Dolores de Algernon Charles Swinburne (original) (raw)

Notas explicativas para "Dolores" de Swinburne

Traducción de Victoria Parra Ortiz revisada y editada por Asun López-Varela. El diseño HTML, el formato, y los enlaces de George P. Landow.]

"O tower not of ivory" : Rosenberg señala que esta imagen invierte y parodia así la Letanía de la Santísima Virgen María y el Cantar de los Cantares 7:4: "Tu cuello es como una torre de marfil" ("Thy neck is as a tower of ivory").

Según John D. Rosenberg: "Libitina es la diosa de los jardines, los placeres voluptuosos, la fertilidad y la muerte — el homólogo romano del dios griego Príapo".

"Thalassian" = nacida del mar, es decir, Venus. Swinburne llamó "Thalassius"a su último poema autobiográfico, que apareció en Songs of the Springtides (1880), ya que creía que él también había nacido, en cierto sentido, del mar.

El "hermoso tirano" (beautiful tyrant) es Nerón, que tocaba la lira mientras Roma ardía.

Vestal: Todos los templos utilizados por vírgenes vestales en la antigua Roma han desaparecido.

Alcifrón (Alciphron): un retórico y epistológrafo griego a quien supuestamente escribieron famosas cortesanas (Rosenberg 154n). Walter Savage Landor escribió un poema, muy conocido en su día, titulado "Alciphron and Leucippe", que está disponible en línea.

Arisbe: una de las esposas del rey Príamo de Troya, con quien contrajo matrimonio con anterioridad a Hécuba. En la Ilíada, la palabra aparece además en dos ocasiones como topónimo. (Para información adicional, véase la entrada en fact-index.com.)

Dios visible (visible god): un contraste con respecto al dios judeo-cristiano, que es invisible para nosotros y debe aceptarse su existencia mediante la fe.

Ipsitilla (Ipsithilla): la amante a quien Catulo dirige el poema 32 de los Carmina. En la traducción de Peter Whigam (Penguin, 1967), el poema comienza:

Call me to you at siesta we'll make love my gold and jewels my treasure trove my sweet Ipsíthilla.

Díndimo (Dindymus): "The centre of the worship of the Phrygian kube/lh or kubh/bh, was in very ancient times the town of Pessinus in Galatian Phrygia, at the foot of Mt. Dindymus, from which the goddess [Cybele] received the name Dindymene. . . . The especial worship of Cybele was conducted by emasculated priests called Galli (or, as in vv. 12 and 34, with reference to their physical condition, Galli)" (fuente).

Los versos "As the rod to a serpent that hisses / As the serpent again to a rod" aluden a varios pasajes de la Biblia. Rosenberg (157n) señala el pasaje en �xodo 7:9, cuando Dios instruye a Aarón: "Toma tu vara, y échala delante de Faraón, para que se haga culebra" "Take thy rod, and cast it before Pharoh, and it shall become a serpent" . En la Biblia, la vara de Aarón (que proporcionó a D. H. Lawrence el título de una de sus novelas) representa un verdadero milagro de Dios en contraposición a la magia falsa de los sacerdotes y magos del Faraón. Según la International Standard Bible Encyclopedia en línea, la vara de Aarón aparece una segunda vez en la misma parte de la Biblia:

Justo después de los incidentes relacionados con la rebelión de Coré, Datán y Abiram contra el liderazgo de Moisés y la supremacía sacerdotal de Aarón (Nú 16), se hizo necesario indicar y destacar el nombramiento divino de Aarón. Por consiguiente, a las órdenes de Yavéh, Moisés manda que doce varas de almendro, una por cada tribu con el nombre del príncipe grabado en ellas, se coloquen en el Tabernáculo del Testimonio. Cuando Moisés entró al tabernáculo al día siguiente, vio que la vara de Aarón había echado brotes, florecido y producido almendras, "las tres etapas de la vida vegetal haciéndose así visibles simultáneamente". Cuando la gente observó la señal milagrosa, la aceptaron como definitiva; nunca más se volvió a cuestionar el derecho sacerdotal de Aarón. La vara se guardó "delante del testimonio" en el santuario desde entonces, como una señal de la voluntad divina

Immediately after the incidents connected with the rebellion of Korah, Dathan and Abiram against the leadership of Moses and the priestly primacy of Aaron (Nu 16), it became necessary to indicate and emphasize the Divine appointment of Aaron. Therefore, at the command of Yahweh, Moses directs that twelve almond rods, one for each tribe with the prince's name engraved thereon, be placed within the Tent of the Testimony. When Moses entered the tent the following day, he found that Aaron's rod had budded, blossomed and borne fruit, "the three stages of vegetable life being thus simultaneously visible." When the miraculous sign was seen by the people, they accepted it as final; nor was there ever again any question of Aaron's priestly right. The rod was kept "before the testimony" in the sanctuary ever after as a token of the Divine will (Nú 17:10).

