Una cosa bella (Endymion)
Una cosa bella es una alegría para siempre:
su belleza aumenta, jamás
se convertirá en nada, sino conservará
una habitación tranquila para nosotros, y un descanso
lleno de dulces sueños, y salud, y respiración serena.
Por lo tanto, cada mañana, estaremos envueltos
en un guirnalda de flores que nos une a la tierra,
pese al desaliento, a la inhumana escasez
de naturalezas nobles, a los días tristes,
a todas los dañinos y oscuros caminos
creados durante nuestra búsqueda: sí, a pesar de todo,
alguna la forma de la belleza aleja la tristeza
de nuestros espíritus oscuros. Tal el sol, la luna,
árboles viejos y jóvenes, que bendicen con sombra
a sencillas ovejas; y así son los narcisos
con el verde del mundo en que viven, y los arroyuelos claros
que construyen para sí un refugio fresco
contra la época de calor; y
claros en medio de los bosques,
enriquecidos por un puñado brotes
de bellas rosas almizcle:
Y así también es la grandeza de los destinos
que hemos imaginado para los muertos poderosos;
una fuente inagotable de bebida inmortal,
derramándose sobre nosotros desde el umbral del cielo.
John Keats, Londres, 1795- Roma, 1821
Versión © Silvia Camerotto
A Thing of Beauty (Endymion)
A thing of
beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
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