«Canción de la novia»: Christina Rossetti; poema y análisis.
Canción de la novia (Bride Song) es un poema de amor de la escritora inglesa Christina Rossetti (1830-1894), publicado en la antología de 1895: Nuevos poemas (New Poems).
Canción de la novia, uno de los mejores poemas de amor de Christina Rossetti, relata la historia de una mujer que ha muerto sin haber podido vivir plenamente su amor. Su vida, en todo caso, fue una constante y monótona vigilia por el retorno de su compañero, y por experimentar el dichoso día en el que todas las promesas hechas por fin se cumplan; en definitiva, por dejar de ser eternamente la novia que espera en silencio, resignada, mientras su cuerpo se marchita.
Canción de la novia.
Bride Song; Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
¡Oh, es tarde para el amor, tarde para la alegría,
Tarde, demasiado tarde!
Has vagado en el camino por mucho tiempo,
Has dudado frente a la puerta:
La encantada paloma sobre la rama
Murió sin un compañero;
La encantada princesa en su torre
Durmió detrás de las rejas;
Su corazón se encogía de pesar
Mientras tu la obligabas a esperar.
Hace diez años, hace cinco años,
Un año atrás,
Incluso entonces habrías llegado a tiempo,
Aunque parco y lento;
Hubieses visto su rostro viviendo,
El que ya no podrás contemplar:
La fuente congelada podría borbotear
Los brotes continuados y soplar,
El cálido viento del sur podría despertar
Para derretir la nieve.
¿Es ella hermosa ahora que yace?
En un tiempo lo fue;
Una reina para cualquier rey,
Con polvos dorados sobre el cabello,
Ahora son amapolas en sus rizos,
Blancas amapolas ha de llevar;
Un velo sobre el rostro ha de llevar
Junto a su anhelada tumba:
¿O es el hambre saciado lentamente
Quién suelta las amarras del cuidado?
Nunca la vimos sonreír,
O con el ceño arrugado;
Su lecho nunca le pareció suave
Aunque se sacuda debajo;
Nunca atendió sus ropas,
Mortajas, vestidos, o coronas;
Pensamos que su frente blanca sufría
Bajo el peso de su joyas,
Antes de que el cabello plateado asomara
En el campo perdido de los castaños.
Nunca la escuchamos hablar con premura,
Sus tonos eran dulces,
Y modulando sin luces,
Apenas lo necesario:
Su corazón se sentó silencioso entre el ruido
Y las mareas de la calle.
No había prisa en sus manos,
Ninguna prisa en sus pies;
No había ninguna dicha cercana
Que ella no se detuviese a saludar.
Debías haberla llorado ayer,
Llorado sobre su cama desierta:
¿Pues dónde habrás de llorar hoy
Si está muerta?
Los que la amamos no lloramos hoy,
Pero coronamos su cabeza real.
Deja estas amapolas que esparcimos;
Tus rosas son demasiado rojas:
Deja que estas amapolas, no para ti,
Crezcan y se extiendan.
Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loiter'd on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate;
The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.
Ten years ago, five years ago,
One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leap'd,
The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
To melt the snow.
Is she fair now as she lies?
Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
With gold-dust on her hair.
Now there are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?
We never saw her with a smile
Or with a frown;
Her bed seem'd never soft to her,
Though toss'd of down;
She little heeded what she wore,
Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
We think her white brows often ached
Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs show'd in her locks
That used to be so brown.
We never heard her speak in haste:
Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
As it was meet:
Her heart sat silent through the noise
And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
That she might run to greet.
You should have wept her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
That she is dead?
Lo, we who love weep not to-day,
But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
Cut down and spread.
Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
Too late, too late!
You loiter'd on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate;
The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.
Ten years ago, five years ago,
One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leap'd,
The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
To melt the snow.
Is she fair now as she lies?
Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
With gold-dust on her hair.
Now there are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?
We never saw her with a smile
Or with a frown;
Her bed seem'd never soft to her,
Though toss'd of down;
She little heeded what she wore,
Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
We think her white brows often ached
Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs show'd in her locks
That used to be so brown.
We never heard her speak in haste:
Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
As it was meet:
Her heart sat silent through the noise
And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
That she might run to greet.
You should have wept her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
That she is dead?
Lo, we who love weep not to-day,
But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
Cut down and spread.
Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
Poemas góticos. I Poemas de Christina Rossetti.
Más literatura gótica:
- Poemas de novios.
- Poemas prerrafaelitas.
- Poemas de mujeres.
- Poemas de matrimonio.
- Poemas de abandono.
- Poemas de pareja.
- Poemas ingleses.
- Poemas de soledad.
- Poemas de dolor.
- Poemas victorianos.
- Poemas tristes.
1 comentarios:
La poesía da un nuevo significado a la palabra muerte, algo tan terrible parece hermoso cuando se expresa asi
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