Sweetheart, do not love too long:
I loved long and long,
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.
All through the years of our youth
Neither could have known
Their own thought from the other's,
We were so much at one.
But O, in a minute she shanged --
O do not love too long,
Or you will grow out of fashion
Like an old song.
W. B. Yeats, Poemas
(ed. bilingue, selecção de
José Agostinho Baptista)
All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart,
The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashy the wintry mould,
Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.
The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told;
I hunger to build them a new and sit on a green knoll apart,
With the earth and the sky and the water, re-made, like a casket of gold
For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.
Tudo quanto é feio, destruído, todas as coisas gastas, velhas,
O grito de uma criança à beira do caminho, o rangido de uma carroça que se arrasta,
O pesado andar do lavrador, passo a passo sobre o limo invernal,
Maculam a tua imagem que engendra uma rosa no fundo do meu coração.
Tão grande é a mácula das coisas torpes que não pode ser descrita;
A minha ânsia é tudo reconstruir e sentar-me num verde outeiro solitário,
Com a terra, o céu, a água renovados, como um cofre de ouro
Para os meus sonhos da tua imagem que floresce numa rosa tão profundamente no meu coração.
W. B. Yeats, Poemas
(versão de José Agostinho Baptista)
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved your pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
W. B. Yeats,
The Secret Rose (1897) /
Poemas (ed. bilingue)
I will arise and go now, and go to Inisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I wil arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
W. B. Yeats, Poemas
