QUEVEDO, Francisco de
con pocos, pero doctos libros juntos, vivo en conversación con los difuntos, y escucho con mis ojos a los muertos.
o enmiendan, o fecundan mis asuntos; y en músicos callados contrapuntos al sueño de la vida hablan despiertos.
de injurias de los años vengadora, libra, ¡oh gran don Joseph!, docta la imprenta.
pero aquélla el mejor cálculo cuenta, que en la lección y estudios nos mejora.
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Together with a few but learned books I live in conversation with those passed away, And with my eyes listen to the dead.
They either correct or fertilize my ideas. And in silent contrapuntal music In life's sleep they speak, awake.
The avenger of the years' insults, The learned press frees, oh great Don Joseph!
But that flight is reckoned best Which in reading and study betters us.
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si un tiempo fuertes, ya desmoronados, de la carrera de la edad cansados, por quien caduca ya su valentía.
los arroyos del hielo desatados, y del monte quejosos los ganados, que con sombras hurtó su luz al día.
de anciana habitación era despojos; mi báculo, más corvo y menos fuerte.
y no hallé cosa en que poner los ojos
que no fuese recuerdo de la muerte.
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one day grandiose, now rubble on the ground, worn out by vicious time, only renowned for weakness in a land where courage fails.
drinking the springs just melted from the ice, and cattle moaning as the forests climb against the thinning day, now overrun
my old room yellowed with the sickening breath of age, my cane flimsier than before.
about, and everything I looked at bore
a warning of the wasted gaze of death.
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Nada golfos de luz ardiente y pura Mi corazón, sediento de hermosura, Si el cabello deslazas generoso.
Su amor ostenta, su vivir apura; Ícaro, en senda de oro mal segura, Arde sus alas por morir glorioso.
Sus esperanzas, que difuntas lloro, Intenta que su muerte engendre vidas.
El castigo y la hambre imita a Midas,
Tántalo en fugitiva fuente de oro.
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must swim great gulfs of pure and blazing light my heart, for beauty eagerly athirst, when your abundant tresses you unbind.
its love displays, extinguishes its life; like Icarus, its golden path unsure, its wings catch fire — in glorious flames it dies.
all burnt, whose expiration I lament, it wants its death to make new lives from old.
in trials and hunger Midas imitates; Tantalus in a fleeting fount of gold.
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To Apollo chasing Daphne
Ruddy silversmith from up on high,
in whose bright beams the rabble pick their fleas:
Daphne, that nymph, who takes off and won't speak,
if you'd possess her, pay, and douse your light.
If you want to save yourself the pain,
oh, eye of heaven, try to buy her love:
Mars for bonbons sold his coat of mail,
and then his sword for jugs and sweet delights.
Stodgy Jupiter became a purse;
the maiden raised her skirt above her knees
in showers of coins to catch him on the run.
That was the doing of some duenna star,
—a star without a duenna it can't be—
Phoebus, get her help, since you're the sun