Afaca y Lámpsaco (Aphaca and Lampsacus): Según The Ecclesiatical History de Salaminius Hermias Sozemenus (nacido c. 400), el emperador Constantino destruyó el templo de Afaca dedicado a Venus. Véase más abajo el pasaje de Catulo citado por Swinburne, que menciona la conexión entre Lámpsaco y Príapo, quien fue "un dios de la fertilidad, protector de la agricultura y viticultura [�], principalmente conocido por su enorme miembro viril" "a god of fertility, protector of horticulture and viticulture . . . mainly known for his huge virile member" (la web de mitología de Carlos Parada, de quien he tomado la cita anterior, contiene información adicional e imágenes).

Cotito (Cotytto), una diosa tracia, adorada en ritos especialmente licenciosos, aparece en el Comus de Milton:

Goddesse of Nocturnal sport Dark vaild Cotytto, t' whom the secret flame Of mid-night Torches burns; mysterious Dame That ne're art call'd, but when the Dragon woom Of Stygian darkness spets her thickest gloom, And makes one blot of all the ayr. [ll. 129-36; texto transcrito por Judith Bass en la web de la Universidad de Oregon]

Astarté y Astaroth (Astarte y Ashtaroth) eran análogos de Venus (o Afrodita) en Oriente Medio, cuyo culto conllevaba la castración masculina o el sacrificio humano. El cuadro de Rossetti Astarté Siríaca (1877) es también conocido como la Venus Astarté. Aquí, como en gran parte del poema, Swinburne destaca los aspectos más dolorosos, incluso más crueles, del amor y el deseo físico.

Cizaña (Tares): Mateo 13: 25-40 relata la parábola de la separación del trigo y la cizaña como una forma de indicar quién irá al cielo:

Pero mientras dormían los hombres, vino su enemigo y sembró cizaña entre el trigo y se fue. Y cuando salió la hierba y dio fruto, entonces apareció también la cizaña. Vinieron entonces los siervos del padre de familia y le dijeron: Señor, ¿no sembraste buena semilla en tu campo? ¿De dónde, pues, tiene cizaña? �l les dijo: Un enemigo ha hecho esto. Y los siervos le dijeron: ¿Quieres, pues, que vayamos y la arranquemos? �l les dijo: No, no sea que al arrancar la cizaña, arranquéis también con ella el trigo. Dejad crecer juntamente lo uno y lo otro hasta la siega; y al tiempo de la siega yo diré a los segadores: Recoged primero la cizaña, y atadla en manojos para quemarla; pero recoged el trigo en mi granero.

Otra parábola les refirió, diciendo: El reino de los cielos es semejante al grano de mostaza, que un hombre tomó y sembró en su campo; el cual a la verdad es la más pequeña de todas las semillas; pero cuando ha crecido, es la mayor de las hortalizas, y se hace árbol, de tal manera que vienen las aves del cielo y hacen nidos en sus ramas.

Otra parábola les dijo: El reino de los cielos es semejante a la levadura que tomó una mujer, y escondió en tres medidas de harina, hasta que todo fue leudado.

Todo esto habló Jesús por parábolas a la gente, y sin parábolas no les hablaba; para que se cumpliese lo dicho por el profeta, cuando dijo: Abriré en parábolas mi boca; declararé cosas escondidas desde la fundación del mundo. Entonces, despedida la gente, entró Jesús en la casa; y acercándose a él sus discípulos, le dijeron: Explícanos la parábola de la cizaña del campo. Respondiendo él, les dijo: El que siembra la buena semilla es el Hijo del Hombre. El campo es el mundo; la buena semilla son los hijos del reino, y la cizaña son los hijos del malo. El enemigo que la sembró es el diablo; la siega es el fin del siglo; y los segadores son los ángeles. De manera que como se arranca la cizaña, y se quema en el fuego, así será en el fin de este siglo.

