«Elegía a la muerte»: John Donne; poema y análisis.
Elegía a la muerte (Elegie: Death) es un poema metafísico del poeta inglés John Donne (1572-1631), publicado en la antología de 1633: Poemas (Poems).
La muerte, como todas las grandes abstracciones que repentinamente se hacen realidad, está estrechamente ligada a la poesía.
Elegía a la muerte, uno de los más destacados poemas de John Donne, no fatiga sus versos al combatir a la muerte mediante una rígida procesión de lamentos, sino a través de una ingeniosa negación de sus supuestas virtudes.
En esta materia, sobre todo, John Donne alcanzó la más sacrificada excelencia con el poema: Muerte no te enorgullezcas (Death Be Not Proud).
Elegía a la muerte.
Elegie: Death, John Donne (1572-1631)
Lenguaje, eres demasiado estrecho
y demasiado débil para consolarnos;
la aflicción extrema no puede hablar.
¡Si pudiéramos suspirar acentos y llorar palabras!
La angustia que otorgan respiro a las lágrimas,
se consume y desgasta.
Los espíritus tristes, cuando menos lo parecen,
más tristes están.
No porque no sientan su estado,
sino porque el sentimiento los ha desesperado.
Dolor, a quien debemos todo lo que somos;
tirano, en la quinta y máxima Monarquía:
¿La mataste porque ella poseía todos los corazones,
para hacer así más opulento tu imperio?
¿Sabías que hasta quién no la conocía se lamentaría,
como cuando en un diluvio perecen todos los inocentes?
¿No te bastaba ganar ese palacio?
¿Debías arrasarlo, después de vencido?
Si te hubieras quedado, si hubieras considerado sus ojos,
todos los que hoy te huyen te habrían adorado.
Porque aquellos ojos daban luz sin quitarla,
y veían el alma porque la producían.
Ella era Zafirina, y clara ante ti;
la arcilla es ahora tu recinto sagrado.
Ah, ella era demasiado pura, pero no demasiado débil;
¿quién contempló una artillería de cristal que no se quebrara?
Y si nosotros somos tu conquista, con su caída has perdido,
pues con ella perecemos todos.
Si vivimos, sólo lo hacemos para rebelarnos;
la conocen mejor quienes la trataron bien.
Si debiéramos evaporarnos, y languidecer, y morir,
ya no sufriríamos, pues íbamos tras ella.
Ella cambió nuestro mundo por el suyo,
ahora que partió; la alegría y la fortuna son opresiones,
pues suyas eran todas las virtudes
que la ética llama cardinales.
Su alma era el paraíso;
la Gracia era el querubín que la custodiaba, y alejaba del pecado;
sólo debía dejar entrar a la Muerte,
pues la destrucción se cosecha siempre del mismo árbol.
Dios la arrebató, para que ningún mortal la amara más que a Él,
y mientras vertíamos lágrimas,
Él vertía su merced al llevársela,
para que nuestras mentes se eleven al firmamento, donde ella ahora descansa.
Language, thou art too narrow and too weak
To ease us now; great sorrows cannot speak.
If we could sigh out accents, and weep words,
Grief wears, and lessens, that tears breath affords.
Sad hearts, the less they seem, the more they are
—So guiltiest men stand mutest at the bar—
Not that they know not, feel not their estate,
But extreme sense hath made them desperate.
Sorrow, to whom we owe all that we be,
Tyrant, in the fifth and greatest monarchy,
Was ’t that she did possess all hearts before,
Thou hast kill’d her, to make thy empire more?
Knew’st thou some would, that knew her not, lament,
As in a deluge perish th’ innocent?
Was ’t not enough to have that palace won,
But thou must raze it too, that was undone?
Hadst thou stay’d there, and look’d out at her eyes,
All had adored thee, that now from thee flies;
For they let out more light than they took in,
They told not when, but did the day begin.
She was too sapphirine and clear for thee;
Clay, flint, and jet now thy fit dwellings be.
Alas! she was too pure, but not too weak;
Whoe’er saw crystal ordnance but would break?
And if we be thy conquest, by her fall
Thou hast lost thy end; in her we perish all;
Or if we live, we live but to rebel,
That know her better now, who knew her well.
