated on a couple of unsuccessful novels with Arthur Moore, was working on his own novel Madame de Viole, and was working as an unpaid reviewer for The Critic.

In 1889, Dowson fell in love with eleven-year-old Adelaide "Missie" Foltinowicz, the daughter of a Polish restaurant owner. Adelaide is reputed to be the subject of one his best-known poems, Non Sum Qualis eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae. He pursued her unsuccessfully; in 1897, she married a tailor who lodged above the restaurant, and Dowson was crushed. In August 1894, his father, who was in the advanced stages of tuberculosis, died of an overdose of chloral hydrate. His mother, who was also consumptive, hanged herself in February 1895, and Dowson began to decline rapidly.

Robert Sherard one day found Dowson almost penniless in a wine bar and took him back to the cottage in Catford where he was himself living. Dowson spent the last six weeks of his life at Sherard's cottage and died there of alcoholism (or some say of tuberculosis) at the age of 32. He is buried in the Roman Catholic section of nearby Brockley and Ladywell Cemeteries.

'If we must part '

If we must part,
Then let it be like this.
Not heart on heart,
Nor with the useless anguish of a kiss;
But touch mine hand and say:
"Until to-morrow or some other day,
If we must part".

Words are so weak
When love hath been so strong;
Let silence speak:
"Life is a little while, and love is long;
A time to sow and reap,
And after harvest a long time to sleep,
But words are weak".

Ernest Dowson

quinta-feira, 25 de março de 2010


AFFECTIONS lose their object; Time brings forth
No successors; and, lodged in memory,
If love exist no longer, it must die,--
Wanting accustomed food, must pass from earth,
Or never hope to reach a second birth.
This sad belief, the happiest that is left
To thousands, share not Thou; howe'er bereft,
Scorned, or neglected, fear not such a dearth.
Though poor and destitute of friends thou art,
Perhaps the sole survivor of thy race,
One to whom Heaven assigns that mournful part
The utmost solitude of age to face,
Still shall be left some corner of the heart
Where Love for living Thing can find a place.

Willian Wordsworth


BRIGHT Flower! whose home is everywhere,
Bold in maternal Nature's care,
And all the long year through the heir
Of joy or sorrow;
Methinks that there abides in thee
Some concord with humanity,
Given to no other flower I see
The forest thorough!

Is it that Man is soon deprest?
A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest,
Does little on his memory rest,
Or on his reason,
And Thou would'st teach him how to find
A shelter under every wind,
A hope for times that are unkind
And every season?

Thou wander'st the wide world about,
Unchecked by pride or scrupulous doubt,
With friends to greet thee, or without,
Yet pleased and willing;
Meek, yielding to the occasion's call,
And all things suffering from all
Thy function apostolical
In peace fulfilling.

Willian Wordsworth


I'VE watched you now a full half-hour;
Self-poised upon that yellow flower
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!--not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.

Willian Wordsworth,


BEHOLD, within the leafy shade,
Those bright blue eggs together laid!
On me the chance-discovered sight
Gleamed like a vision of delight.
I started--seeming to espy
The home and sheltered bed,
The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by
My Father's house, in wet and dry
My sister Emmeline and I
Together visited.

She looked at it and seemed to fear it;
Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it:
Such heart was in her, being then
A little Prattler among men.
The Blessing of my later years
Was with me when a boy:
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
And humble cares, and delicate fears;
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;
And love, and thought, and joy.

Willian Wordsworth,


A SLUMBER did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.

Willian Wordsworth,

Lines Written In Early Spring

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:--
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

William Wordsworth


Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
Is cropping audibly his later meal:

Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,
Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal

That grief for which the senses still supply
Fresh food; for only then, when memory
Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain

Those busy cares that would allay my pain;
Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel
The officious touch that makes me droop again.

William Wordsworth

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills...

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new_born Day
Is lovely yet;
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850) ,
in 'Ode: Intimations of Immortality' from 'Recollections of Early Childhood' .

