John Donne

A Assírio & Alvim de Portugal tem edições superlegais(olha a reforma aí, gente!), quase sempre em edição bilíngue. Em Lisboa, encontrei esta edição de Elegias Amorosas, de J Donne, com tradução de Helena Barbas. A elegia que segue é a Outonal. Vai no original, a tradução, só a pedidos.

Elegy IX - The Autumnal

No Spring not Summer beauty has such grace
As I have seen in one Autumnal face.
Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape
This doth but counsel, yet you cannot scape.

If it were a shame to love, here it were no shame;
Affection here takes reverence name.
Were her first years the Golden Age? That's true,
but now she's gold often tried and ever new.
That was here torrid and inflaming time,
this is her tolerable tropic clime.

Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence,
he in a fever wishes pestilence.
Call not these wrinkles, graves; it graves they were,
they were Love's graves, for else he is no where.

Yet lies not love dead here, but here doth sit
vowed to this trench, like an anachorit;
and here till hers, which must be his death, come,
he doth not dig a grave, but built a tomb.
Here dwells he, though he sojourn everywhere
in Progress, yet his standing house is here.
Here, where still evening is, not noon nor night,
where no voluptuousness, yet all delight.
In all her words, unto all hearers fit,
you may at Revels, you at Council, sit.

This is Love's limbner, youth his underwood;
There he,as wine in June, enrages blood,
which then comes seasonbliest, when our taste
and appetite to other things, is past.
Xerxe's strange Lydian love, the Platan tree,
was loved for age, none being so large as she,
or else because, being young, nature did bless
her youth with age's glory, Barrenness.
If we love things long sought, Age is a thing
which we are fifty years in compassing.
If transitory things, which soon decay,
Age must be loveliest at the latest day.
But name nor Winter faces, whose skin's slack,
lank as an unthrift's purse; but a soul's sack;
whose Eyes seek light within, for all here's shade;
whose mouths are holes, rather worn out than made;
whose every tooth to a several place is gone,
to vex their souls at Resurrection;
Name not these living Death's-heads unto me,
for these, not ancient, but antique be.

I hate extremes; yet I had rather stay
with tombs, than cradles, to wear out a day.
Since such love's natural lation is, may still
my love descend, and journey down the hill,
not panting after growing beauties, so,
I shall ebb on with them who homeward go.