Poemas (Spanish Edition)

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Get to Know Us. I must therefore leave you, Small orchard I loved so, Beloved fireplace of home, Dear trees that I planted, Favourite spring of the livestock. Good-bye Virgin of the Assumption White as a seraph, I carry you in my heart: Plead with God on my behalf, Virgin of the Assumption mine, Far, very far away hear The church bells of Pomar; For hapless me—alas— They shall never ring again.

Poemas (Spanish Edition) eBook: Luis de Góngora y Argote: www.farmersmarketmusic.com: Kindle Store

Hear them still farther away Every peal deals out pain, I part alone without a friend… Good-bye land of mine, good-bye! Farewell to you too, little darling…! I send you this farewell crying From the precious coastline.

Meses das tempestades, Imaxen da delor Que afrixe as mocedades I as vidas corta en frol. E cando o sol fermoso De abril torne a sorrir, Que alume o meu reposo, Xa non o meu sofrir. Cold months of winter That I love with all my love; Months of rivers that run full And the sweet love of home.

Months of wild storms, Image of the pain That besets the young And severs lives in bloom. Come, after the autumn That makes the leaves fall, And let me sleep among them The slumber of dissolution. And when the lovely sun Of April returns smiling Let it shine upon my repose, No longer upon my suffering. Cando maxino que es ida, no mesmo sol te me amostras, i eres a estrela que brila, i eres o vento que zoa.

When I think that you have parted, Black shadow that overshades me, At the foot of my head pillows You return making fun of me.

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Everywhere you are in everything, For and within me you live Nor will you ever leave me, Shadow that always shades me. Del rumor cadencioso de la onda. From the Cadenced Roar of the Waves. From the cadenced roar of the waves and the wail of the wind, from the shimmering light flecked over woodland and cloud, from the cries of passing birds and the wild unknown perfumes stolen by zephyrs from mountaintops and valleys, there are realms where souls crushed by the weight of the world find refuge. Ya no mana la fuente…. A lo lejos otro arroyo murmura donde humildes violetas el espacio perfuman.

The spring does not flow now, the stream is quite dry, No traveller goes to quench his thirst there.

The grass does not grow now, no daffodil blooms, No fragrance of lilies floats on the air. Only the sandy bed of the dried-up river Fills the parched traveller with the horror of death. No matter; in the distance another stream murmurs Where timid violets perfume the air. And willow bough, seeing themselves in the ripples, Spread about the water the coolest shade. I know not what I seek eternally on earth, in air, and sky; I know not what I seek; but it is something that I have lost, I know not when, and cannot find, although in dreams invisibly it dwells in all I touch and see.

Never can I recapture you either on earth, in air, or sky, although I know you have reality and are no futile dream.

Dicen que no hablan las plantas. They say that the plants do not speak, not the brooks, nor the birds, Nor the waves with their roar, not with their brilliance the stars, So they say: Yo en mi lecho de abrojos. I in my bed of thistles, You in your bed of roses and feathers, He spoke the truth who spoke of an abyss between your good fortune and my wretchedness.

Yet I would never change My bed for your bed, There are roses which envenom and corrupt, and thistles on the road to heaven though harsh to the flesh. But … cruel with her, too, even death would not oblige her, sparing her life through the winter and, when all the earth was being born anew, killing her amidst the happy hymns of glorious spring. No va solo el que llora. He who weeps goes not alone, Keep flowing, I beg of you, my tears! A single burden suffices the soul; One joy is never, never enough.

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I carry sorrow for company. Restore fragrance to the flower after it withers; From the waves that caress the beach and one after the other die in that caress, gather the murmurs and the complaints and engrave on plates of bronze their harmony. Times now past, tears and laughter, dark afflictions, soothing falsehoods, Ah, where do they leave their mark, tell me where my soul! It is without doubt a great gamble for a poor talent like the one fortune gave me to hatch a book whose pages ought to be full of sunlight, of harmony and of that candour which along with a profound tenderness, along with an unceasing lullaby of kind, caressing and heartfelt words, constitutes the greatest charm of our popular songs.