"Love lies bleeding"

"You call it, "Love lies bleeding,"--so you may,
Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops,
As we have seen it here from day to day,
From month to month, life passing not away:
A flower how rich in sadness! Even thus stoops,
(Sentient by Grecian sculpture's marvellous power)
Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bent
Earthward in uncomplaining languishment
The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower!
('Tis Fancy guides me willing to be led,
Though by a slender thread,)
So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew
Of his death-wound, when he from innocent air
The gentlest breath of resignation drew;
While Venus in a passion of despair
Rent, weeping over him, her golden hair
Spangled with drops of that celestial shower.
She suffered, as Immortals sometimes do;
But pangs more lasting far, 'that' Lover knew
Who first, weighed down by scorn, in some lone bower
Did press this semblance of unpitied smart
Into the service of his constant heart,
His own dejection, downcast Flower! could share
With thine, and gave the mournful name which thou wilt ever bear."

William Wordsworth


THE peace which others seek they find;
The heaviest storms not longest last;
Heaven grants even to the guiltiest mind
An amnesty for what is past;
When will my sentence be reversed?
I only pray to know the worst;
And wish as if my heart would burst.

O weary struggle! silent years
Tell seemingly no doubtful tale;
And yet they leave it short, and fears
And hopes are strong and will prevail.
My calmest faith escapes not pain;
And, feeling that the hope is vain,
I think that he will come again.

William Wordsworth


O mundo nos atém a toda hora,
Ganhando e gastando, força desperdiçamos;
Pouco vemos na natureza o que é nosso agora;
Mau negócio! Nossos corações doamos.
O Mar que se entrega ao luar,
Os ventos que silvam em lufadas,
Minguaram tal flores amarfanhadas,
Disso, em tudo estamos a destoar;
E isto não nos comove. – Deus! Prefiro ser
Um Pagão na crença obsoleta nutrido;
E neste agradável prado poderia ter
Vislumbres que me fariam parecer menos perdido;
Ver Prometeu do mar aparecer;
Ouvir Tritão soprar seu búzio florido.

William Wordsworth
in O olho Imóvel Pela Força da Harmonia



Houve tempo em que o bosque, o rio e o matagal,
A terra e qualquer cena irrisória,
Pareciam-me na memória
Envoltos em luz celestial,
Qual sonho, frescor e glória.
Nada é como outrora –
Tudo que minha visão percebia,
Seja de noite, seja de dia,
As coisas que via, já não as vejo agora


O Arco-Íris vai e vem,
Formosa é a Rosa também,
A Lua toda encantada
Contempla ao céu descoberto;
As águas em noite estrelada
São lindas e belas decerto;
É glorioso o romper da aurora;
Mas, onde quer que eu vá,
O encanto da terra foi embora.

William Wordsworth


HOLY and heavenly Spirits as they are,
Spotless in life, and eloquent as wise,
With what entire affection do they prize
Their Church reformed! labouring with earnest care

To baffle all that may her strength impair;
That Church, the unperverted Gospel's seat;
In their afflictions a divine retreat;
Source of their liveliest hope, and tenderest prayer!—

The truth exploring with an equal mind,
In doctrine and communion they have sought
Firmly between the two extremes to steer;

But theirs the wise man's ordinary lot--
To trace right courses for the stubborn blind,
And prophesy to ears that will not hear.

William Wordsworth

[Vagueava só como uma nuvem...]

Como nuvem eu vagava,
passando montes e prados,
quando súbito avistava
narcisos mil e dourados,
junto ao lago, na floresta,
dançando na brisa lesta.

Contínuos como as estrelas
na Estrada de Santiago,
infindos se alongam pelas
curvas margens desse lago.
E as cabeças sacudiam
no dançar em que existiam.
As ondas também dançavam:
em menos viva folia.
Que poetas recusavam
tão alegre companhia?

Olhei, e olhei, sem pensar
estar vendo coisas sem par.
Que às vezes, quando me afundo
em vácua ou tensa vontade,
eles brilham no olhar profundo
que é bênção da soledade,
e o coração se me enflora,
e dança com eles agora.

William Wordsworth


I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth


O nosso nascimento é como um sono e um esquecimento
A Alma que se eleva conosco, a estrela da nossa vida
Teve o seu ocaso em algum outro lugar,
E vem de longe.
Não em total esquecimento,
Nem na nudez mais absoluta,
Mas trazendo nuvem de glória descendemos
De Deus, que é a nossa casa:
O Céu nos protege na nossa infância!
As sombras da prisão começam a adensar-se
Sobre o Menino que nasce.