But while men slept, his enemy came and sowed tares among the wheat, and went his way. But when the blade was sprung up, and brought forth fruit, then appeared the tares also. So the servants of the householder came and said unto him, Sir, didst not thou sow good seed in thy field? from whence then hath it tares? He said unto them, An enemy hath done this. The servants said unto him, Wilt thou then that we go and gather them up? But he said, Nay; lest while ye gather up the tares, ye root up also the wheat with them. Let both grow together until the harvest: and in the time of harvest I will say to the reapers, Gather ye together first the tares, and bind them in bundles to burn them: but gather the wheat into my barn.

Another parable put he forth unto them, saying, The kingdom of heaven is like to a grain of mustard seed, which a man took, and sowed in his field: Which indeed is the least of all seeds: but when it is grown, it is the greatest among herbs, and becometh a tree, so that the birds of the air come and lodge in the branches thereof.

Another parable spake he unto them; The kingdom of heaven is like unto leaven, which a woman took, and hid in three measures of meal, till the whole was leavened.

All these things spake Jesus unto the multitude in parables; and without a parable spake he not unto them: That it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the prophet, saying, I will open my mouth in parables; I will utter things which have been kept secret from the foundation of the world. Then Jesus sent the multitude away, and went into the house: and his disciples came unto him, saying, Declare unto us the parable of the tares of the field. He answered and said unto them, He that soweth the good seed is the Son of man; The field is the world; the good seed are the children of the kingdom; but the tares are the children of the wicked one; The enemy that sowed them is the devil; the harvest is the end of the world; and the reapers are the angels. As therefore the tares are gathered and burned in the fire; so shall it be in the end of this world.

Swinburne muestra aquí, como de costumbre, un profundo conocimiento de las Escrituras y las parodia, poniendo en duda las verdades del cristianismo.

Catulo, Carmen xviii) [nota de Swinburne en latín]: Aquí está todo el poema 18, en la traducción de Whigam:

I dedicate, I consecrate this grove to thee,
Priapus, whose home and woodlands are at Lampsacus;
there, among the coastal cities of the Hellespont,
they chiefly worship thee:
their shores are rich in oysters!

Las ostras se mencionan obviamente porque una leyenda decía que promueven el deseo y la potencia sexual.

Análisis y otros materiales relacionados

Referencias

The Poems of Algernon Charles Swinburne, 6 volúmenes, Londres:: Chatto & Windus, 1904.

Swinburne: Selected Poetry and Prose. Ed. John D. Rosenberg. Nueva York: Modern Library, 1968.

(Notre-Dame des Sept Douleurs)

Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel
Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour;
The heavy white limbs, and the cruel
Red mouth like a venomous flower;
When these are gone by with their glories,
What shall rest of thee then, what remain,
O mystic and sombre Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain?

Seven sorrows the priests give their Virgin;
But thy sins, which are seventy times seven,
Seven ages would fail thee to purge in,
And then they would haunt thee in heaven:
Fierce midnights and famishing morrows,
And the loves that complete and control
All the joys of the flesh, all the sorrows
That wear out the soul.

O garment not golden but gilded,
O garden where all men may dwell,
O tower not of ivory, but builded
By hands that reach heaven from hell;
O mystical rose of the mire,
O house not of gold but of gain,
O house of unquenchable fire,
Our Lady of Pain!

O lips full of lust and of laughter,
Curled snakes that are fed from my breast,
Bite hard, lest remembrance come after
And press with new lips where you pressed.
For my heart too springs up at the pressure,
Mine eyelids too moisten and burn;
Ah, feed me and fill me with pleasure,
Ere pain come in turn.

In yesterday's reach and to-morrow's,
Out of sight though they lie of to-day,
There have been and there yet shall be sorrows
That smite not and bite not in play.
The life and the love thou despisest,
These hurt us indeed, and in vain,
O wise among women, and wisest,
Our Lady of Pain.

Who gave thee thy wisdom? what stories
That stung thee, what visions that smote?
Wert thou pure and a maiden, Dolores,
When desire took thee first by the throat?
What bud was the shell of a blossom
That all men may smell to and pluck?
What milk fed thee first at what bosom?
What sins gave thee suck?

We shift and bedeck and bedrape us,
Thou art noble and nude and antique;Libitina thy mother, Priapus
Thy father, a Tuscan and Greek.
We play with light loves in the portal,
And wince and relent and refrain;
Loves die, and we know thee immortal,
Our Lady of Pain.

Fruits fail and love dies and time ranges;
Thou art fed with perpetual breath,
And alive after infinite changes,
And fresh from the kisses of death;
Of languors rekindled and rallied,
Of barren delights and unclean,
Things monstrous and fruitless, a pallid
And poisonous queen.

