Selected Writings (Dario, Ruben) by Rubén Darío Page B

will speak in English?
Are there no fierce shining knights, no valiant noblemen?
Shall we keep our silence now, to weep later in anguish?
     
    Swans, now you have heard my cry echo in your company
because you have been faithful in my disillusionment,
while I watch the skittish colts of Latin America flee,
and the death throes of a Spanish lion whose life is spent.
     
    And a black Swan said: “The night heralds the dawn that will
come.”
And a white one added: “The sunrise will always abide,
always!” Oh, people from the lands of harmony and sun,
rest assured, Pandora’s box safely carries Hope inside.

LEDA
    El cisne en la sombra parece de nieve;
su pico es de ámbar, del alba al trasluz;
el suave crepúsculo que pasa tan breve
las cándidas alas sonrosa de luz.
     
    Y luego, en las ondas del lago azulado,
después que la aurora perdió su arrebol,
las alas tendidas y el cuello enarcado,
el cisne es de plata, bañado de sol.
     
    Tal es, cuando esponja las plumas de seda,
olímpico pájaro herido de amor,
y viola en las linfas sonoras a Leda,
buscando su pico los labios en flor.
     
    Suspira la bella desnuda y vencida,
y en tanto que al aire sus quejas se van,
del fondo verdoso de fronda tupida
chispean turbados los ojos de Pan.
    [1892]

LEDA
    The swan composed of snow floats in shadow,
amber beak translucent in the last light.
The white and innocent wings in the glow
of the short-lived dusk are rose tipped and bright.
     
    And then, on ripples of the clear blue lake,
when the crimson dawn is over and done,
the swan spreads his wings and lets his neck make
an arch, silver and burnished by the sun.
     
    Grand, as he ruffles his silken feathers,
this bird from Olympus bearing love’s wound,
ravishing Leda in roiling waters,
thrusting at petals of her sex in bloom . . .
     
    When at last her sobbing is heard no more,
the stripped, mastered beauty lets out a sigh.
From the tangled green rushes by the shore,
sparkle-eyed Pan watches, and wonders why.

A GOYA
    Poderoso visionario,
raro ingenio temerario,
por ti enciendo mi incensario.
     
    Por ti, cuya gran paleta,
caprichosa, brusca, inquieta,
debe amar todo poeta;
     
    por tus lóbregas visiones,
tus blancas irradiaciones,
tus negros y bermellones;
     
    por tus colores dantescos,
por tus majos pintorescos,
y las glorias de tus frescos.
     
    Porque entra en tu gran tesoro
el diestro que mata al toro,
la niña de rizos de oro,
     
    y con el bravo torero,
el infante, el caballero,
la mantilla y el pandero.
     
    Tu loca mano dibuja
la silueta de la bruja
que en la sombra se arrebuja,
     
    y aprende una abracadabra
del diablo patas de cabra
que hace una mueca macabra.

TO GOYA
    Rare and daring man of genius
with your visions of the endless,
for you I light fragrant incense.
     
    To the greatness of your palette
that’s capricious, brash, incited,
and beloved by every poet;
     
    to the darkness in your visions,
to your whitened emanations,
to your black and your vermilions.
     
    From you all Dante’s colors flow.
From you, lovely human forms glow.
From you, glorious frescoes.
     
    Because, within your plentiful
brush lie the killer of the bulls
and the girl with her golden curls,
     
    and with those valiant bullfighters
are knights-errant, and the King’s heirs,
black shawls, and tambourine players.
     
    And with one crazy hand you sketch
the grim silhouette of a witch
concealing herself in a ditch,
     
    and you show the way to cast a spell
of split goat hoofs and the devil
whose smile rises straight out of hell.
    Musa soberbia y confusa,
ángel, espectro, medusa:
tal aparece tu musa.
     
    Tu pincel asombra, hechiza,
ya en sus claros electriza,
ya en sus sombras sinfoniza;
     
    con las manolas amables,
los reyes, los miserables,
o los Cristos lamentables.
     
    En tu claroscuro brilla
la luz muerta y amarilla
de la horrenda pesadilla,
     
    o hace encender tu pincel
los rojos labios de miel
o la sangre del clavel.
     
    Tienen ojos asesinos
en sus semblantes divinos
tus ángeles