William Wordsworth

Sublime Sentimento

Uma presença que me enche da alegria
Que vem da elevação do pensamento, um sublime
Senso de uma profunda integração
Que residia na luz dos sóis poentes
Por sobre os mares, e pelo ar vibrante
E o céu azul, e pela mente do homem
- Uma vibração e um espírito, que movem
Tudo que pensa, e tudo o que é pensado
E interpenetra todas as coisas”

William Wordsworth.
- Cf. “O Céu da Mente”, de Timothy
Ferris, p.61, Ed. Campus, 1997.

quarta-feira, 24 de março de 2010


(Foto by Antônio Carlos Januário-MG)

Las nubes y los árboles se funden
y el sol les trasparenta su honda paz.
Tan grande es la armonía del abrazo,
que la quiere gozar también el mar,
el mar que está tan lejos, que se acerca,
que ya se oye latir, que huele ya.

El cerco universal se va apretando,
y ya en toda la hora azul no hay más
que la nube, que el árbol, que la ola,
síntesis de la gloria cenital.
El fin está en el centro. Y se ha sentado
aquí, su sitio fiel, la eternidad.

Para eso hemos venido. (Cae todo
lo otro, que era luz provisional.)
Y todos los destinos aquí salen,
aquí entran, aquí suben, aquí están.
Tiene el alma un descanso de caminos
que han llegado a su único final.

Juan Ramón Jiménez

El viaje definitivo

. . . Y yo me iré. Y se quedarán los pájaros
y se quedará mi huerto, con su verde árbol,
y con su pozo blanco.
Todas las tardes, el cielo será azul y plácido;
y tocarán, como esta tarde están tocando,
las campanas del campanario.
Se morirán aquellos que me amaron;
y el pueblo se hará nuevo cada año;
y en el rincón aquel de mi huerto florido y encalado,
mi espíritu errará, nostáljico . . .
Y yo me iré; y estaré solo, sin hogar, sin árbol
verde, sin pozo blanco,
sin cielo azul y plácido . . .
Y se quedarán los pájaros cantando.

Juan Ramón Jiménez

Arriba canta el pájaro y abajo canta el agua.
(Arriba y abajo, se me abre el alma.)

Entre dos melodías la columna de plata.
Hoja, pájaro, estrella; baja flor, raíz, agua.
Entre dos conmociones la columna de plata.
(Y tú, tronco ideal, entre mi alma y mi alma.)

Mece a la estrella el trino, la onda a la flor baja.
(Abajo y arriba, me tiembla el alma.)

Juan Ramón Jiménez

Iba tocando mi flauta
a lo largo de la orilla;
y la orilla era un reguero
de amarillas margaritas.

El campo cristaleaba
tras el temblor de la brisa;
para escucharme mejor
el agua se detenía.

Notas van y notas vienen,
la tarde fragante y lírica
iba, a compás de mi música,
dorando sus fantasías,

y a mi alrededor volaba,
en el agua y en la brisa,
un enjambre doble de
mariposas amarillas.

La ladera era de miel,
de oro encendido la viña,
de oro vago el raso leve
del jaral de flores níveas;

allá donde el claro arroyo
da en el río, se entreabría
un ocaso de esplendores
sobre el agua vespertina...

Mi flauta con sol lloraba
a lo largo de la orilla;
atrás quedaba un reguero
de amarillas margaritas...

Juan Ramón Jiménez

Oh, what sound of gold going,
of gold now going to eternity;
how sad our ear, to have to hear
that gold that is going to eternity,
this silence that is going to remain
without its gold that is going to eternity!

Juan Ramon Jimenez
Translated by Kate Flores

The door is open,
the cricket is singing.
Are you going around naked
in the fields?

Like an immortal water,
going in and out of everything.
Are you going around naked
in the air?

The basil is not asleep,
the ant is busy.
Are you going around naked
in the house?

Juan Ramon Jimenez
English version by Robert Bly

Se entró mi corazón en esta nada,
como aquel pajarillo, que, volando
de los niños, se entró, ciego y temblando,
en la sombría sala abandonada.

