«El muchacho danés»: William Wordsworth; poema y análisis.
El muchacho danés (The Danish Boy) es un poema del romanticismo del escritor inglés William Wordsworth (1770-1850), escrito en 1799 como preludio de una obra más extensa que nunca se completó.
El muchacho danés, uno de los mejores poemas de William Wordsworth, es también una de sus piezas más oscuras. Aquí el autor nos permite ser testigos de una visión pacífica, serena, la de un joven danés cantando viejas baladas olvidadas, hasta que pronto advertimos algo extraño, maldito, quizá, en el muchacho y sus letanías.
El muchacho danés.
The Danish Boy, William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
Entre dos páramos hay una quebrada
Y un espacio que parece sagrado
A las flores de las colinas,
Y sagrado al cielo encima.
En este valle pequeño y abierto
Hay un árbol por la tempestad golpeado;
El rayo ha cortado una piedra angular,
La última piedra de una solitaria choza;
Y en este valle pequeño puedes ver
Algo que las tormentas no destruyen,
La sombra de un muchacho danés.
De las nubes altas se oye a la alondra,
Pero las gotas no caen en esta tierra;
En este rincón solitario las aves
Nunca construyen sus nidos.
Ni bestia ni pájaro levanta aquí su casa;
Las abejas, llevadas sobre el aire ventoso,
Pasan encima de aquellas campanas fragantes
Hacia otras flores, hacia otros pequeños valles
Llevan su mercancía de polen;
El Muchacho danés deambula solo:
El valle pequeño es todo suyo.
Un espíritu meridiano es él;
Aunque parece hecho de carne y sangre;
No es un pastor ni lo será nunca,
Peón de los campos jamás será.
Porta un chaleco real de piel,
Oscuro como las alas del cuervo;
No teme lluvias, ni vientos ni rocío;
Pero en la tormenta se ve fresco y azul
Como pinos en ciernes de la primavera;
Su casco posee una gracia vernal,
Brillante como la flor en su rostro.
El arpa cuelga de su hombro;
Y luego descansa sobre su rodilla,
A las voces de una lengua olvidada
Él les regala su melodía.
Por multitudes en la vieja colina
Él es el querido y alabado;
Y a menudo, sin causa aparente,
Los corceles del monte escuchan,
Oyen al muchacho danés,
Mientras en el valle pequeño él canta solo
Junto al árbol y la piedra angular.
Allí se sienta él; en su rostro no encontrarás
Ningún rastro de su antiguo aire feroz,
Ni amplios cielos despejados
O estáticas nubes estivales.
El muchacho danés es bendito
Y feliz en su ensenada florida:
Su mente viaja por distantes hechos de sangre;
Y aún él susurra sus canciones de amor
Que suenan como cantos de guerra,
Pues tranquilo y apacible es su semblante;
Sereno como un muchacho muerto.
Between two sister moorland rills
There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacred to flowerets of the hills,
And sacred to the sky.
And in this smooth and open dell
There is a tempest-stricken tree;
A corner-stone by lightning cut,
The last stone of a lonely hut;
And in this dell you see
A thing no storm can e’er destroy,
The shadow of a Danish Boy.
In clouds above, the lark is heard,
He sings his blithest and his best;
But in this lonesome nook the bird
Did never build her nest.
No beast, no bird hath here his home;
The bees, borne on breezy air,
Pass high above those fragrant bells
To other flowers, to other dells
Nor ever linger there.
The Danish Boy walks here alone:
The lovely dell is all his own.
A Spirit of noon day is he;
He seems a Form of flesh and blood;
A piping Shepherd he might be,
Nor Herd-boy of the wood.
A regal vest of fur he wears,
In colour like a raven’s wing;
It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew;
But in the storm ’tis fresh and blue
As budding pines in Spring;
His helmet has a vernal grace,
Fresh as the bloom upon his face.
A harp is from his shoulder slung;
He rests the harp upon his knee,
And there in a forgotten tongue
He warbles melody.
Of flocks and herds both far and near
He is the darling and the joy,
And often, when no cause appears,
The mountain ponies prick their ears,
They hear the Danish Boy,
While in the dell he sits alone
Beside the tree and corner-stone.
When near this blasted tree you pass,
Two sods are plainly to be seen
Close at its root, and each with grass
Is cover’d fresh and green.
Like turf upon a new-made grave
These two green sods together lie.
Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor wind
Can these two sods together bind,
Nor sun, nor earth, nor sky,
But side by side the two are laid,
As if just sever’d by the spade
There sits he: in his face you spy
No trace of a ferocious air,
Nor ever was a cloudless sky
So steady or so fair.
The lovely Danish Boy is blest
And happy in his flowery cove;
From bloody deeds his thoughts are far;
And yet he warbles songs of war,
That seem like songs of love,
For calm and gentle is his mien;
Like a dead Boy he is serene
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacred to flowerets of the hills,
And sacred to the sky.
And in this smooth and open dell
There is a tempest-stricken tree;
A corner-stone by lightning cut,
The last stone of a lonely hut;
And in this dell you see
A thing no storm can e’er destroy,
The shadow of a Danish Boy.
In clouds above, the lark is heard,
He sings his blithest and his best;
But in this lonesome nook the bird
Did never build her nest.
No beast, no bird hath here his home;
The bees, borne on breezy air,
Pass high above those fragrant bells
To other flowers, to other dells
Nor ever linger there.
The Danish Boy walks here alone:
The lovely dell is all his own.
A Spirit of noon day is he;
He seems a Form of flesh and blood;
A piping Shepherd he might be,
Nor Herd-boy of the wood.
A regal vest of fur he wears,
In colour like a raven’s wing;
It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew;
But in the storm ’tis fresh and blue
As budding pines in Spring;
His helmet has a vernal grace,
Fresh as the bloom upon his face.
A harp is from his shoulder slung;
He rests the harp upon his knee,
And there in a forgotten tongue
He warbles melody.
Of flocks and herds both far and near
He is the darling and the joy,
And often, when no cause appears,
The mountain ponies prick their ears,
They hear the Danish Boy,
While in the dell he sits alone
Beside the tree and corner-stone.
When near this blasted tree you pass,
Two sods are plainly to be seen
Close at its root, and each with grass
Is cover’d fresh and green.
Like turf upon a new-made grave
These two green sods together lie.
Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor wind
Can these two sods together bind,
Nor sun, nor earth, nor sky,
But side by side the two are laid,
As if just sever’d by the spade
There sits he: in his face you spy
No trace of a ferocious air,
Nor ever was a cloudless sky
So steady or so fair.
The lovely Danish Boy is blest
And happy in his flowery cove;
From bloody deeds his thoughts are far;
And yet he warbles songs of war,
That seem like songs of love,
For calm and gentle is his mien;
Like a dead Boy he is serene
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
Poemas de William Wordsworth. I Poemas góticos.
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El análisis, resumen y traducción al español del poema de William Wordsworth: El muchacho danés (The Danish Boy) fueron realizados por El Espejo Gótico. Para su reproducción escríbenos a elespejogotico@gmail.com
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