Un poeta del siglo XIII (Spanish)
Vuelve a mirar los arduos borradores De aquel primer soneto innominado, La página arbitraria en que ha mezclado Tercetos y cuartetos pecadores.
Lima con lenta pluma sus rigores Y se detiene. Acaso le ha llegado Del porvenir y de su horror sagrado Un rumor de remotos ruiseñores.
¿Habrá sentido que no estaba solo Y que el arcano, el increíble Apolo Le había revelado un arquetipo,
Un ávido cristal que apresaría Cuanto la noche cierra o abre el día: Dédalo, laberinto, enigma, Edipo? Uploaded by | P. T. |
Source of the quotation | http://spanishpoems.blogspot.hu |
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A thirteenth-century poet (English)
Let us regard the arduous drafts Of that first innominate sonnet, The arbitrary page on which are blent Tercets and quatrains peccant.
Slowly polishing his rigors He pauses. Perhaps he hears Coming from the future's holy dread A remote rumor of nightingales.
Did he feel himself unalone, That arcane, incredible Apollo Had revealed an archetype to him,
An arid cystal that would catch Whatsoever night closes or day opes: Dædalus, labyrinth, enigma, Oedipus?
Uploaded by | P. T. |
Source of the quotation | http://spanishpoems.blogspot.hu |
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