novembro 03, 2012

A ceifeira

The Solitary ReaperWilliam Wordsworth 

BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so shrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?--
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listen'd, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

A sonoridade das palavras, o ritmo do poema, a musicalidade dos versos.
Estudos universitários que deixa(ra)m saudades.
E foi assim: This poem in my heart I bore long after it was read no more.

2 comentários:

  1. Entendo bem porque não esqueceu o poema, Fátima: é muito belo!

    Deixo-lhe beijinhos :))

  2. Obrigada, Ana Paula, pelos beijinhos (que retribuo) e pela leitura. O poema é incrível, tão simples e com uma musicalidade tão marcante. Mas sou suspeita, porque adoro a língua inglesa:) Que maravilhosas foram as aulas de Literatura Inglesa na faculdade, as mais marcantes de todas. Bom domingo para si - com beleza, também:):)