«Tierra de hadas»: Edgar Allan Poe; poema y análisis.
Tierra de hadas (Fairy-Land) es un poema del escritor norteamericano Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), publicado en la edición de septiembre de 1829 de la revista The Yankee and Boston Literary Gazette, y finalmente reeditado en dos antologías: Al Araraaf, Tamerlán y otros poemas menores (Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and Minor Poems) y Poemas (Poems).
Tierra de hadas originalmente se tituló Cielo (Heaven), y fue escrito cuando Edgar Allan Poe, de apenas veinte años de edad, cursaba sus estudios en la academia militar de West Point.
Edgar Allan Poe nos lleva a recorrer una extraña tierra de hadas, donde nada es lo que parece, o mejor dicho, donde todo es apenas un eco, el suspiro reflejado de una belleza tan fabulosamente sutil que no puede ser apreciada por los mortales.
Tierra de hadas.
Fairy-land, Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)
Oscuros valles y tenebrosos pantanos,
sombríos bosques,
cuyas formas no podemos adivinar,
al impedirlo las lágrimas que caen por todas partes.
Enormes lunas que surgen y desaparecen
una vez, y otra, y otra,
a cada momento en la noche
-siempre cambiando de lugar-
oscureciendo los rayos del lucero
con el aliento de sus pálidos rostros.
Alrededor de las doce por el reloj lunar
una más nebulosa que las demás
(en un juicio,
decidieron que era la mejor)
desciende -abajo, más abajo-
con su centro sobre la corona
de la cumbre de una montaña,
mientras que su amplia circunferencia
de flotantes vestiduras cae
sobre aldeas, sobre pórticos,
dondequiera que estén
-sobre los lejanos bosques, sobre el mar-
sobre los espíritus alados,
sobre las cosas adormecidas,
y las envuelve completamente
en un laberinto de luz,
y entonces, ¡qué profunda! ¡oh, profunda!
es la pasión de su sueño.
Dim vales—and shadowy floods—
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can’t discover
For the tears that drip all over:
Huge moons there wax and wane—
Again—again—again—
Every moment of the night—
Forever changing places—
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial,
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down—still down—and down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain’s eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be—
O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea—
Over spirits on the wing—
Over every drowsy thing—
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light—
And then, how, deep! —O, deep,
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like—almost any thing—
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before,
Videlicet, a tent—
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.
Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can’t discover
For the tears that drip all over:
Huge moons there wax and wane—
Again—again—again—
Every moment of the night—
Forever changing places—
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial,
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down—still down—and down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain’s eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be—
O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea—
Over spirits on the wing—
Over every drowsy thing—
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light—
And then, how, deep! —O, deep,
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like—almost any thing—
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before,
Videlicet, a tent—
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.
Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)
Más poemas góticos. I Poemas de Edgar Allan Poe.
Más literatura gótica:
El análisis, resumen y traducción al español del poema de Edgar Allan Poe: Tierra de hadas (Fairy-Land), fueron realizados por El Espejo Gótico. Para su reproducción escríbenos a: elespejogotico@gmail.com
sugiero que se tome a anton lavey y al setismo en el blogg
ResponderEliminarme gustan muxo los poemas de edgar
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