We present this work in honor of the 125th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Guillermo Prieto
Mexican
1818 – 1897
Your name, or sea, resounds within me; awakens my tired fantasy: move, enlarge my soul, of fervent enthusiasm fills it. Nothing limited compresses me, when I imagine contemplating your breast; alluvial, melancholic and serene, or august brow; thy mooing sublime. You will be oh sea! magnificent and great when you are sleeping in peace and quiet; when your breast is still and dilated caress the delicious atmosphere?
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 220th birthday.
Victor Hugo
French
1802 – 1885
Tomorrow, at dawn, when the countryside brightens, I will depart. You see, I know that you wait for me. I will go through the wood, I will go past the mountains. I cannot remain far from you any longer.
I will walk, eyes set upon my thoughts, Seeing nothing around me and hearing no sound, Alone, unknown, back bent, hands crossed, Sorrowful, and for me, day will be as night.
I will not watch the evening gold fall, Nor the distant sails going down to Harfleur, And, when I arrive, I will put on your grave A bouquet of green holly and heather in bloom.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 185th birthday.
Rosalia de Castro Spanish 1837 – 1885
Good-bye rivers, good-bye fountains; Good-bye, little rills; Good-bye, sight of my eyes: Don’t know when we’ll see each other again. Sod of mine, sod of mine, Sod where I was raised, Small orchard I love so, Dear fig trees that I planted,
Meadows, streams, groves, Stands of pine waved by the wind, Little chirping birds, Darling cottage of my joy,
Mill in the chestnut wood, Clear nights of brilliant moonlight, Cherished ringing bells Of the tiny parish church,
Blackberries in the brambles That I used to give my love, Narrow footpaths through the cornfields, Good-bye, for ever good-bye! Good-bye, heaven! Good-bye, happiness! I leave the house of my birth, I leave the hamlet that I know For a world I haven’t seen! I leave friends for strangers, I leave the lowland for the sea, I leave, in short, what I well love… Would I didn’t have to go! But I’m poor and—base sin!— My sod is not my own For even the shoulder of the road Is loaned out to the wayfarer Who was born star-crossed. I must therefore leave you, Small orchard I loved so, Beloved fireplace of home, Dear trees that I planted, Favourite spring of the livestock. Good-bye, good-bye, I’m leaving, Hallowed blades of grass in the churchyard Where my father lies buried, Saintly blades of grass I kissed so much, Dear land that brought us up. Good-bye Virgin of the Assumption White as a seraph, I carry you in my heart: Plead with God on my behalf, Virgin of the Assumption mine, Far, very far away hear The church bells of Pomar; For hapless me—alas— They shall never ring again. Hear them still farther away Every peal deals out pain, I part alone without a friend… Good-bye land of mine, good-bye! Farewell to you too, little darling…! Farewell forever perhaps…! I send you this farewell crying From the precious coastline. Don’t forget me, little darling, If I should die of loneliness… So many leagues offshore… My dear house! My home!
We present this work in honor of the 185th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Alexander Pushkin Russian 1799 – 1837
If beasts within a silent forest moan, If trumpets sound, if thunder rolls and cracks, Or young girls sing almost inaudibly— For each initial tone The atmosphere resounds quite suddenly With a response, your own.
You listen to the peal of distant thunder, The rumbling voice of violent waves and storm, And hear the village shepherd’s lonely cry— And then you send your answer, But hear no echo, there is no reply… This also, poet, is your nature.
We present this work in honor of the 160th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Francisco Martínez de la Rosa Spanish 1787 – 1862
Written in London in 1811
I saw upon the shady Thames Unnumber’d ships with riches fraught; I saw the power the nation claims Immense, the greatness it has wrought, And arts that such renown have brought.
But the afflicted mind exhaled A thousand sighs; again to view The flowery banks the wish prevail’d, Where glides the Douro calmly through, Or Henil’s streams their course pursue.
I saw the proud Court’s ladies forth Their wealth and grandeur gaily show; I saw the beauties of the North, Their bright complexions white as snow, Commingling with the rose’s glow.
Their eyes appear’d of heavenly blue, Their tresses of the purest gold; Their stately forms arose to view, Beneath the veil’s transparent fold, As white and lovely to behold.
But what avail the gay brocade, The city’s silks, and jewels’ pride; Or charms in rosy smiles array’d, With brilliant gaiety supplied, That all to beauty are allied?
When but is seen my country girl, Clad in her robe of simple white, Shamed are the needless silk and pearl; And by her pure and blooming light Confused hides beauty at the sight.
Where shall I find in icy clime Her black and beaming eyes of fire? That whether scornfully the time, To look, or kindly they desire, To rob me of my peace conspire?
Where the black hair that may like hers In hue with ebony compare? Where the light foot that never stirs, When bounding o’er the meadows fair, The lowly flowers that blossom there?
Maids of the Henil! dark ye be; But ne’er would I exchanged resign Your charms for all that here I see, Proud Albion shows, of brows that fine Ev’n as the polish’d ivory shine.
O, father Douro! gentle stream, Whose sands a golden store supply, Deign of my heart the wish supreme To hear, thy sacred margins by, That it may be my lot to die!
My hands are none too white, Nor lovely nor tender either, They’re rough and ugly to your sight, Because of the constant labour, But my hands are not complaining, There’s no whinging in my breast, When I recall my tidy house, containing, My happy little family, like a Nest.
The kids would go early to bed, And I’d set to doing the wash, The little snow white clothes all aired, I’d get them up so nice and posh, I’d sew a button on David’s shirt, And put a nail in Sam’s shoe, And I’d mend Enid’s red skirt- Those chores that all mothers do.
And Oh! They were all around me, Like glad little chicks in a throng, And my single purpose was to see, My children happy, fit and strong, To keep an eye on their progress, To care for them all day long, To keep their language spotless: I was happy, all smiles and song.
But, alas, they’ve all grown up, And all have left the nest, They’ll no more come home to sup, And their old toys are all at rest! The workbox for mending their things, And for putting a nail in Sam’s shoe, Is now quite useless- a bird without wings; A mam’s initiative unwanted, no more for her to do!
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