De cuando en cuando intenta una escapada
a lo infinito, que lo está engañando
por su ilusión; duda, y se va, piando,
del vidrio a la mentira iluminada.

Pero tropieza contra el bajo cielo,
una vez y otra vez, y por la sala
deja, pegada y rota, la cabeza...

En un rincón se cae, al fin, sin vuelo
ahogándose de sangre, fría el ala,
palpitando de anhelo y de torpeza.

Juan Ramón Jiménez

¡Qué tristeza de olor de jazmín! El verano
torna a encender las calles y a oscurecer las casas,
y, en las noches, regueros descendidos de estrellas
pesan sobre los ojos cargados de nostaljia.

En los balcones, a las altas horas, siguen
blancas mujeres mudas, que parecen fantasmas;
el río manda, a veces, una cansada brisa,
el ocaso, una música imposible y romántica.

La penumbra reluce de suspiros; el mundo
se viene, en un olvido májico, a flor de alma;
y se cojen libélulas con las manos caídas,
y, entre constelaciones, la alta luna se estanca.

¡Qué tristeza de olor de jazmín! Los pianos
están abiertos; hay en todas partes miradas
calientes... Por el fondo de cada sombra azul,
se esfuma una visión apasionada y lánguida.

Juan Ramón Jiménez
(De "Olor de jazmín" )

Abril, sin tu asistencia clara, fuera
invierno de caídos esplendores;
mas aunque abril no te abra a ti sus flores,
tú siempre exaltarás la primavera.

Eres la primavera verdadera:
rosa de los caminos interiores
brisa de los secretos corredores,
lumbre de la recóndita ladera.

¡Qué paz, cuando en la tarde misteriosa,
abrazados los dos, sea tu risa
el surtidor de nuestra sola fuente!

Mi corazón recogerá tu rosa,
sobre mis ojos se echará tu brisa
tu luz se dormirá sobre mi frente...

Juan Ramón Jiménez

Esparce octubre, al blando movimiento
del sur, las hojas áureas y las rojas,
y, en la caída clara de sus hojas,
se lleva al infinito el pensamiento.

Qué noble paz en este alejamiento
de todo; oh prado bello que deshojas
tus flores; oh agua fría ya, que mojas
con tu cristal estremecido el viento!

¡Encantamiento de oro! Cárcel pura,
en que el cuerpo, hecho alma, se enternece,
echado en el verdor de una colina!

En una decadencia de hermosura,
la vida se desnuda, y resplandece
la excelsitud de su verdad divina.

Juan Ramón Jiménez

A través de la paz del agua pura,
el sol le dora al río sus verdines;
las hojas secas van, y los jazmines
últimos, sobre el oro a la ventura.

El cielo, verde, en la más libre altura
de su ancha plenitud, deja los fines
del mundo en un extremo de jardines
de ilusión. ¡Tarde en toda tu hermosura!

¡Qué paz! Al chopo claro viene y canta
un pájaro. Una nube se desvae
sin color, y una sota mariposa,

luz, se sume en la luz... y se levanta
de todo no sé qué hálito, que trae,
triste de no morir aún más, la rosa.

Juan Ramón Jiménez

Nevada de los cielos, pareciste
la luna trastornada en primavera.
Vi una vez, no sé dónde, una pradera
así, blanca cual tú te apareciste.

En un sueño más sueño aún, volviste
de nuevo a mí como la mensajera
del último blancor que el alma espera...
Me desperté dos veces, triste y triste.

No sé si desvelada va o dormida
mi esperanza contigo. Sobrepasa
unas veces, con luz, tu mismo albor,

cuando estoy más despierto que en la vida...
Ya veces es como que me traspasa
la negra sombra de un almendro en flor...

Juan Ramón Jiménez

Los dos vamos nadando
-agua de flores o de hierro-
por nuestras dobles vidas.

-Yo, por la mía y por la tuya;
tú, por la tuya y por la mía-.

De pronto, tú te ahogas en tu ola,
yo en la mía; y, sumisas,
tu ola, sensitiva, me levanta,
te levanta la mía, pensativa.

