How All Things Warn Of Death
By Francisco de Quevedo y Villegas
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
I looked upon the walls of my old land,
so strong once, and now moldering away,
worn out by Time's long march, day after day,
which had already sapped their will to stand.
I went out to the country, saw the sun
drink up the streams unfettered from the frost,
and cattle groan how light of day was lost
to woodland, with its shadows overrun.
I went into my home, but saw the crude
and rotted ruins of an agèd room;
my cane gone weak and crooked in the grime.
I felt my sword surrendering to Time
and nothing of the many things I viewed
reminded me of anything but Doom.
Audio of me reading this poem in Spanish
The Original:
Enseña Cómo Todas Las Cosas Avisan de la Muerte
Miré los muros de la patria mía,
si un tiempo fuertes, ya desmoronados,
de la carrera de la edad cansados,
por quien caduca ya su valentía.
Salíme al campo; vi que el sol bebía
los arroyos del yelo desatados,
y del monte quejosos los ganados,
que con sombras hurtó su luz al día.
Entré en mi casa; vi que, amancillada,
de anciana habitación era despojos;
mi báculo, más corvo y menos fuerte.
Vencida de la edad sentí mi espada,
y no hallé cosa en que poner los ojos
que no fuese recuerdo de la muerte.
By Francisco de Quevedo y Villegas
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
I looked upon the walls of my old land,
so strong once, and now moldering away,
worn out by Time's long march, day after day,
which had already sapped their will to stand.
I went out to the country, saw the sun
drink up the streams unfettered from the frost,
and cattle groan how light of day was lost
to woodland, with its shadows overrun.
I went into my home, but saw the crude
and rotted ruins of an agèd room;
my cane gone weak and crooked in the grime.
I felt my sword surrendering to Time
and nothing of the many things I viewed
reminded me of anything but Doom.
Audio of me reading this poem in Spanish
The Original:
Enseña Cómo Todas Las Cosas Avisan de la Muerte
Miré los muros de la patria mía,
si un tiempo fuertes, ya desmoronados,
de la carrera de la edad cansados,
por quien caduca ya su valentía.
Salíme al campo; vi que el sol bebía
los arroyos del yelo desatados,
y del monte quejosos los ganados,
que con sombras hurtó su luz al día.
Entré en mi casa; vi que, amancillada,
de anciana habitación era despojos;
mi báculo, más corvo y menos fuerte.
Vencida de la edad sentí mi espada,
y no hallé cosa en que poner los ojos
que no fuese recuerdo de la muerte.
Posts
They that have power to hurt and will do none (Sonnet
ReplyDelete94)
by William Shakespeare
They that have power to hurt and will do none
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;
They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces
And husband nature’s riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.