Leda e o cisne : William Butler Yeats

Súbito golpe: as grandes asas a bater

Sobre a virgem que oscila, a coxa acariciada

Por negros pés; a nuca, um bico a vem reter;

O peito inane sobre o peito, ei-la apresada.

Dedos incertos de terror, como empurrar

Das coxas bambas o emplumado resplendor?

Pode o corpo, sob esse impulso de brancor,

O coração estranho não sentir pulsar?

Um tremor nos quadris engendra incontinenti

A muralha destruída, o teto, a torre a arder

E Agamêmnon, o morto.

                                    Capturada assim,

E pelo bruto sangue do ar sujeita, enfim

Ela assumiu-lhe a ciência junto com o poder,

Antes que a abandonasse o bico indiferente?

W. B. Yeats

Irland 1865-France 1939

photo by Google

“Zeus tomou a forma de cisne para apossar-se de Leda, mulher de Tíndaro, 

rei da Lacônia.

Aedh deseja os tecidos dos céus : William Butler Yeats

Fossem meus os tecidos bordados dos céus,

Ornamentados com luz dourada e prateada,

Os azuis e negros e pálidos tecidos

Da noite, da luz e da meia-luz,

Os estenderia sob os teus pés.

Mas eu, sendo pobre, tenho apenas os meus sonhos.

Eu estendi meus sonhos sob os teus pés

Caminha suavemente, pois caminhas sobre meus sonhos.

W. B. Yeats

Irland 1865-France 1939

photo by Google

Never give all the heart, for love : William Butler Yeats

Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy. Kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.

W: B. Yeats

(Irland 1865 - France 1939)

Photo by Google

Nunca entregues todo o coração : William Butler Yeats

Nunca entregues todo o coração, pois não vale

Muito a pena pensar no amor
De mulheres apaixonadas desde que firme
Nos pareça, e nunca elas imaginem
Quanto vai definhando de beijo para beijo
Pois tudo o que nos seduz mais não é
Do que fugaz deleite, doce e sonhador.
Oh, nunca entregues o coração completamente,
Pois elas, por mais que os suaves lábios o afirmem,
Entregam ao jogo os seus corações.
E quem poderá ainda jogar bem
Se estiver surdo, mudo e cego de amor?
Aquele que fez isto sabe o quanto custa
Pois entregou todo o coração e perdeu.

W. B. Yeats in Os Pássaros Brancos e outros poemas
(Irlanda 1865 - França 1939)
Foto Google

The Pity of Love by William Butler Yeats

A pity beyond all telling
Is hid in the heart of love:
The folk who are buying and selling,
The clouds on their journey above,
The cold wet winds ever blowing,
And the shadowy hazel grove
Where mouse-grey waters are flowing,
Threaten the head that I love.

William Butler Yeats

(Irland 1865-1939)

The heart of the woman by William Butler Yeats

O what to me the little room
That was brimmed up with prayer and rest;
He bade me out into the gloom,
And my breast lies upon his breast.

O what to me my mother's care,
The house where I was safe and warm;
The shadowy blossom of my hair
Will hide us from the bitter storm.

O hiding hair and dewy eyes,
I am no more with life and death,
My heart upon his warm heart lies,
My breath is mixed into his breath.

William Butler Yeats

(Irland 1865-1939)

The Lover's Song by William Butler Yeats

Bird sighs for the air,
Thought for I know not where,
For the womb the seed sighs.
Now sinks the same rest
On mind, on nest,
On straining thighs.

William Butler Yeats

(Irland 1865-1939)

Love's Loneliness by William Butler Yeats

Old fathers, great-grandfathers,

Rise as kindred should.

If ever lover's loneliness

Came where you stood,

Pray that Heaven protect us

That protect your blood.

The mountain throws a shadow,

Thin is the moon's horn;

What did we remember

Under the ragged thorn?

Dread has followed longing,

And our hearts are torn.

William Butler Yeats

(Irland 1865-1939)

On Woman by William Butler Yeats

That gives up all her mind,

A man may find in no man

A friendship of her kind

That covers all he has brought

As with her flesh and bone,

Nor quarrels with a thought

Because it is not her own.

Though pedantry denies,

It's plain the Bible means

That Solomon grew wise

While talking with his queens.

Yet never could, although

They say he counted grass,

Count all the praises due

When Sheba was his lass,

When she the iron wrought, or

When from the smithy fire

It shuddered in the water:

Harshness of their desire

That made them stretch and yawn,

pleasure that comes with sleep,

Shudder that made them one.

What else He give or keep

God grant me - no, not here,

For I am not so bold

To hope a thing so dear

Now I am growing old,

But when, if the tale's true,

The Pestle of the moon

That pounds up all anew

Brings me to birth again --

To find what once I had

And know what once I have known,

Until I am driven mad,

Sleep driven from my bed.

By tenderness and care.

pity, an aching head,

Gnashing of teeth, despair;

And all because of some one

perverse creature of chance,

And live like Solomon

That Sheba led a dance.

William Butler Yeats

(Irland 1865-1939)

Quando fores velha : William Butler Yeats

Já velha de cabelos brancos e com muito sono,

A cabecear junto à lareira, pega neste livro,

E lê-o devagar e sonha com o doce olhar

E as sombras profundas que os teus olhos tiveram;

Quantos amaram os teus momentos de graciosa alegria,

E amaram a tua beleza, com amor falso ou verdadeiro,

Mas apenas um homem amou a alma peregrina

Que há em ti

E o sofrimento que o teu rosto em mudança revelava;

E inclinada sobre as barras incandescentes

Murmura, um pouco triste, que o Amor fugiu

E lentamente se afastou para lá das montanhas

E escondeu o teu rosto por entre miríades de estrelas.

W.B.Yeats

(Ireland 1865-France 1939)

photo by Google