Juan Ramón Jiménez

Cesó el clarín agudo, y la luna está triste.
Grandes nubes arrastran la nueva madrugada.
Ladra un perro alejándose, y todo lo que existe
se hunde en el abismo sin nombre de la nada.

La luna dorará un viejo camposanto...
Habrá un verdín con luna sobre una antigua almena...
En una fuente sola, será una luna en llanto...
Habrá una mar sin nadie, bajo una luna llena...

Juan Ramón Jiménez

Los caminos de la tarde
se hacen uno, con la noche.
Por él he de ir a ti.
amor que tanto te escondes.

Por él he de ir a ti,
como la luz de los montes,
como la brisa del mar,
como el olor de las flores.

Juan Ramón Jiménez

Yo no sé cómo saltar
desde la orilla de hoy
a la orilla de mañana.

El río se lleva, mientras,
la realidad de esta tarde,
a mares sin esperanza.

Miro al oriente, al poniente,
miro al sur y miro al norte.

Toda la verdad dorada
que cercaba al alma mía,
cual con un cielo completo,
se cae, partida y falsa.

Y no sé cómo saltar
desde la orilla de hoy
a la orilla de mañana.

Juan Ramón Jiménez
De "Estío"

¡Esperar! ¡Esperar! Mientras, el cielo
cuelga nubes de oro a las lluviosas;
las espigas suceden a las rosas;
las hojas secas a la espiga; el yelo

sepulta la hoja seca; en largo duelo,
despide el ruiseñor las amorosas
noches; y las volubles mariposas
doblan en el caliente sol su vuelo.

Ahora, a la candela campesina,
la lenta cuna de mis sueños mecen
los vientos del octubre colorado...

La carne se me torna más divina,
viejas, las ilusiones, encanecen,
y lo que espero ¡ay! es mi pasado.

Juan Ramón Jiménez

En el sopor azul e hirviente de la siesta,
el jardín arde al sol. Huele a rosas quemadas.
La mar mece, entre inmóviles guirnaldas de floresta,
una diamantería de olas soleadas.

Cúpulas amarillas encienden a lo lejos,
en la ciudad atlántica, veladas fantasías;
saltan, ríen, titilan momentáneos reflejos
de azulejos, de bronces y de cristalerías.

El agua abre sus frescos abanicos de plata,
hasta el reposo verde de las calladas hojas,
y en el silencio solitario una fragata,
blanca y henchida, surje, entre las rocas rojas. ..

Juan Ramón Jiménez
( De "Mar del sur" )

No recordar nada...
Que me hunda la noche callada,
como una bandada
blanda y acabada.
(Que no quede nada...
Que pase la mujer amada
por una dejada
estancia soñada)
No desear nada...
Perderse en la idea sagrada,
como una dorada
sombra en la alborada.

Juan Ramón Jiménez

La fuente aleja su cantata.
Despiertan todos los caminos...
Mar de la aurora, mar de plata,
¡qué limpio estás entre los pinos!

Viento del Sur, ¿vienes sonoro
de soles? Ciegan los caminos...
Mar de la siesta, mar de oro,
¡qué alegre estás sobre los pinos!

Dice el verdón no sé qué cosa...
Mi alma se va por los caminos...
Mar de la tarde, mar de rosa,
¡qué dulce estás entre los pinos!

Juan Ramón Jiménez

Yo no soy yo.
Soy este
que va a mi lado sin yo verlo;
que, a veces, voy a ver,
y que, a veces, olvido.
El que calla, sereno, cuando hablo,
el que perdona, dulce, cuando odio,
el que pasea por donde no estoy,
el que quedará en pie cuando yo muera.

Juan Ramón Jiménez
De "Eternidades"

(Adioses. Ausencia. Regreso)

Nacía, gris, la luna, y Beethoven lloraba,
bajo la mano blanca, en el piano de ella...
En la estancia sin luz, ella, mientras tocaba,
morena de la luna, era tres veces bella.

Teníamos los dos desangradas las flores
del corazón, y acaso llorábamos sin vernos...
Cada nota encendía una herida de amores...
-El dulce piano intentaba comprendernos.-

Por el balcón abierto a brumas estrelladas,
venía un viento triste de mundos invisibles...
Ella me preguntaba de cosas ignoradas
y yo le respondía de cosas imposibles...

