John
Keats
Ode
a um Rouxinol
Ode
to a Nightingale
Meu
coração dói, e um torpor aflige
Meus
sentidos, como se ébrio de cicuta,
Ou
sorvido algum vapor de ópio
Um
minuto passou, e no Letes afunda: (1)
Não
é inveja de teu fado feliz,
Mas
feliz em tua felicidade -
Tu,
lúcida-alada Dríade no bosque, (2)
Em
tal melodiosa trama
De
faia verde, e de sombras inúmeras,
Cantaste
o Verão à plena garganta.
Ó
fruto da vinha! Que repousas
Tanto
tempo na profunda terra,
Degustar
de flora e verdes campinas
Dança,
canção provençal, e diversão,
Ó
taça cheia do caloroso Sul,
Cheia
de real e rubra Hippocrene, (3)
Com
espuma cintilante até a borda
E
a manchar a boca de púrpura,
Que
beberei, e deixar o mundo não-visto,
E
contigo sumir na floresta sombria:
Afaste,
dissolva, e esqueças tudo
O
que entre as folhas jamais conheceste,
O
tédio, a febre, a irritação
Aqui,
onde os homens em gemidos mútuos
Onde
o torpor abala tristes cãs,
Onde
os jovens pálidos, débeis, morrem,
Onde
pensar é ser cheio de mágoas
E
desespero no olhar;
Onde
a Beleza perde o olhar lustroso,
Ou
o Amor gasta-se no dia seguinte.
Para
longe! Eu desejo voar contigo,
Não
guiado por Baco, e seus convivas, (4)
Mas
nas invisíveis asas da Poesia,
Mesmo
que a mente se atrase confusa:
Estarei
contigo! Suave é a noite!
E
por sorte a Rainha-Lua no trono,
Cortejada
por suas brilhantes Fadas;
Mas
aqui lua não há
Salvo
a brisa que desce do céu
Em
penumbras e trilhas sinuosas.
Não
posso ver flores aos meus pés,
Nem
o incenso a flutuar sobre os ramos,
Mas,
nas trevas suaves, aprecio cada um
Onde
a bela estação oferece
A
grama espessa, e a árvore silvestre;
O
espinheiro-branco, e a flor pastoral;
Violetas
a murcharem sob as folhas,
E
o broto de plena Primavera,
O
almíscar-rosa, de vinho orvalhado,
O
zumbir de moscas em tardes de Verão.
Sombrio
eu ouço; e por muito tempo
Meio
atraído pela suave morte,
A
chamei com nomes doces nas rimas,
Para
arrebatar meu fôlego calmo;
Pois
parece proveitoso morrer,
À
noite, cessar tudo sem dor alguma,
Enquanto
derramas toda a tua alma
Em
semelhante êxtase!
Cantarias
ainda, em vão, meus ouvidos
Ao
teu nobre requiém viraram relva.
Não
nasceste para morrer, ave eterna!
Gerações
ávidas não te derrubam;
Ouço
nesta noite a voz já ouvida
Outrora
por imperador e curinga;
Talvez
a mesma melodia na trilha
Ao
triste coração de Rute, saudosa,
(5)
Ansiava
o lar, em pranto, no exílio;
O
mesmo a encantar outrora
Mágicas
janelas, abertas à espuma
De
mares bravios, em terras lendárias.
Desolado!
as palavras ressoam
A
levar-me de ti à minha solidão!
Adeus!
A fantasia não ilude
Como
dizem, ela, a falsa ninfa.
Adeus!
Adeus! Teu queixoso hino finda
Além
das campinas, além dos riachos,
Além
das colinas, já sepulto
Nas
clareiras do vale próximo;
Foi
uma visão, ou um devaneio?
Foi-se
a melodia: - acordei ou durmo?
ago/10
Trad.
livre: Leonardo de Magalhaens
(1)Lethe/Letes
é o rio do esquecimento, que atravessa o Hades, na
Mitologia
grega.
(2)Dríade
é um entidade da mitiologia grega, uma espécie de ninfa que
habitava
a essência das árvores do bosques intocados.
(3)Na
mitologia grega, Hipocrene é uma fonte mística no Monte Helicon,
consagrada
às Musas. A fonte nasceu de um coice do cavalo-alado
Pegasus.
(4)Baco
é o nome do deus do vinho e do êxtase na mitologia romana,
o
Dionísio da mitologia grega.
(5)Rute
é uma moabita, mas heroína da tradição judaica, ao se
tornar
ancestral do Rei Davi. Simboliza aquela que vive em terra
estrangeira,
e faz novos 'laços de amizade' com a nova pátria.
sobre
tradução de poemas de Keats
poema
original em
para
ouvir
Ode
to a Nightingale
John Keats
My
heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness, -
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness, -
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for
a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade
far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away!
away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I
cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling
I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -
To thy high requiem become a sod.
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou
wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn!
the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?
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