ULTIMOS DIAS (HASTA EL SABADO)

INDICIOS DE INMORTALIDAD, POR WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (A JUANKAR CARDESIN)

                                   I

          THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,

          The earth, and every common sight,

                    To me did seem

                  Apparelled in celestial light,

          The glory and the freshness of a dream.

          It is not now as it hath been of yore;--

                  Turn wheresoe'er I may,

                    By night or day,

          The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

                                   II

                  The Rainbow comes and goes,

                  And lovely is the Rose,

                  The Moon doth with delight

            Look round her when the heavens are bare,

                  Waters on a starry night

                  Are beautiful and fair;

              The sunshine is a glorious birth;

              But yet I know, where'er I go,

          That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

                                  III

          Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,

              And while the young lambs bound

                  As to the tabor's sound,

          To me alone there came a thought of grief:

          A timely utterance gave that thought relief,

                  And I again am strong:

          The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;

          No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;

          I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,

          The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,

                  And all the earth is gay;

                      Land and sea

              Give themselves up to jollity,

                  And with the heart of May

              Doth every Beast keep holiday;--

                  Thou Child of Joy,

          Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy

                    Shepherd-boy!

                                   IV

          Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call

              Ye to each other make; I see

          The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;

              My heart is at your festival,

              My head hath its coronal,

          The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all.

              Oh evil day! if I were sullen

              While Earth herself is adorning,

                  This sweet May-morning,

              And the Children are culling

                  On every side,

              In a thousand valleys far and wide,

              Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,

          And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:--

              I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!

              --But there's a Tree, of many, one,

          A single Field which I have looked upon,

          Both of them speak of something that is gone:

              The Pansy at my feet

              Doth the same tale repeat:

          Whither is fled the visionary gleam?

          Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

                                   V

          Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

          The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,

              Hath had elsewhere its setting,

                And cometh from afar:

              Not in entire forgetfulness,

              And not in utter nakedness,

          But trailing clouds of glory do we come

              From God, who is our home:

          Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

          Shades of the prison-house begin to close

              Upon the growing Boy,

          But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,

              He sees it in his joy;

          The Youth, who daily farther from the east

              Must travel, still is Nature's Priest,

              And by the vision splendid

              Is on his way attended;

          At length the Man perceives it die away,

          And fade into the light of common day.

                                   VI

          Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;

          Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,

          And, even with something of a Mother's mind,

              And no unworthy aim,

              The homely Nurse doth all she can

          To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,

              Forget the glories he hath known,

          And that imperial palace whence he came.

                                  VII

          Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,

          A six years' Darling of a pigmy size!

          See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,

          Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,

          With light upon him from his father's eyes!

          See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,

          Some fragment from his dream of human life,

          Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;

              A wedding or a festival,

              A mourning or a funeral;

                  And this hath now his heart,

              And unto this he frames his song:

                  Then will he fit his tongue

          To dialogues of business, love, or strife;

              But it will not be long

              Ere this be thrown aside,

              And with new joy and pride

          The little Actor cons another part;

          Filling from time to time his "humorous stage"

          With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,

          That Life brings with her in her equipage;

              As if his whole vocation

              Were endless imitation.

                                  VIII

          Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie

              Thy Soul's immensity;

          Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep

          Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,

          That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,

          Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,--

              Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!

              On whom those truths do rest,

          Which we are toiling all our lives to find,

          In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;

          Thou, over whom thy Immortality

          Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave,

          A Presence which is not to be put by;

          Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might

          Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,

          Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke

          The years to bring the inevitable yoke,

          Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?

          Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,

          And custom lie upon thee with a weight

          Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

                                   IX

              O joy! that in our embers

              Is something that doth live,

              That nature yet remembers

              What was so fugitive!

          The thought of our past years in me doth breed

          Perpetual benediction: not indeed

          For that which is most worthy to be blest--

          Delight and liberty, the simple creed

          Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,

          With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:--

              Not for these I raise

              The song of thanks and praise;

            But for those obstinate questionings

            Of sense and outward things,

            Fallings from us, vanishings;

            Blank misgivings of a Creature

          Moving about in worlds not realised,

          High instincts before which our mortal Nature

          Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised:

              But for those first affections,

              Those shadowy recollections,

            Which, be they what they may,

          Are yet the fountain light of all our day,

          Are yet a master light of all our seeing;

            Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make

          Our noisy years seem moments in the being

          Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,

              To perish never;

          Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,

              Nor Man nor Boy,

          Nor all that is at enmity with joy,

          Can utterly abolish or destroy!

              Hence in a season of calm weather

              Though inland far we be,

          Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea

              Which brought us hither,

              Can in a moment travel thither,

          And see the Children sport upon the shore,

          And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

                                   X

          Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!

              And let the young Lambs bound

              As to the tabor's sound!

          We in thought will join your throng,

              Ye that pipe and ye that play,

              Ye that through your hearts to-day

              Feel the gladness of the May!

          What though the radiance which was once so bright

          Be now for ever taken from my sight,

              Though nothing can bring back the hour

          Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;

              We will grieve not, rather find

              Strength in what remains behind;

              In the primal sympathy

              Which having been must ever be;

              In the soothing thoughts that spring

              Out of human suffering;

              In the faith that looks through death,

          In years that bring the philosophic mind.

                                   XI

          And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,

          Forebode not any severing of our loves!

          Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

          I only have relinquished one delight

          To live beneath your more habitual sway.

          I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,

          Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;

          The innocent brightness of a new-born Day

                      Is lovely yet;

          The Clouds that gather round the setting sun

          Do take a sober colouring from an eye

          That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;

          Another race hath been, and other palms are won.

          Thanks to the human heart by which we live,

          Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,

          To me the meanest flower that blows can give

          Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.