Juan Ramón Jiménez

Belleza cotidiana -amor tranquilo-,
¡qué bella eres ahora!
¡Sí, en todo vives tú! ¡Mata que fue
esqueleto sin luz, hoy toda es rosas;
vereda que te ibas, como el enterrador
al cementerio, por la gavia roja y apestosa
de perros muertos y de almejas malas:
cómo vienes a mí,
clara, saltona,
igual que un niño! Agua muda y verde
de mis penas, hoy límpida y sonora
de mi alegría, ¿qué ruedas de oro y plata
le das a mi ventura misteriosa?

Juan Ramón Jiménez

No, no has muerto, no.
con las rosas en cada primavera.
Como la vida, tienes
tus hojas secas; tienes tu nieve, como
la vida...
Mas tu tierra,
amor, está sembrada
de profundas promesas,
que han de cumplirse aún en el mismo
¡En vano es que no quieras!
La brisa dulce torna, un día, al alma;
una noche de estrellas,
bajas, amor, a los sentidos,
casto como la vez primera.
¡Pues eres puro, eres
eterno! A tu presencia,
vuelven por el azul, en blanco bando,
blancas palomas que creíamos muertas...
Abres la sola flor con nuevas hojas...
Doras la inmortal luz con lenguas nuevas...
¡Eres eterno, amor,
como la primavera!

Juan Ramón Jiménez

Siempre tienes la rama preparada
para la rosa justa; andas alerta
siempre, el oído cálido en la puerta
de tu cuerpo, a la flecha inesperada.

Una onda no pasa de la nada,
que no se lleve de tu sombra abierta
la luz mejor. De noche, estás despierta
en tu estrella, a la vida desvelada.

Signo indeleble pones en las cosas.
luego, tornada gloria de las cumbres,
revivirás en todo lo que sellas.

Tu rosa será norma de las rosas;
tu oír, de la armonía; de las lumbres
tu pensar; tu velar, de las estrellas.

Juan Ramón Jiménez

segunda-feira, 22 de março de 2010

Hora Grave

Quem agora chora em algum lugar do mundo,
Sem razão chora no mundo,
Chora por mim.

Quem agora ri em algum lugar na noite,
Sem razão ri dentro da noite,
Ri-se de mim.

Quem agora caminha em algum lugar no mundo,
Sem razão caminha no mundo,
Vem a mim.

Quem agora morre em algum lugar no mundo,
Sem razão morre no mundo,
Olha para mim.

Rainer Maria Rilke

"Ernste Stunde" (Hora Grave)

Wer jetzt weint irgendwo in der Welt,
ohne Grund weint in der Welt,
weint über mich.

Wer jetzt lacht irgendwo in der Nacht,
ohne Grund lacht in der Nacht,
lacht mich aus.

Wer jetzt geht irgendwo in der Welt,
ohne Grund geht in der Welt,
geht zu mir.

Wer jetzt stirbt irgendwo in der Welt,
ohne Grund stirbt in der Welt:
sieht mich an.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Frühling (Primavera)


Frühling ist wiedergekommen. Die Erde
ist wie ein Kind, daß Gedichte weiß,
viele, o viele... Für die Beschwerde
langen Lernens bekommt sie den Preis.

Streng war ihr Lehrer. Wir mochten das Weiße
an dem Barte des alten Manns.
Nun, wie das Grüne, das Blaue heiße,
dürfen wir fragen: sie kanns, sie kanns!

Erde, die Frei hat, du glückliche, spiele
nun mit den Kindern. Wir wollen dich fangen,
fröhliche Erde. Dem Frohsten gelingts.

O, was der Lehrer sie lehrte, das Viele,
und was gedruckt steht in Wurzeln und langen
schwierigen Stämmen: sie singts, singts!

Rainer Maria Rilke

Water Lily


My whole life is mine, but whoever says so
will deprive me, for it is infinite.
The ripple of water, the shade of the sky
are mine; it is still the same, my life.

