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28 ago. 2010

John Donne - Elegía IX, La otroñal

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Ni la belleza de Verano, ni la Primavera, tienen la gracia
Que yo he visto en un rostro otoñal.
Las jóvenes bellezas nos fuerzan al amor, y eso es un rapto;
Esta sólo insinúa; sin embargo, no puedes eludirlo.
Si amar fuera vergüenza, no había aquí vergüenza,
El afecto se torna reverencia.
Sus años primeros fueron su edad dorada; es verdad,
Pero ahora es ella oro probado y siempre nuevo.
Aquél fue su momento tórrido e inflamado,
Este su tolerable clima tropical.
Bellos ojos, quien pide más calor que el que brota de ellos,
La peste ansía en su delirio.
No llames tumbas a esas arrugas; si fueran tumbas,
Serían tumbas del amor; pues él no está en otra parte,
Sin embargo; el amor no yace muerto allí, allí se sienta
Fiel a esos surcos, como un Anacoreta.
Yallí hasta que llegan sus comunes muertes,
Él no cava una tumba, mas erige un sepulcro.
Aquí habita él, viajero de muchos climas
Siempre en marcha, pero su casa es ésta.
Aquí, donde es atardecer, no mediodía ni noche,
Donde la voluptuosidad no existe, donde todo es deleite.
En todas sus palabras, aptas para quienes las oyen,
Podréis hallar Humor o bien hallar Consejo.
Es el árbol del amor; la juventud su maleza
Allí él, igual que el vino en junio, enardece la sangre
Que más en sazón llega, cuando nuestro gusto
Y apetito han ido hacia otras cosas.
El extraño amor Lidio de Jerjes, el plátano,
Por su vejez  fue amado, nada fue tan grande como él;
O quizá,  porque en su juventud la naturaleza lo bendijo
Con la gloria de la vejez: la Esterilidad.
Si amamos cosas largamente buscadas, la vejez es algo
Que en cincuenta años logramos;
Si lo que es transitorio prestamente decae,
La Edad será más bella en su último día.
Mas no nombréis los rostros del invierno, cuyas pieles son
Vacíos, como una bolsa exhausta; meros sacos del alma;
Cuyos ojos procuran la luz dentro, porque allí todo es sombra;
Cuyas bocas son cuevas por el tiempo horadadas;
Cuyos dientes ya se diseminaron
Para desgracia de esas almas en la Resurrección.
No me nombréis esas vivientes calaveras,
Porque ellas no son ancianas, sino antiguas.
Odio los extremos; sin embargo, antes
Pasaría un día con Tumbas que con Cunas.
Ya que tal es el natural movimiento del amor, pueda
Mi amor aún descender y viajar cuesta abajo,
Sin anhelar las bellezas que crecen; así
Declinaré, junto a quienes retornan.

Traducción: Enrique Caracciolo Trejo

No spring, nor summer beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnal face ;
Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape ;
This doth but counsel, yet you cannot scape.
If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame ;
Affections here take reverence's name.
Were her first years the Golden Age ? that's true,
But now they're gold oft tried, and ever new.
That was her torrid and inflaming time ;
This is her tolerable tropic clime.
Fair eyes ; who asks more heat than comes from hence,
He in a fever wishes pestilence.
Call not these wrinkles, graves ; if graves they were,
They were Love's graves, for else he is nowhere.
Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit,
Vow'd to this trench, like an anachorite,
And here, till hers, which must be his death, come,
He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb.
Here dwells he ; though he sojourn everywhere,
In progress, yet his standing house is here ;
Here, where still evening is, not noon, nor night ;
Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight.
In all her words, unto all hearers fit,
You may at revels, you at council, sit.
This is love's timber ; youth his underwood ;
There he, as wine in June, enrages blood ;
Which then comes seasonablest, when our taste
And appetite to other things is past.
Xerxes' strange Lydian love, the platane tree,
Was loved for age, none being so large as she ;
Or else because, being young, nature did bless
Her youth with age's glory, barrenness.
If we love things long sought, age is a thing
Which we are fifty years in compassing ;
If transitory things, which soon decay,
Age must be loveliest at the latest day.
But name not winter faces, whose skin's slack,
Lank as an unthrift's purse, but a soul's sack ;
Whose eyes seek light within, for all here's shade ;
Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out, than made ;
Whose every tooth to a several place is gone,
To vex their souls at resurrection ;
Name not these living death-heads unto me,
For these, not ancient, but antique be.
I hate extremes ; yet I had rather stay
With tombs than cradles, to wear out a day.
Since such love's motion natural is, may still
My love descend, and journey down the hill,
Not panting after growing beauties ; so
I shall ebb out with them who homeward go.

14 abr. 2007

Poems of John Donne

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Love's Alchemy

Some that have deeper digg'd love's mine than I,
Say, where his centric happiness doth lie;
I have lov'd, and got, and told,
But should I love, get, tell, till I were old,
I should not find that hidden mystery.
Oh, 'tis imposture all!
And as no chemic yet th'elixir got,
But glorifies his pregnant pot
If by the way to him befall
Some odoriferous thing, or medicinal,
So, lovers dream a rich and long delight,
But get a winter-seeming summer's night.

Our ease, our thrift, our honour, and our day,
Shall we for this vain bubble's shadow pay?
Ends love in this, that my man
Can be as happy'as I can, if he can
Endure the short scorn of a bridegroom's play?
That loving wretch that swears
'Tis not the bodies marry, but the minds,
Which he in her angelic finds,
Would swear as justly that he hears,
In that day's rude hoarse minstrelsy, the spheres.
Hope not for mind in women; at their best
Sweetness and wit, they'are but mummy, possess'd.

The Sun Rising

Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late schoolboys, and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices,
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams, so reverend and strong
Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long:
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me
Whether both the'Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear: "All here in one bed lay."

She's all states, and all princes I,
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compar'd to this,
All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world's contracted thus;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.

A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day, being the shortest day

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's,
Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;
The sun is spent, and now his flasks
Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;
The world's whole sap is sunk;
The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph.

Study me then, you who shall lovers be
At the next world, that is, at the next spring;
For I am every dead thing,
In whom Love wrought new alchemy.
For his art did express
A quintessence even from nothingness,
From dull privations, and lean emptiness;
He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.

All others, from all things, draw all that's good,
Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;
I, by Love's limbec, am the grave
Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood
Have we two wept, and so
Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow
To be two chaoses, when we did show
Care to aught else; and often absences
Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.

But I am by her death (which word wrongs her)
Of the first nothing the elixir grown;
Were I a man, that I were one
I needs must know; I should prefer,
If I were any beast,
Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest,
And love; all, all some properties invest;
If I an ordinary nothing were,
As shadow, a light and body must be here.

But I am none; nor will my sun renew.
You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun
At this time to the Goat is run
To fetch new lust, and give it you,
Enjoy your summer all;
Since she enjoys her long night's festival,
Let me prepare towards her, and let me call
This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this
Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.