Frost, Robert: Noche invernal de un anciano (An Old Man's Winter Night in Spanish)

All out of doors looked darkly in at him

Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,

That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.

What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze

Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.

What kept him from remembering what it was

That brought him to that creaking room was age.

He stood with barrels round him -- at a loss.

And having scared the cellar under him

In clomping there, he scared it once again

In clomping off; -- and scared the outer night,

Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar

Of trees and crack of branches, common things,

But nothing so like beating on a box.

A light he was to no one but himself

Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what,

A quiet light, and then not even that.

He consigned to the moon, such as she was,

So late-arising, to the broken moon

As better than the sun in any case

For such a charge, his snow upon the roof,

His icicles along the wall to keep;

And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt

Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,

And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept.

One aged man -- one man -- can't keep a house,

A farm, a countryside, or if he can,

It's thus he does it of a winter night.

Más allá de las puertas, a través de la helada

que cubre la ventana formando unas estrellas

dispersas-, en la sombra, el mundo esta mirando

su cara: está vacía la habitación. Y duerme.

La lámpara inclinada muy cerca de su rostro

le impide ver el mundo. Ya no recuerda nada.

Y la vejez le impide recordar en qué tiempo

llegó hasta estos lugares, y por qué está aquí solo.

Rodeado de toneles se encuentra aquí perdido.

Sus pasos temblorosos hacen temblar el sótano:

lo asusta con sus pasos temblorosos: y asusta

otra vez a la noche (la noche de sonidos

familiares ). Los árboles aúllan allá afuera;

todas las ramas crujen. Una luz hay tan sólo

para su rostro, quieta, una luz en la noche.

A la Luna confía -en esa Luna rota

que por ahora vale más que el sol- el cuidado

de velar por la nieve que yace sobre el techo,

de velar los carámbanos que cuelgan desde el muro.

Sigue durmiendo. Un leño se derrumba en la estufa.

Despierta con el ruido. Sobresaltado cambia

de lugar. Es la noche. Respira suavemente.

No puede un viejo solo llenar toda una casa,

un rincón de los campos, una granja. No puede.

Así un anciano guarda la casa solitaria,

en la noche de invierno. Y está solo. Está solo.