No desire opens me: I am full,
I never close myself with refusal-
in the rythm of my daily soul
I do not desire-I am moved;

by being moved I exert my empire,
making the dreams of night real:
into my body at the bottom of the water
I attract the beyonds of mirrors...

Rainer M. Rilke
Translated by A. Poulin

''O cisne''

Este cansaço de passar como que atado
a coisas que ainda não foram feitas,
parece o caminho incriado do cisne.

E o morrer, esse desapegar-se
do fundo em que diariamente estamos,
seu tímido abandonar-se às águas

que mansamente o acolhem e por serem
felizes e já passadas, onda a onda,
sob seu corpo se retraem;

então, firme e tranqüilo,
com realeza e crescente segurança,
abandona-se o cisne ao deslizar.

Rainer Maria Rilke
Trad. Dora Ferreira da Silva


A solidão é como uma chuva.
Ergue-se do mar ao encontro das noites;
de planícies distantes e remotas
sobe ao céu, que sempre a guarda.
E do céu tomba sobre a cidade.

Cai como chuva nas horas ambíguas,
quando todas as vielas se voltam para a manhã,
e quando os corpos, que nada encontraram,
desiludidos e tristes se separam;
e quando aqueles que se odeiam
têm de dormir juntos na mesma cama:

então, a solidão vai com os rios...

Rainer Maria Rilke
in "O Livro das Imagens"
Tradução de Maria João Costa Pereira

''Dia de Outono''


Senhor: é tempo. O Verão foi muito longo.
Lança a tua sombra sobre os relógios de sol
e solta os ventos sobre os campos.

Ordena aos últimos frutos que amadureçam;
dá-lhes ainda dois dias meridionais,
apressa-os para a plenitude e verte
a última doçura no vinho pesado.

Quem agora não tem casa, já não vai construí-la.
Quem agora está só, assim ficará por muito tempo,
velará, lerá, escreverá longas cartas
e vagueará inquieto pelas alamedas acima e abaixo,
quando caírem as folhas.

Rainer Maria Rilke


E tu esperas, aguardas a única coisa
que aumentaria infinitamente a tua vida;
o poderoso, o extraordinário,
o despertar das pedras,
os abismos com que te deparas.

Nas estantes brilham
os volumes em castanho e ouro;
e tu pensas em países viajados,
em quadros, nas vestes
de mulheres encontradas e já perdidas.

E então de súbito sabes: era isso.
Ergues-te e diante de ti estão
angústia e forma e oração
de certo ano que passou.

Rainer Maria Rilke,
in "O Livro das Imagens"
Tradução de Maria João Costa Pereira

''Era o dia''

 [Tela by Sérgio Eugênio]

Era o dia dos crisântemos brancos, -
e eu tinha quase medo de seu pesado esplendor.
Então vieste tomar meu coração,
Vieste a mim,
em plena noite.

Eu tinha muito medo, mas vieste, suave e querida,
em sonho, por um instante, eu pensara em ti.
Vieste, e docemente, como uma ária de lenda,
soou a noite.

Rainer Maria Rilke
in Antologia Poética
Tradução de Antônio Roberto de Paula Leite


As folhas caem, de muito longe
envelhecidas no céu, em longínquos jardins,
caem: é como um gesto de recusa.

E nas noites a terra pesada cai
fora das estrelas, em plena solidão.

Caímos todos. Cai a mão.
E vemos as outras. Dá-se o mesmo em todas elas.

Entretanto há alguém que sustêm essas quedas,
com infinita doçura, entre suas mãos.

Rainer Maria Rilke
in Antologia Poética
Tradução de Antônio Roberto de Paula Leite

Pode alguém dizer-me

Pode alguém dizer-me
até onde vai a minha vida?
Sou um sopro na tempestade,
uma onda no lago?
Ou serei, talvez,
essa branca e pálida bétula
arrepiada de primavera?

Rainer Maria Rilke
in Antologia Poética
Tradução Antônio Roberto de Paula Leite

Tal é a nostalgia


Tal é a nostalgia: habitar sobre as ondas
e jamais ter abrigo no tempo.
E tais são os desejos: diálogo em surdina
da hora cotidiana com a eternidade.