Could you hurt me, sweet lips, though I hurt you?
Men touch them, and change in a trice
The lilies and languors of virtue
For the raptures and roses of vice;
Those lie where thy foot on the floor is,
These crown and caress thee and chain,
O splendid and sterile Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.

There are sins it may be to discover,
There are deeds it may be to delight.
What new work wilt thou find for thy lover,
What new passions for daytime or night?
What spells that they know not a word of
Whose lives are as leaves overblown?
What tortures undreamt of, unheard of,
Unwritten, unknown?

Ah beautiful passionate body
That never has ached with a heart!
On thy mouth though the kisses are bloody,
Though they sting till it shudder and smart,
More kind than the love we adore is,
They hurt not the heart or the brain,
O bitter and tender Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.

As our kisses relax and redouble,
From the lips and the foam and the fangs
Shall no new sin be born for men's trouble,
No dream of impossible pangs?
With the sweet of the sins of old ages
Wilt thou satiate thy soul as of yore?
Too sweet is the rind, say the sages,
Too bitter the core.

Hast thou told all thy secrets the last time,
And bared all thy beauties to one?
Ah, where shall we go then for pastime,
If the worst that can be has been done?
But sweet as the rind was the core is;
We are fain of thee still, we are fain,
O sanguine and subtle Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.

By the hunger of change and emotion,
By the thirst of unbearable things,
By despair, the twin-born of devotion,
By the pleasure that winces and stings,
The delight that consumes the desire,
The desire that outruns the delight,
By the cruelty deaf as a fire
And blind as the night,

By the ravenous teeth that have smitten
Through the kisses that blossom and bud,
By the lips intertwisted and bitten
Till the foam has a savour of blood,
By the pulse as it rises and falters,
By the hands as they slacken and strain,
I adjure thee, respond from thine altars,
Our Lady of Pain.

Wilt thou smile as a woman disdaining
The light fire in the veins of a boy?
But he comes to thee sad, without feigning,
Who has wearied of sorrow and joy;
Less careful of labour and glory
Than the elders whose hair has uncurled;
And young, but with fancies as hoary
And grey as the world.

I have passed from the outermost portal
To the shrine where a sin is a prayer;
What care though the service be mortal?
O our Lady of Torture, what care?
All thine the last wine that I pour is,
The last in the chalice we drain,
O fierce and luxurious Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.

All thine the new wine of desire,
The fruit of four lips as they clung
Till the hair and the eyelids took fire,
The foam of a serpentine tongue,
The froth of the serpents of pleasure,
More salt than the foam of the sea,
Now felt as a flame, now at leisure
As wine shed for me.

Ah thy people, thy children, thy chosen,
Marked cross from the womb and perverse!
They have found out the secret to cozen
The gods that constrain us and curse;
They alone, they are wise, and none other;
Give me place, even me, in their train,
O my sister, my spouse, and my mother,
Our Lady of Pain.

For the crown of our life as it closes
Is darkness, the fruit thereof dust;
No thorns go as deep as a rose's,
And love is more cruel than lust.
Time turns the old days to derision,
Our loves into corpses or wives;
And marriage and death and division
Make barren our lives.

And pale from the past we draw nigh thee,
And satiate with comfortless hours;
And we know thee, how all men belie thee,
And we gather the fruit of thy flowers;
The passion that slays and recovers,
The pangs and the kisses that rain
On the lips and the limbs of thy lovers,
Our Lady of Pain.

The desire of thy furious embraces
Is more than the wisdom of years,
On the blossom though blood lie in traces,
Though the foliage be sodden with tears.
For the lords in whose keeping the door is
That opens on all who draw breath
Gave the cypress to love, my Dolores,
The myrtle to death.

And they laughed, changing hands in the measure,
And they mixed and made peace after strife;
Pain melted in tears, and was pleasure;
Death tingled with blood, and was life.
Like lovers they melted and tingled,
In the dusk of thine innermost fane;
In the darkness they murmured and mingled,
Our Lady of Pain.

In a twilight where virtues are vices,
In thy chapels, unknown of the sun,
To a tune that enthralls and entices,
They were wed, and the twain were as one.
For the tune from thine altar hath sounded
Since God bade the world's work begin,
And the fume of thine incense abounded,
To sweeten the sin.