Galician poetry, all music and vagueness, all grievances, sighs and sweet pampering smiles, sometimes murmuring with the mysterious winds of the woods, other times sparkling with the sunbeam that falls delightfully serene on the waters of a sombre river flowing full underneath the branches of flowering willow trees, requires a sublime and crystalline spirit to be sung—if we may express ourselves thus—a fertile inspiration like the greenery that garnishes our privileged terrain, and above all a delicate acumen to acquaint others with so many first-rate glories, so much elusive ray of beauty radiating from every tradition, from every idea expressed by this people whom many dub stupid and whom perhaps judge insensitive or aloof to poetry divine.

No one owns fewer of the great qualities required to accomplish so difficult a task than I although equally no one could be found more deeply stirred by an honest desire to sing the wonders of our land in that soft and caressing dialect which is styled barbarian by those who ignore that it surpasses the other languages in sweetness and harmony.

For this reason, despite finding myself with little strength and having learned in no other school than that of our poor peasants, exclusively guided by those songs, those tender words and those idioms never forgotten which sounded so sweet to my ears since the cradle and which were gathered up by my heart as its own heritage, I ventured to write these songs endeavouring to relate how some of our poetic traditions preserve still a certain patriarchal and primeval freshness and how our sweet and resonant dialect is as suitable as the foremost for every type of versification.

Truly my strength fell far short of my expectations and for that reason, realizing what a great poet could accomplish in this matter, I lament my inadequacy even more. O Libro dos Cantares of Mr. Antonio Trueba, which inspired and encouraged me to undertake this work, crosses my mind like a remorse and the tears almost well in my eyes when I ponder how Galicia would be raised to the place she deserves had Mr.

Trueba of the Cantares been the one picked to make her beauty and customs known. But my unhappy homeland, as unlucky in this as in everything else, must content herself with s ome cold and insipid pages which barely deserve to stand afar off the gates of the Parnassus were not for the noble sentiment that created them. May even this earn the reprieve of those who will in all fairness criticize my shortcomings for I hold that whoever endeavours to dispel the falsehoods which tarnish and offend her homeland unjustly has earned credit toward some exoneration!

Songs, tears, complaints, sighs, evening twilights, festive pilgrimages and picnics, landscapes, pasturelands, stands of pine, solitudes, river banks or shorelines, traditions, in short everything which due to its essence and colour is worth singing about, everything which had an echo, a voice, a drone however subdued—as long as it came to stir me—I was bold enough to celebrate in this plain book to state albeit once, albeit clumsily, to those who without reason or knowledge despise us that our land is worthy of praise and that our language is not what they debase and stammer in the most educated provinces with derisory laughter which to speak the truth, however harsh it may be, demonstrates the crudest ignorance and the most unforgivable injustice that one province can commit against a sister province regardless of how poverty-stricken this one might be.

What is saddest about this affair is the false image given abroad about the sons of Galicia and about Galicia herself whom they generally judge to be what is most contemptible and ugly in Spain when she is perhaps what is most beautiful and laudable.

There is no pen that can tally so much enchantment assembled together. The ground covered with dear grasses and flowers all year long; the hills full of pines, oaks and willows; the brisk winds that blow; the fountains and cascades pouring forth frothing and crystalline summer and winter over smiling fields or in deep, shaded hollows…Galicia is a garden always where one inhales pure aromas, cool and poetry…and in spite of this such is the dullness of the ignorant, such the ignoble prejudice that wars against our land, that even those who were able to gaze on so much beauty—and we leave aside those who are majority and who mock us without having ever seen us even from a distance—the same ones yet who came to Galicia and enjoyed the delights that she offers dared to say that Galicia was…a disgusting farmhouse!!

And these perhaps were sons…of those scorched lands from which even the small birds flee! Only that such inanities about our country resemble those of the French when they talk about their unbroken string of victories over the Spaniards.

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