Yeats, William Butler: He Wishes His Beloved Were Dead

Were you but lying cold and dead,

And lights were paling out of the West,

You would come hither, and bend your head,

And I would lay my head on your breast;

And you would murmur tender words,

Forgiving me, because you were dead:

Nor would you rise and hasten away,

Though you have the will of the wild birds,

But know your hair was bound and wound

About the stars and moon and sun:

O would, beloved, that you lay

Under the dock-leaves in the ground,

While lights were paling one by one.

Si tan sólo yacieras muerta y fría

Y las luces del oeste se apagaran,

Vendrías aquí e inclinarías tu cabeza,

Y yo reposaría la frente sobre tu pecho

Y tú susurrarías palabras de ternura

Perdonándome, pues ya estás muerta:

No te alzarías ni partirías presurosa,

Aunque tengas voluntad de pájaro errante,

Mas tú sabes que tu pelo está prisionero

En torno al sol, la luna y las estrellas;

Quisiera, amada, que yacieras

En la tierra, bajo hojas de bardana,

Mientras las estrellas, una a una, se apagan.