A rosa secreta.

A beira do Xallas, o Penafiel e as lucernas da noite, dende a parroquia de Arcos, Carnota.

FAR off, most secret, and inviolate Rose,
Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those
Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre,
Or in the wine vat, dwell beyond the stir
And tumult of defeated dreams; and deep
Among pale eyelids, heavy with the sleep
Men have named beauty. Thy great leaves enfold
The ancient beards, the helms of ruby and gold
Of the crowned Magi; and the king whose eyes
Saw the Pierced Hands and Rood of elder rise
In druid vapour and make the torches dim;
Till vain frenzy awoke and he died; and him
Who met Fand walking among flaming dew
By a gray shore where the wind never blew,
And lost the world and Emer for a kiss;
And him who drove the gods out of their liss,
And till a hundred morns had flowered red,
Feasted and wept the barrows of his dead;
And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown
And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown
Dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods;
And him who sold tillage, and house, and goods,
And sought through lands and islands numberless years,
Until he found with laughter and with tears,
A woman, of so shining loveliness,
That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress,
A little stolen tress. I, too, await
The hour of thy great wind of love and hate.
When shall the stars be blown about the sky,
Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?
Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows,
Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose?

THE SECRET ROSE

ARREDADA, moi secreta, e pura Rosa,
Abrázame na miña hora das horas; onde aqueles
Que che buscaron no Sacro Sepulcro,
Ou no cáliz do viño, habitan afastados da axitación
E o balbordo de derrotados soños; e onde fondo
Entre pálidas pálpebras, vencidos co sono
Os homes nomearon a beleza. Os teus grandes pétalos acollen]
As antigas barbas, os helmos de rubís e ouro
Dos magos coroados; e o Rei que viu
As Furadas Mans e o Lignum de sabugueiro erguerse
En vapor Druídico facendo esmorecer as fachas;
Ata que un van arrouto lle trouxo a morte; e aquel
Que atopou a Fand camiñando entre xeada ardente
Nunha beiramar gris onde o vento nunca ouveara,
E perdeu ó mundo e a Emer por un bico;
E aquel que expulsou ós deuses dos seus eidos,
E ata que cen alboradas floreceran bermellas,
Celebrou e chorou os túmulos dos seus mortos;
E o orgulloso e soñador Rei que rexeitou coroa
E mágoa, e con bufón e bardo
Habitou onda os bébedos vagabundos en fondas fragas;
E aquel que vendeu trebellos, casa e bens,
E buscou por terras e illas anos sen conta,
Ata que atopou con sorrisos e con bágoas,
Unha muller, de tan brillante beldade,
Que os homes esgranaban o millo a medianoite por unha guedella],
Unha pequena guedella roubada. Eu, tamén, agardo
A hora do teu grande vento de amor e xenreira.
Cando han ser espalladas as estrelas polo ceo,
Coma as faíscas que saen da forxa, e morren?
De certo a túa hora ten chegado, o teu grande vento sopra,
Arredada, secreta, e inviolada Rosa.

A ROSA SECRETA

by YEATS, WILLIAM BUTLER, Ireland, * 1865, + 1939: