We were alone together
a moment on the balcony.
Since the lovely morning
of that day, we were sweethearts.
—The drowsy land around
was sleeping its vague colors,
under the gray and rosy
sunset of fall.
I told her I was going to kiss her;
she lowered her eyes calmly
and offered her cheeks to me
like someone losing a treasure.
—The dead leaves were falling
in the windless garden of the house,
and a perfume of heliotrope
was still floating in the air.
She did not dare to look at me;
I told her we would be married,
—and the tears rolled
from her mournful eyes.
“YO ESTABA JUNTO A MI MESA”
Yo estaba junto a mi mesa
y entre mis flores, leyendo
el libro triste y amargo
del poeta de mis sueños.
Ella se acercó callada
y me dijo: —Si los versos
te gustan más que mis labios,
ya nunca te daré un beso.
—¿ Vienes conmigo? ¡ La tarde
está tan hermosa! Quiero
antes que llegue la noche
ir por jazmines al huerto.
—Si quieres, vamos; y mientras
cojes jazmines, yo leo
el libro triste y amargo
del poeta de mis sueños.
Me miró triste; sus ojos
llenos de amor, me dijeron
que no. —¿ No quieres? Voy sola . . .
Entonces seguí leyendo.
Con lento paso, la pobre
se fue, sufriendo en silencio;
se fue al huerto por jazmines . . .
y me quedé con mis versos.
“I WAS SITTING”
I was sitting near my table
among my flowers, reading
the bitter and melancholy book
of the poet who knows my dreams.
She came to me silently
and said: “If the poems
please you more than my lips,
I will never give you another kiss.
“Are you coming? The dusk
is so beautiful! Before
it gets dark I want to pick
jasmines in the garden.”
“If you want to, we’ll go, and while
you’re picking jasmines, I’ll read
the bitter and melancholy book
of the poet who knows my dreams.”
She looked at me sadly; her eyes
with love in them said no
to me. “Don’t you want to? I’ll go alone . . .”
Then I went on reading.
She walked slowly, the poor
creature, suffering in silence;
went to the garden for jasmines . . .
I stayed there with my poems.
Iba vestida de blanco.
Después mis ojos la vieron
llorando y cojiendo flores
allá en la sombra del huerto.
She was dressed in white.
Later my eyes saw her
crying and picking flowers
there in the darkness of the garden.
“LAS CARRETAS”
Ya están ahí las carretas . . .
—Lo han dicho el pinar y el viento,
lo ha dicho la luna de oro,
lo han dicho el humo y el eco . . . —
Son las carretas que pasan
estas tardes, al sol puesto,
las carretas que se llevan
del monte los troncos muertos.
¡ Cómo lloran las carretas,
camino de Pueblo Nuevo!
Los bueyes vienen soñando,
a la luz de los luceros,
en el establo caliente
que sabe a madre y a heno.
Y detrás de las carretas,
caminan los carreteros,
con la aijada sobre el hombro
y los ojos en el cielo.
¡ Cómo lloran las carretas,
camino de Pueblo Nuevo!
En la paz del campo, van
dejando los troncos muertos
un olor fresco y honrado
a corazón descubierto.
Y cae el ángelus desde
la torre del pueblo viejo,
sobre los campos talados,
que huelen a cementerio.
¡ Cómo lloran las carretas,
camino de Pueblo Nuevo!
“THE LUMBER WAGONS”
The lumber wagons are already there.
—The pines and the wind have told us,
the golden moon has told us,
the smoke and the echo have told us . . .
They are the carts that go by
in these afternoons at dusk,
the lumber wagons carrying
the dead trees down from the mountain.
What a sound of crying from these carts
on the road to Pueblo Nuevo!
The oxen come along
in the starlight, daydreaming
about their warm stalls in the barn
smelling of motherhood and hay.
And behind the lumber wagons
the ox-drivers walking,
the ox-prod on their shoulders,
and eyes watching the sky.
What a sound of crying from these carts
on the road to Pueblo Nuevo!
The dead trees as they move
through the calm of the fields
leave behind a fresh honest smell
like a heart thrown open.
The Angelus falls
from the steeple of the ancient town
over the stripped fields
which smell like a cemetery.
What a sound of crying from these carts
on the road to Pueblo Nuevo!
ESTAMPA DE INVIERNO
(Nieve)
¿ Dónde se han escondido los colores
en este día negro y blanco?
La fronda, negra; el agua, gris; el cielo
y la tierra, de un blanquinegro pálido;
y la ciudad doliente
una vieja aguafuerte de romántico.
El que camina, negro;
negro el medroso pájaro
que atraviesa el jardín como una flecha . . .
Hasta el silencio es duro y despintado.
La tarde cae. El cielo
no tiene ni un dulzor. En el ocaso,
un vago amarillor casi esplendente,
que casi no lo es. Lejos, el campo
de hierro seco.
Y entra la noche, como
un entierro; enlutado
y frío todo, sin estrellas, blanca
y negra, como el día negro y blanco.
WINTER SCENE
(Snow)
Where have the colors all gone to
today, that is so black and white?
The leaves black, the water gray, the sky
and the ground a sort of faded white and black,
and the mournful city
is like an old steel engraving by some romantic.
The man who is walking is black,
the startled bird is black
shooting across the garden like an arrow . . .
Even the silence is harsh and faded.
Dusk falls. There is nothing gentle
about the sky. In the west, an indecisive
yellow light that almost glitters
and almost doesn’t. Over there, fields
like dry iron.
And the night comes, like
a burial; it is all wrapped in black
and cold, no stars, all white
and black, like the black and white day.
“QUIEN SABE”
¡ Quién sabe del revés de cada hora!
¡ Cuántas vece
s la aurora
estaba tras un monte!
¡ Cuántas el rejio hervor de un horizonte
tenía en sus entrañas de oro el trueno!
Aquella rosa era veneno.
Aquella espada dio la vida.
Yo pensé una florida
pradera en el remate de un camino,
y me encontré un pantano.
Yo soñaba en la gloria de lo humano,
y me hallé en lo divino.
“WHO KNOWS WHAT IS GOING ON”
Who knows what is going on on the other side of each hour?
How many times the sunrise was
there, behind a mountain!
How many times the brilliant cloud piling up far off was already a golden body full of thunder!
This rose was poison.
That sword gave life.
I was thinking of a flowery meadow
at the end of a road,
and found myself in the slough.
I was thinking of the greatness of what was human, and found myself in the divine.
“EL RECUERDO SE VA”
El recuerdo se va
por mi memoria larga, removiendo
con finos pies las hojas secas.
—Detrás, la casa está vacía.
Delante, carreteras
que llevan a otras partes, solas,
yertas.
Y la lluvia que llora ojos y ojos,
cual si la hora eterna se quedase ciega.—
Aunque la casa está muda y cerrada,
yo, aunque no estoy en ella, estoy en ella.
Y . . . ¡ adiós, tú que caminas
sin volver la cabeza!
“A REMEMBRANCE IS MOVING”
A remembrance is moving
down the long memory, disturbing
the dry leaves with its delicate feet.
—Behind, the house is empty.
On ahead, highways
going on to other places, solitary highways,
stretched out.
And the rain is like weeping eyes,
as if the eternal moment were going blind—.
Even though the house is quiet and shut,
even though I am not in it, I am in it.
And . . . good-bye, you who are walking
without turning your head!
“EL CORDERO BALABA DULCEMENTE”
El cordero balaba dulcemente.
El asno, tierno, se alegraba
en un llamar caliente.
El perro ladreaba,
hablando casi a las estrellas . . .
Me desvelé. Salí. Vi huellas
celestes por el suelo
florecido
como un cielo
invertido.
Un vaho tibio y blando
velaba la arboleda;
la luna iba declinando
en un ocaso de oro y seda,
que parecía un ámbito divino . . .
Mi pecho palpitaba,
como si el corazón tuviese vino . . .
Abrí el establo a ver si estaba
El allí.
¡ Estaba!
“THE LAMB WAS BLEATING SOFTLY”
The lamb was bleating softly.
The young jackass grew happier
with his excited bray.
The dog barked,
almost talking to the stars.
I woke up! I went out. I saw the tracks
of the sky on the ground
which had flowered
like a sky
turned upside down.
A warm and mild haze
hung around the trees;
the moon was going down
in a west of gold and silk
like some full and divine womb . . .