Love listens, and paler than ashes,
Through his curls as the crown on them slips,
Lifts languid wet eyelids and lashes,
And laughs with insatiable lips.
Thou shalt hush him with heavy caresses,
With music that scares the profane;
Thou shalt darken his eyes with thy tresses,
Our Lady of Pain.

Thou shalt blind his bright eyes though he wrestle,
Thou shalt chain his light limbs though he strive;
In his lips all thy serpents shall nestle,
In his hands all thy cruelties thrive.
In the daytime thy voice shall go through him,
In his dreams he shall feel thee and ache;
Thou shalt kindle by night and subdue him
Asleep and awake.

Thou shalt touch and make redder his roses
With juice not of fruit nor of bud;
When the sense in the spirit reposes,
Thou shalt quicken the soul through the blood.
Thine, thine the one grace we implore is,
Who would live and not languish or feign,
O sleepless and deadly Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.

Dost thou dream, in a respite of slumber,
In a lull of the fires of thy life,
Of the days without name, without number,
When thy will stung the world into strife;
When, a goddess, the pulse of thy passion
Smote kings as they revelled in Rome;
And they hailed thee re-risen, O Thalassian,
Foam-white, from the foam?

When thy lips had such lovers to flatter;
When the city lay red from thy rods,
And thine hands were as arrows to scatter
The children of change and their gods;
When the blood of thy foemen made fervent
A sand never moist from the main,
As one smote them, their lord and thy servant,
Our Lady of Pain.

On sands by the storm never shaken,
Nor wet from the washing of tides;
Nor by foam of the waves overtaken,
Nor winds that the thunder bestrides;
But red from the print of thy paces,
Made smooth for the world and its lords,
Ringed round with a flame of fair faces,
And splendid with swords.

There the gladiator, pale for thy pleasure,
Drew bitter and perilous breath;
There torments laid hold on the treasure
Of limbs too delicious for death;
When thy gardens were lit with live torches;
When the world was a steed for thy rein;
When the nations lay prone in thy porches,
Our Lady of Pain.

When, with flame all around him aspirant,
Stood flushed, as a harp-player stands,
The implacable beautiful tyrant,
Rose-crowned, having death in his hands;
And a sound as the sound of loud water
Smote far through the flight of the fires,
And mixed with the lightning of slaughter
A thunder of lyres.

Dost thou dream of what was and no more is,
The old kingdoms of earth and the kings?
Dost thou hunger for these things, Dolores,
For these, in a world of new things?
But thy bosom no fasts could emaciate,
No hunger compel to complain
Those lips that no bloodshed could satiate,
Our Lady of Pain.

As of old when the world's heart was lighter,
Through thy garments the grace of thee glows,
The white wealth of thy body made whiter
By the blushes of amorous blows,
And seamed with sharp lips and fierce fingers,
And branded by kisses that bruise;
When all shall be gone that now lingers,
Ah, what shall we lose?

Thou wert fair in the fearless old fashion,
And thy limbs are as melodies yet,
And move to the music of passion
With lithe and lascivious regret.
What ailed us, O gods, to desert you
For creeds that refuse and restrain?
Come down and redeem us from virtue,
Our Lady of Pain.

All shrines that were Vestal are flameless,
But the flame has not fallen from this;
Though obscure be the god, and though nameless
The eyes and the hair that we kiss;
Low fires that love sits by and forges
Fresh heads for his arrows and thine;
Hair loosened and soiled in mid orgies
With kisses and wine.

Thy skin changes country and colour,
And shrivels or swells to a snake's.
Let it brighten and bloat and grow duller,
We know it, the flames and the flakes,
Red brands on it smitten and bitten,
Round skies where a star is a stain,
And the leaves with thy litanies written,
Our Lady of Pain.

On thy bosom though many a kiss be,
There are none such as knew it of old.
Was it Alciphron once or Arisbe,
Male ringlets or feminine gold,
That thy lips met with under the statue,
Whence a look shot out sharp after thieves
From the eyes of the garden-god at you
Across the fig-leaves?

Then still, through dry seasons and moister,
One god had a wreath to his shrine;
Then love was the pearl of his oyster,*
And Venus rose red out of wine.
We have all done amiss, choosing rather
Such loves as the wise gods disdain;
Intercede for us thou with thy father,
Our Lady of Pain.

In spring he had crowns of his garden,
Red corn in the heat of the year,
Then hoary green olives that harden
When the grape-blossom freezes with fear;
And milk-budded myrtles with Venus
And vine-leaves with Bacchus he trod;
And ye said, "We have seen, he hath seen us,
A visible God."