Tal é a vida. Até o dia em que de ontem
se eleva a mais solitária dentre todas essas horas,
e, sorrindo diferentemente das irmãs,
em silêncio se oferece ao eterno.
Cala-se, como uma oferta ao eterno.

Rainer Maria Rilke
in Antologia Poética

L’Ange Du Méridien

Na tormenta que ronda a catedral
Como um contestador que o seu juízo
Mói e remói, é um bálsamo , afinal,
Ser-se atraído pelo teu sorriso:

Anjo ridente, amável monumento,
Com uma boca de cem bocas:não
Te ocorre vislumbrar por um momento
O quanto as nossas horas já se vão

Do teu relógio, onde a soma do dia
É sempre igual, em nítida harmonia,
Como se as nossas horas fossem plenas.

Pétreo, como saber das nossas penas?
Acaso teu sorriso é mais risonho
À noite, quando expões a pedra em sonho?

Rainer Maria Rilke,
Tradução: Augusto de Campos



Eis outra vez a Primavera. A Terra
é um menino que sabe dizer versos;
tantos, oh tantos... Por aquele esforço
de longo estudo vai receber um prémio.

Severo foi o mestre. Nós gostávamos
da brancura da barba daquele velho.
Agora podemos perguntar o nome
do verde, o azul: ela sabe, ela sabe!

Terra feliz, em férias, brinca agora
co'as crianças. Queremos agarrar-te,
Terra alegre. A mais jovial consegue-o.

Oh, o muito em que o mestre as instruiu
e o impresso nas raízes e nos longos
troncos difíceis: ela o canta, canta!

Rainer Maria Rilke
de 'Sonetos a Orfeu'
tradução de Paulo Quintela


Spring is again returned. The Earth
is like a child, that knows poems,
many, o many . . . . For the rigor
of such long learning she receives the prize.

Strict was her teacher. We appreciate the white
in the old man's beard.
Now, what to name green, or blue,
we may not ask: she knows, she knows!

Earth, now free, you happy one, play
now with the children. We want to catch you,
joyful Earth. Only the joyful are able.

O, what the teacher taught her, such plenteousness,
and that which is pressed in roots and long
heavy trunks: she sings, she sings!

by Rainer Maria Rilke
from Die Sonette an Orpheus 1, no. 21

Cair da noite

Cai a noite a mudar devagar os vestidos
que uma franja de árvores velhas lhe segura;
olhas: e separam-se de ti as terras:
uma que vai para o céu, outra que cai;

e deixam-te, sem pertenceres de todo a qualquer delas,
não tão escuro como a casa silenciosa,
não tão seguro a evocar o eterno
como a que cada noite se faz estrela e sobe;

e deixam-te (indizível de desenredar!)
a tua vida, angustiada, gigantesca, a amadurar, tal
que, ora limitada ora compreensiva,
alterna em ti - ou pedra ou astro.

Rainer Maria Rilke


Uma rosa só são todas as rosas
e esta aqui: ágil vocábulo
o único, o perfeito
emoldurado pelo texto das coisas.

Como dizer sem ela
o que foram nossas esperanças
e em meio à constante errância
os momentos ternos e breves.

Rainer Maria Rilke
In: As Rosas
Tradução de: Janice Caiafa

sexta-feira, 12 de março de 2010


(Foto by Darek Marcinkowski)

Morde o vento da noite
uma queixa abafada
pelas folhas. No pó
caem gotas pesadas.

Nos rostos muros brotam
musgos e samambaias.
Anciãos silenciosos
se agacham nos umbrais.

Mãos retorcidas pousam
sobre os joelhos duros,
entregues ao descanso
enquanto vão murchando.

Enormes gralhas voam
por sobre o cemitério.
Samambaias e musgos
nos rasos morros medram.

Hermann Hesse
In: Andares Antologia Poética
Tradução: Geir Campos

Photographer’s Note
Old Cemetery in Ogrodowa St.
Catholic, Evangelical and Orthodox. The elaborate tombs embraced by a splendor of trees and shrubs reflect the lives that were lived in ‘the Promised Land’. Many prominent factory owners were laid to rest here: the Biedermans, Grohmans, Geyers, Kindermanns, Scheiblers, as well as scientists, actors, artists, national heroes and priests.