Gaita Galaica (Bagpipes Of Spain)

Poem By Ruben Dario

Gaita galaica, que sabes cantar
lo que profundo y dulce nos es.
Dices de amor, y dices después
de un amargor como el de la mar.

Canta. Es el tiempo. Haremos danzar
al fino verso de rítmicos pies.
Ya nos lo dijo el Eclesiastés:
tiempo hay de todo; hay tiempo para amar;

tiempo de ganar, tiempo de perder,
tiempo de plantar, tiempo de coger,
tiempo de llorar, tiempo de reír,
tiempo de rasgar, tiempo de coser,
tiempo de esparcir y de recoger,
tiempo de nacer, tiempo de morir…




Bagpipes of Spain


Bagpipes of Spain, ye that can sing
That which is sweetest to us in the Spring!
You first sing of gladness and then sing of pain
As deep and as bitter as the billowed main.

Sing. 'Tis the season! As glad as the rain
My verses shall trip ye a jig or a fling.
Ecclesiastes said it again and again,
All things have their season, O bagpipes of Spain!—

A season to plant, a season to reap:
A season to sew, a season to tear;
A season to laugh, a season to weep;
Seasons for to hope and for to despair;
A season to love, a season to mate;
A season of birth, a season of Fate…

Comments about Gaita Galaica (Bagpipes Of Spain)

Reminiscent of Ecclesiastes 'all of life is vanity'


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Other poems of DARIO

Blazon

The snow-white Olympic swan,
with beak of rose-red agate,
preens his eucharistic wing,
which he opens to the sun like a fan.

Fatality

The tree is happy because it is scarcely sentient;
the hard rock is happier still, it feels nothing:
there is no pain as great as being alive,

Sinfonia En Gris Mayor (Symphony In Gray Major)

El mar como un vasto cristal azogado
refleja la lámina de un cielo de zinc;
lejanas bandadas de pájaros manchan

Portico

I am the singer who of late put by
The verse azulean and the chant profane,
Across whose nights a rossignol would cry

Canto De Esperanza (With English Translation)

Un gran vuelo de cuervos mancha el azul celeste.
Un soplo milenario trae amagos de peste.
Se asesinan los hombres en el extremo Este.

Cantos De Vida Y Esperanza

I
Yo soy aquel que ayer no más decía
el verso azul y la canción profana,
en cuya noche un ruiseñor había