If we should vapour out, and pine, and die,
Since she first went, that were not misery.
She changed our world with hers; now she is gone,
Mirth and prosperity is oppression;
For of all moral virtues she was all,
That ethics speak of virtues cardinal.
Her soul was paradise; the cherubin
Set to keep it was grace, that kept out sin.
She had no more than let in death, for we
All reap consumption from one fruitful tree.
God took her hence, lest some of us should love
Her, like that plant, Him and His laws above;
And when we tears, He mercy shed in this,
To raise our minds to heaven, where now she is;
Who if her virtues would have let her stay
We had had a saint, have now a holiday.
Her heart was that strange bush, where sacred fire,
Religion, did not consume, but inspire
Such piety, so chaste use of God’s day,
That what we turn to feast, she turn’d to pray;
And did prefigure here, in devout taste,
The rest of her high Sabbath, which shall last.
Angels did hand her up, who next God dwell,
For she was of that order whence most fell;
Her body’s left with us, lest some had said,
She could not die, except they saw her dead;
For from less virtue, and less beauteousness,
The Gentiles framed them gods and goddesses.
The ravenous earth, that now woos her to be
Earth too, will be a Lemnia, and the tree
That wraps that crystal in a wooden tomb
Shall be took up spruce, fill’d with diamond.
And we her sad glad friends all bear a part
Of grief, for all would break a Stoic’s heart.
John Donne (1572-1631)
To ease us now; great sorrows cannot speak.
If we could sigh out accents, and weep words,
Grief wears, and lessens, that tears breath affords.
Sad hearts, the less they seem, the more they are
—So guiltiest men stand mutest at the bar—
Not that they know not, feel not their estate,
But extreme sense hath made them desperate.
Sorrow, to whom we owe all that we be,
Tyrant, in the fifth and greatest monarchy,
Was ’t that she did possess all hearts before,
Thou hast kill’d her, to make thy empire more?
Knew’st thou some would, that knew her not, lament,
As in a deluge perish th’ innocent?
Was ’t not enough to have that palace won,
But thou must raze it too, that was undone?
Hadst thou stay’d there, and look’d out at her eyes,
All had adored thee, that now from thee flies;
For they let out more light than they took in,
They told not when, but did the day begin.
She was too sapphirine and clear for thee;
Clay, flint, and jet now thy fit dwellings be.
Alas! she was too pure, but not too weak;
Whoe’er saw crystal ordnance but would break?
And if we be thy conquest, by her fall
Thou hast lost thy end; in her we perish all;
Or if we live, we live but to rebel,
That know her better now, who knew her well.
If we should vapour out, and pine, and die,
Since she first went, that were not misery.
She changed our world with hers; now she is gone,
Mirth and prosperity is oppression;
For of all moral virtues she was all,
That ethics speak of virtues cardinal.
Her soul was paradise; the cherubin
Set to keep it was grace, that kept out sin.
She had no more than let in death, for we
All reap consumption from one fruitful tree.
God took her hence, lest some of us should love
Her, like that plant, Him and His laws above;
And when we tears, He mercy shed in this,
To raise our minds to heaven, where now she is;
Who if her virtues would have let her stay
We had had a saint, have now a holiday.
Her heart was that strange bush, where sacred fire,
Religion, did not consume, but inspire
Such piety, so chaste use of God’s day,
That what we turn to feast, she turn’d to pray;
And did prefigure here, in devout taste,
The rest of her high Sabbath, which shall last.
Angels did hand her up, who next God dwell,
For she was of that order whence most fell;
Her body’s left with us, lest some had said,
She could not die, except they saw her dead;
For from less virtue, and less beauteousness,
The Gentiles framed them gods and goddesses.
The ravenous earth, that now woos her to be
Earth too, will be a Lemnia, and the tree
That wraps that crystal in a wooden tomb
Shall be took up spruce, fill’d with diamond.
And we her sad glad friends all bear a part
Of grief, for all would break a Stoic’s heart.
John Donne (1572-1631)
Más poemas góticos. I Poemas de John Donne.
Más literatura gótica:
- 5 poemas de amor de John Donne.
- Poemas de muerte.
- Poemas de vida.
- Poemas ingleses.
- Poemas metafísicos.
- Poemas isabelinos.
- Poemas de dolor.
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