Tell all the Truth but tell it slant—
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our Infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise.
As Lightining to the Children eased
With explanations kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind—
Julia, I bring
To thee this ring,
Made for thy finger fit;
To show by this
That our love is
(Or should be) like to it.
Close though it be,
The joint is free;
So when Love’s yoke is on,
It must not gall,
Or fret at all
With hard oppression.
But it must play
Still either way,
And be, too, such a yoke
As not too wide
To overslide,
Or be so strait to choke.
So we who bear
This beam must rear
Ourselves to such a height
As that the stay
Of either may
Create the burden light.
And as this round
Is nowhere found
To flaw, or else to sever;
So let our love
As endless prove,
And pure as gold for ever.
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and a half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.
This poem is often published as “He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven,” but the poem’s original speaker was Yeats’ archetypal character Aedh. The lovelorn Aedh is enthralled by la belle dame sans merci.
The evening mist in the garden is white and chill,
And all the vegetables stand in waiting rows,
They lift their formless leaves and stalks, so still,
You would say that hardly a root of them drinks, or grows.
The stately stems of the artichokes, tall as men,
In a rank like soldiers stand, and the spinach sighs,
With leaves torn down, remembering evenings when
The summer moon laughed out of the racing skies.
And the bubbling Brussels sprouts with the thousand faces,
Smile at the broken celery that had stood
So firm and straight, and mauve sage leaves in places
Set for the housemaid’s hand in boxes of wood.
And the cabbages, the fat stupid cabbages spread
Their vacant features in a sleep they have not earned,
Dreaming again of the white butterflies who had said
Such faithful things last summer, and never returned.
LORD, who am I to teach the way
To little children day by day,
So prone myself to go astray?
I teach them KNOWLEDGE, but I know
How faint they flicker and how low
The candles of my knowledge glow.
I teach them POWER to will and do,
But only know to learn anew
My own great weakness through and through.
I teach them LOVE for all mankins
And all God’s ceatures, but I find
My love comes lagging far behind.
Lord, if their guide I still must be,
Oh, let the little children see
The teacher leaning hard on Thee.
I’ll hope no more
For things that will not come;
And if they do, they prove but cumbersome.
Wealth brings much woe;
And, since it fortunes so,
‘Tis better to be poor
Than so t’ abound
As to be drown’d
Or overwhelm’d with store.
Pale care, avaunt!
I’ll learn to be content
With that small stock Thy bounty gave or lent.
What may conduce
To my most healthful use,
Almighty God, me grant;
But that, or this,
That hurtful is,
Deny Thy suppliant.
Te he dicho, Platero, que el alma de Moguer es el vino, ¿verdad? No; el alma de Moguer es el pan. Moguer es igual que un pan de trigo, blanco por dentro, como el migajón, y dorado en torno—¡oh sol moreno!—como la blanda corteza.
A mediodía, cuando el sol querna más, el pueblo entero empieza de humear y a oler a pino y a pan calentito. A todo el pueblo se le abre la boca. Es como una gran boca que come un gran pan. El pan se entra en todo: en el aceite, en el gazpacho, el queso y la uva, para dar sabor a beso, en el vino, en el caldo, en el jamón, en él mismo, pan con pan. También solo, como la esperanza, o con una ilusión…
Los panaderos llegan trotando en sus caballos, se paran en cada puerta entornada, tocan las palmas y gritan: “¡El panaderooo!”… Se oye el duro ruido tierno de los cuarterones que, al caer en los canastos que brazos desnudos levantan, chocan con los bollos, de las hogazas con las roscas…
Y los niños pobres llaman, al punto, a las campanillas de la cancelas o a los picaportes de los portones, y lloran largamente cancelas o a los picaportes de los portones, y lloran largamente hacia adentro: ¡Un poquiiito paaan!…
This Spanish poem is featured on Wrestle with the Angel in honor of Hispanic Heritage Month, September 15-October 15.
“El pan” (“The Bread”) is the thirty-eighth chapter in the poetic book Platero y Yo. In it, the poet sings the praises of fresh bread, which he describes as the “soul of Moguer” (the Spanish village in which he and his donkey Platero live). He describes its wonderful smell, texture, color, and even its sound. He describes many delicious pairings with bread—wine, grapes, cheese, ham—or “with the same, bread with bread.”
Todo es quietud ye paz… En la penumbra
se respira el olor de los los jazmines,
y, más allá, sobre la cristal del río
se escucha el aleteo de los cisnes
que, como grupo de nevadas flores,
resbalan por la tersa superficie.
Los oscuros murciélagos resurgen
de sus mil ignorados escondites,
y vueltas mil, y caprichosos giros
por la tranquila atmósfera describen;
o vuelan luego rastreando el suelo,
rozando apenas con sus alas grises
del agrio cardo el amarillo pétalo,
de humilde malva la corola virgen.
This poem by Cuban poetess Juanna Borrero is featured on Wrestle with the Angel in honor of Hispanic Heritage Month, September 15-October 15.
“Crepúscular” (“Twilight”) describes the graceful flights of swans and bats over a quiet garden. “…over the glassy surface of the water/ Is heard the flapping wings of the swans/ Which, like a bunch of snowy flowers/ Glide over the smooth water.”
Pasaba arrolladora en su hermosura
y el paso le dejé,
ni anun mirarla me volví, y no obsante
algo en mi oído murmuró “Esa es.”
¿Quién reunió la tarde a la mañana?
Lo ignoro; sólo sé
que en una breve noche de verano
se unieron los crepúscolos y… “fue.”
This poem by Spanish poet Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer is featured on Wrestle with the Angel in honor of Hispanic Heritage Month, September 15-October 15.
“Pasaba arrolladora…” (“I passed, swept away…”) describes a man’s chance meeting with a beautiful woman he believes might be “the one.” “Who united the afternoon with the morning?/ I’ve no idea; I only know/ That in a brief summer night/ The twilights came together and… ‘she was.’”
Atropellados por la Pampa suelta
los raudos potros en febril disputa.
hacen silbar sobre la sorda ruta
los huracanes en su crin revuelta.
Atrás dejando la llanura envuelta
en Polvo, alargan la cerviz enjuta
Y a su carrera retumbante y bruta
cimbran los pinos y la palma esbelta.
Ya cuando cruzan el austral peñasco
vibra un relincho por las altas rocas;
entonces paran el triunfante casco,
respolan roncos, ante el sol violento
Y alzando en grupo las cabezas locas
Oyen llegar el retrasado viento.
This poem by the Colombian poet and lawyer José Rivera (best known for his national epic, La vorágine, or The Vortex) is featured on Wrestle with the Angel in honor of Hispanic Heritage Month, September 15-October 15.
“Los potros” (“The Colts”) describes a hurricane as a herd of swift young horses. They leave the land in the dust of their wake, vibrate the high rocks with their whinnies, and toss their “crazy heads.” Their triumphant advance is prevented only by the “violent sun.” The poet says of their defeated snorts, “Come hear the wind delayed.”