My chest was thumping
as if my heart were drunk . . .
I opened the barn door to see if
He was there.
He was!
RETORNO FUGAZ
¿ Cómo era, Dios mío, cómo era?
—¡ Oh, corazón falaz, mente indecisa!—
¿ Era como el pasaje de la brisa?
¿ Como la huida de la primavera?
Tan leve, tan voluble, tan lijera
cual estival vilano . . . ¡ Sí! Imprecisa
como sonrisa que se pierde en risa . . .
¡ Vana en el aire, igual que una bandera!
¡ Bandera, sonreír, vilano, alada
primavera de junio, brisa pura! . . .
¡ Qué loco fué tu carnaval, qué triste!
Todo tu cambiar trocóse en nada
—¡ memoria, ciega abeja de amargura!—
¡ No sé cómo eras, yo que sé que fuiste!
RETURN FOR AN INSTANT
What was it like, God of mine, what was it like?
—Oh unfaithful heart, indecisive intelligence!
Was it like the going by of the wind?
Like the disappearance of the spring?
As nimble, as changeable, as weightless
as milkweed seeds in summer . . . Yes! Indefinite
as a smile which is lost forever in a laugh . . .
Arrogant in the air, just like a flag!
Flag, smile, milkweed pod, swift
spring in June, clear wind! . . .
Your celebration was so wild, so sad!
All of your changes ended up in nothing—
remembrance, a blind bee of bitter things!—
I don’t know what you were like, but you were!
from
Recently Married
(Diario de un Poeta Recién Casado)
1916
Madrid,
17 de enero, 1916
“QUE CERCA YA DEL ALMA”
¡ Qué cerca ya del alma
lo que está tan inmensamente lejos
de las manos aún!
Como una luz de estrella,
como una voz sin nombre
traída por el sueño, como el paso
de algún corcel remoto
que oímos, anhelantes,
el oído en la tierra;
como el mar en teléfono . . .
Y se hace la vida
por dentro, con la luz inestinguible
de un día deleitoso
que brilla en otra parte.
¡ Oh, qué dulce, qué dulce
verdad sin realidad aún, qué dulce!
Madrid,
January 17, 1916
“SOMETHING SO CLOSE”
Something so close to the soul
though still so enormously far
from the hands!
Like the light from a star,
like a voice we cannot identify
in a dream, like the galloping
of some rider far off
which we listen to, holding our breath,
our ear touching the ground,
like the sea over the telephone . . .
And life takes place
inside us, with the eternal light
of an ecstatic day
which is going on somewhere else.
It is a beautiful thing,
something true and not yet real, beautiful!
3 de febrero
NOCTURNO
¡ Oh mar sin olas conocidas,
sin “estaciones” de parada,
agua y luna, no más, noches y noches!
. . . Me acuerdo de la tierra,
que, ajena, era de uno,
al pasarla en la noche de los trenes,
por los lugares mismos y a las horas
de otros años . . .
—Madre lejana,
tierra dormida,
de brazos firmes y constantes,
de igual regazo quieto
—tumba de vida eterna
con el mismo ornamento renovado—;
tierra madre, que siempre
aguardas en tu sola
verdad el mirar triste
de los errantes ojos!—
. . . Me acuerdo de la tierra
—los olivares a la madrugada—,
firme frente a la luna
blanca, rosada o amarilla,
esperando retornos y retornos
de los que, sin ser suyos ni sus dueños,
la amaron y la amaron . . .
February 3rd
NIGHT PIECE
The sea with no waves we recognize,
with no stations on its route,
only water and moon, night after night!
My thought goes back to the land,
someone else’s land, belonging to the one
going through it on trains at night,
through the same place at the same hour
as before . . .
Remote mother,
sleeping earth,
powerful and faithful arms,
the same quiet lap for all
—tomb of eternal life
with the same decorations freshened—
earth, mother, always
true to yourself, waiting for
the sad gaze
of the wandering eyes!
My thought goes back to the land,
—the olive groves at sunrise—
outlined sharply in the white
or golden or yellow moonlight,
that look forward to the coming back
of those humans who are neither its slaves nor its
masters,
but who love it anyway . . .
Birkendene, Caldwell,
20 de febrero
“TE DESHOJE, COMO UNA ROSA”