De Salomón a Brull y de Brull a Salomón

FLEUR D' OR

                      For Señor Mariano Brull

Life is a flower

Petalled with gold,

And, as each hour

In the bells is tolled,

And shadows crawl

From the setting sun,

The petals fall

One by one.

  

TO A YOUNG POET

                                    A Mariano Brull

Before Life’s altar that the fates have wrought

of iron and of granite and of gold,

open the bowels of your whitest thought,

and there your luted letanies be told.

And there the vintage of your love be spilt;

and there the incense of your days take fire,

before Life’s altar that the fates have built

of hope and hunger sadness and desire.

For she is wrathful, fond of sacrifice

and jealous as the Jewish god whose name

became a sword of fire in Paradise

and in the desert a huge cloud aflame.

And she is fair, as the Sultanas are

in Eastern tales, and on her forehead glows

a diadem of gold that holds a star

of opal glamour, petalled like a rose.

A day shall come (and for that day prepare!)

when he whose roseal feb trod on the sea

shall sit beside these goddess dreadly fair

and wed her pride to His humility,

and the thought you will have a sacrificed,

the wine you will have spilt, and your burnt days,

shall be returned to you the Lord Christ

blessed with His blessing, filled with His sweet grace.

And you will dwell with the enthroned twain,

and yours will be the opal flower that glows

of Life’s gold diadem, the star of pain,

the dream-perfuming, everlasting rose!

El REGALO DEL ÁNGEL

                                                                          A Salomón de la Selva

El ángel vino a mí con el orto del día;

era blanco y luciente como hostia al azar;

traía manchas pálidas de la rosada aurora;

y el iris fulgurante del postrimer rocío.

Llegóse a mí en silencio, y se inclinó con gracia

candorosa; sus rizos volaron en el aire;

sus manos se juntaron en ademán de gracia,

y hasta mi ser llegaron los dones celestiales.

Yo te recuerdo, ángel: tú eres el mismo, aquel

a quien recé en las noches lejanas de mi infancia.

¡Cuántas veces me dije de regalo tus dones:

un sueño sosegado, y una quietud de alma…!

El ángel que a los niños regala dulces sueños,

blanco y luciente, como una hostia al azar,

me llenó de una clara alegría de cielo,

me dio un sueño de niño, y una paz suave y blanca.

 "Fleur d' or", en  Tropical town an other poems (Londres y Nueva York, John Lane and Co., 1918); “To a young poet” y “El regalo del ángel”, en La casa del silencio (Madrid, M. García y Galo Sáenz, 1916).