En el alambre como sonámbula, lectora de insomnios.
Tengo las hojas sueltas, desperdigadas, intentaré ir uniéndolas y que en el andar vayan casando unas con otras. Y si no combinan ni concuerdan tampoco importa, espero que la senda se descubra agradable mientras recogemos todas esas hojas.
With blackest moss the flowerplots Were thickly crusted, one and all, The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the peach to the gardenwall. The broken sheds looked sad and strange, Unlifted was the clinking latch, Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary; I would that I were dead!"
II.
Her tears fell with the dews at even, Her tears fell ere the dews were dried, She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casementcurtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said: She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
III.
Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the nightfowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light: From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the grey-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, "The day is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
Alfred Tennyson - "Mariana" from Poems, Chiefly Lyrical (London: Effingham Wilson, 1830)(Texto completo)
Siempre me ha sorprendido el uso que hace Tennyson de la mujer medieval como símbolo de muchas de sus inquietudes. No debería extrañarme cuando sabemos de su afición al ciclo artúrico, pero es que a partir de ahí parece derivar a la narración poética de cuestiones mucho más íntimas como es la decepción que producen las apariencias o la imposibilidad de alcanzar lo deseado.
La melancolía es fuente abundante de inspiración, pero en ocasiones la marca que nos deja es tan duradera que apenas somos capaces de soportar su ausencia.
Se ve que Tennyson les tenía manía a las mujeres, coge un personaje de Shakespeare que ya la pobre tiene que estar cinco años esperando pero con happy end y la fastidia a modo, eso sí con muy bellas palabras y muy bien descrito...me quedo con el cisne.
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