Nothingandall: Samuel Coleridge

Encostada à parede mais larga de um convento que se abatia,
onde ruinosas heras amparavam a escarpa das ruínas...
De braços cruzados envolvendo a sua mortalha esfarrapada,
A melancolia fizera-a meditar até adormecer.
Os fetos comprimiam-se debaixo do seu cabelo,
A língua verde-escura da serpente ali se encontrava;
E silenciosamente como passara lânguida a serena brisa do mar,
Agitando-se, a folhagem longa e delgada curvou-se sobre o seu rosto.

O rosto pálido enrubesceu: o seu olhar impaciente
Resplandeceu eloquente em sono! Intimamente elaborados,
Sons imperfeitos os seus lábios movendo-se abandonaram,
E a sua fronte inclinada ocupou-dse de agitado pensamento.
Estranho era o sonho...

Trad. Cecília Rego Pinheiro

in Rosa do Mundo, 2001 Poemas para o Futuro, Porto Editora

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (Ottery St. Mary,Devonshire 21 de Outubro de 1772 - m. 25 de Julho de 1834 Highgate, perto de Londres)

Do mesmo autor:
Amor /love
The Presence of Love

Todos os pensamentos, todas as paixões, todos os prazeres
o que quer que excite esta moldura mortal
Todos são apenas instrumentos do Amor,
e alimentam sua sagrada chama.

Com frequência em meus sonhos acordados
Eu revivo aquele momento feliz,
Em que me sentava na encosta do monte,
Ao lado da torre em ruínas.

O luar insinuando-se sobre o cenário,
Fundira-se às luzes da tarde;
E ela estava lá, minha esperança, minha alegria,
Minha querida Geneviève!

Recostava-se ao homem de armadura,
À estátua do cavaleiro de armadura;
Quieta, escutava minha balada,
Em meio a luz fugidia...

Envolveu-me levemente em seus braços,
Apertou-me com um abraço frágil;
E, reclinando a cabeça, ergueu os olhos
E fitou-me o rosto.

Era parte amor, parte medo,
E em parte pintura acanhada,
E eu mais sentia do que via
O bater emocionado de seu coração.

Acalmei-lhe os medos e ela se tranquilizou,
E falou de seu amor com orgulho virginal
E assim ganheio Geneviève
Bela noiva radiante e minha.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Original version

Love

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
Are all but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay
Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!

She leant against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listened to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story -
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand;
And that for ten long years he wooed
The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined: and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love
Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
And that he crossed the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade, -

There came and looked him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright;
And that he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight!

And that, unknowing what he did,
He leaped amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land;

And how she wept, and clasped his knees;
And how she tended him in vain;
And ever strove to expiate
The scorn that crazed his brain; -

And that she nursed him in a cave;
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest-leaves
A dying man he lay; -

His dying words -but when I reached
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturbed her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long!

She wept with pity and delight,
She blushed with love, and virgin shame;
And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved -she stepped aside,
As conscious of my look she stepped -
Then suddenly, with timorous eye,
She fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed me with her arms,
She pressed me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head, looked up,
And gazed upon my face.

'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly 'twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.

I calmed her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride;
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous Bride.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (b. born in Ottery St. Mary, Devonshire on 21 October 1772 ; d. in Highgate, near London on 25 July 1834).