Rima XXVI. Voy contra mi interés al confesarlo...
Voy contra mi interés al confesarlo;
no obstante, amada mía,
pienso cual tú que una oda solo es buena
de un billete del banco al dorso escrita.
No faltará algún necio que al oírlo
se haga cruces y diga:
Mujer al fin del siglo diez y nueve
material y prosaica... ¡Boberías!
¡Voces que hacen correr cuatro poetas
que en invierno se embozan con la lira!
¡Ladridos de los perros a la luna!
Tú sabes y yo se que en esta vida,
con genio es muy contado el que la escribe,
y con oro cualquiera hace poesía.
Rhyme XXVI. It is not in my interest to confess it...
It is not in my interest to confess it;
however, my beloved,
I agree with you that an ode is only good
if it's endorsed on the back of a bank note.
There is no shortage of fools who on hearing this
will make a cross and say:
"woman is banal material for the end
of the nineteenth century..." Idiots!
Voices that make four poets flee
who in winter wrap themselves in lyricism!
Baying of hounds at the moon!
You and I know that in this life,
it is very rare to write with genius,
and for anyone to make poetry with gold.
Translated by H. Landman
RHYME XXVI. IN SPITE OF SELFISH INTEREST...
ResponderEliminarIn spite of selfish interest
Let it be frankly here confessed
That I with thee
Must quite agree
That odes are only good, when seen
Endorsed on bank-notes crisp and green. -
Some dolts will not be wantng, who
Will cross themselves with much ado
And vent their rank acerbity
Upon our nineteenth century.
Declaring modern women all
Prosaic and material. -
Such sentiments but serve to make
Four frozen poets run and quake,
When they essay in winter's ire
To wrap themselves within their lyre.
These are the dogs who bay their tune
To spite the poor, defenceless moon.
For you know well
And I can tell,
That there are very few of us
Who boast of real genius
While any booby may with gold
A world of poesy unfold.
Translated by Jules Renard
RHYME XXVI. IT IS AGAINST MY INTEREST...
ResponderEliminarIt is against my interest to confess it,
But I, belov'd, with thee
Agree that an ode hath little worth, unless it
Is good for a bank-cheque - and endorsed to me.
There will not lack some nincompoop who, hearing,
Will cross himmself and say:
"Woman, the nineteenth century's endng nearing,
Material and prosaic ..." What foolish bray!
Voices that make four poets run, who tight
Wrap themselves in lyrics on a winter's day!
Baying of hounds in the moon's light!
In this life thou well knowest, as know I,
With genius 'tis most counted who doth write,
With gold, 'tis whoso maketh, poetry.
Translated by Young Allison