What broke off the garlands that girt you?
What sundered you spirit and clay?
Weak sins yet alive are as virtue
To the strength of the sins of that day.
For dried is the blood of thy lover,
Ipsithilla, contracted the vein;
Cry aloud, "Will he rise and recover,
Our Lady of Pain?"

Cry aloud; for the old world is broken:
Cry out; for the Phrygian is priest,
And rears not the bountiful token
And spreads not the fatherly feast. From the midmost of Ida, from shady
Recesses that murmur at morn,
They have brought and baptized her, Our Lady,
A goddess new-born.

And the chaplets of old are above us,
And the oyster-bed teems out of reach;
Old poets outsing and outlove us,
And Catullus makes mouths at our speech.
Who shall kiss, in thy father's own city,
With such lips as he sang with, again?
Intercede for us all of thy pity,
Our Lady of Pain.

Out of Dindymus heavily laden
Her lions draw bound and unfed
A mother, a mortal, a maiden,
A queen over death and the dead.
She is cold, and her habit is lowly,
Her temple of branches and sods;
Most fruitful and virginal, holy,
A mother of gods.

She hath wasted with fire thine high places,
She hath hidden and marred and made sad
The fair limbs of the Loves, the fair faces
Of gods that were goodly and glad.
She slays, and her hands are not bloody;
She moves as a moon in the wane,
White-robed, and thy raiment is ruddy,
Our Lady of Pain.

They shall pass and their places be taken,
The gods and the priests that are pure.
They shall pass, and shalt thou not be shaken?
They shall perish, and shalt thou endure?
Death laughs, breathing close and relentless
In the nostrils and eyelids of lust,
With a pinch in his fingers of scentless
And delicate dust.

But the worm shall revive thee with kisses;
Thou shalt change and transmute as a god,
As the rod to a serpent that hisses,
As the serpent again to a rod.
Thy life shall not cease though thou doff it;
Thou shalt live until evil be slain,
And good shall die first, said thy prophet,
Our Lady of Pain.

Did he lie? did he laugh? does he know it,
Now he lies out of reach, out of breath,
Thy prophet, thy preacher, thy poet,
Sin's child by incestuous Death?
Did he find out in fire at his waking,
Or discern as his eyelids lost light,
When the bands of the body were breaking
And all came in sight?

Who has known all the evil before us,
Or the tyrannous secrets of time?
Though we match not the dead men that bore us
At a song, at a kiss, at a crime--
Though the heathen outface and outlive us,
And our lives and our longings are twain--
Ah, forgive us our virtues, forgive us,
Our Lady of Pain.

Who are we that embalm and embrace thee
With spices and savours of song?
What is time, that his children should face thee?
What am I, that my lips do thee wrong?
I could hurt thee--but pain would delight thee;
Or caress thee--but love would repel;
And the lovers whose lips would excite thee
Are serpents in hell.

Who now shall content thee as they did,
Thy lovers, when temples were built
And the hair of the sacrifice braided
And the blood of the sacrifice spilt,
In Lampsacus fervent with faces,
In Aphaca red from thy reign,
Who embraced thee with awful embraces,
Our Lady of Pain?

Where are they, Cotytto or Venus,
Astarte or Ashtaroth, where?
Do their hands as we touch come between us?
Is the breath of them hot in thy hair?
From their lips have thy lips taken fever,
With the blood of their bodies grown red?
Hast thou left upon earth a believer
If these men are dead?

They were purple of raiment and golden,
Filled full of thee, fiery with wine,
Thy lovers, in haunts unbeholden,
In marvellous chambers of thine.
They are fled, and their footprints escape us,
Who appraise thee, adore, and abstain,
O daughter of Death and Priapus,
Our Lady of Pain.

What ails us to fear overmeasure,
To praise thee with timorous breath,
O mistress and mother of pleasure,
The one thing as certain as death?
We shall change as the things that we cherish,
Shall fade as they faded before,
As foam upon water shall perish,
As sand upon shore.

We shall know what the darkness discovers,
If the grave-pit be shallow or deep;
And our fathers of old, and our lovers,
We shall know if they sleep not or sleep.
We shall see whether hell be not heaven,
Find out whether tares be not grain,
And the joys of thee seventy times seven,
Our Lady of Pain. [1866]

* Nam te præcipuè in suis urbibus colit ora
Hellespontia, cæteris ostreosior oris. Catull[us]. Carm. xviii.

Modificado por última vez el 22 septiembre de 2009; traducido el 3 de marzo de 2011