| Garcilaso de la Vega -Soneto XXIII. En tanto que de rosa...- |
| viernes, 14 de noviembre de 2003 |
Soneto XXIII. En tanto que de rosa...
En tanto que de rosa y azucena
se muestra la color en vuestro gesto,
y que vuestro mirar ardiente, honesto
enciende el corazón y lo refrena;
y en tanto que el cabello, que en la vena
del oro se escogió, con vuelo presto,
por el hermoso cuello blanco, enhiesto,
el viento mueve, esparce y desordena;
coged de vuestra alegre primavera
el dulce fruto, antes que el tiempo airado
cubra de nieve la hermosa cumbre.
Marchitará la rosa el viento helado,
todo lo mudará la edad ligera,
por no hacer mudanza en su costumbre.
Sonnet XXIII. So long as of red rose...
So long as of red rose and lily white
the proper colors of your face now show,
and your impassioned, fervent, honest glance
inflames the heart and holds it close in tow;
and so long as your hair, which in a vein
of gold was mined, endowed with rapid flight,
around your lovely white, and haughty throat
the wind can still move, scatter, and uncomb;
go, pluck now from the spring of your delight
the sweetest fruit, before the angry years
can wrap the lovely peak in snowy scenes.
The icy wind will cause the rose to wilt,
and all things will be changed by fickle time,
so as to never change its own routine.
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Garcilaso de la Vega |
posted by Bishop @ 10:23  |
|
| 4 Comments: |
-
SONNET XXIII. WHILE ROSE'S CHARMING BLUSH...
While rose's charming blush and lily's white
Are still the colours radiant on your face,
And while your fiery gaze with candid grace
Still checks the burning flame it set alight,
And while your flaxen hair, still gleaming bright,
Mined from some vein of gold, falls out of place
(Your neck - that marble pillar! - to embrace)
By wayward breezes spread and set in flight,
The ripening harvest of your happy spring
Now gather in, before destructive Time
Lays waste with snow the summit of your head.
Cold winds will blast the rose now in its prime,
And fickle Age will alter everything,
So not to change his own old ways instead.
Translated by Alan Crooke
-
SONNET XXIII. WHILE OF RED ROSE...
(alternate version)
While of red rose and lily white
the colors of your face now show
and your impassioned, honest glance
the heart inflames and holds in tow;
and while your hair, which in a vein
of gold was mined, with rapid flight
around your white, and haughty throat
the wind moves, scatters, and uncombs;
go, pluck now from your happy spring
the sweetest fruit, ere angry time
covers with snow the lovely peak.
The icy wind will wilt the rose:
to make no change in its routine
age, fickle, alters everything.
Translated by Alix Ingber
-
SONNET XXIII. WHILE YET THE LILY AND THE ROSE...
While yet the lily and the rose
display their colours in your cheek,
your fiery glance, though often meek,
conquers and burns where'er it goes;
while yet your hair, from finest seams
the choicest gold, that wanton air
may scatter and toss about your fair
white throat, in quick disorder streams;
enjoy your gay spring's sweetest fruit
before stern Time's relentless snows
have blanched the beauty of your head.
The icy wind will fade the rose,
Immutably, Time must transmute
and how may swift Age be gainsaid?
Translated by Nick Mascall
-
SONNET XXIII. AS LONG AS THE COLORS OF THE ROSE...
As long as the colors of the rose
and the lily play across your face,
and as long as your ardent gaze
ignites the heart that it reins and slows;
as long as the breeze lightly blows
through your hair, where gold seams interlace,
and moves, flutters and tangles it with grace
as round your pretty, long white neck it goes;
gather the sweet fruit of happy Spring,
before wrathful age has overlaid
all your beauty’s pinnacles with snow.
Icy wind will cause the rose to fade,
and fleeting time will transform everything
just to maintain its accustomed flow.
Translated by Mary Rae
|
| |
| << Home |
| |
|
|
SONNET XXIII. WHILE ROSE'S CHARMING BLUSH...
While rose's charming blush and lily's white
Are still the colours radiant on your face,
And while your fiery gaze with candid grace
Still checks the burning flame it set alight,
And while your flaxen hair, still gleaming bright,
Mined from some vein of gold, falls out of place
(Your neck - that marble pillar! - to embrace)
By wayward breezes spread and set in flight,
The ripening harvest of your happy spring
Now gather in, before destructive Time
Lays waste with snow the summit of your head.
Cold winds will blast the rose now in its prime,
And fickle Age will alter everything,
So not to change his own old ways instead.
Translated by Alan Crooke