“Su corazón era como una planta sensible, que se abre por un momento a la luz del sol, pero se encoge y encoge en sí mismo con el menor toque del dedo, o el aliento más ligero del viento.”
La inquilina de Wildfell Hall
Constable
1820
“Un ligero viento recorrió el maíz,
Y toda la naturaleza rió bajo el sol.”
HOME
How brightly glistening in the sun
The woodland ivy plays!
While yonder beeches from their barks
Reflect his silver rays.
That sun surveys a lovely scene
From softly smiling skies;
And wildly through unnumbered trees
The wind of winter sighs:
Now loud, it thunders o'er my head,
And now in distance dies.
But give me back my barren hills
Where colder breezes rise;
Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees
Can yield an answering swell,
But where a wilderness of heath
Returns the sound as well.
For yonder garden, fair and wide,
With groves of evergreen,
Long winding walks, and borders trim,
And velvet lawns between;
Restore to me that little spot,
With grey walls compassed round,
Where knotted grass neglected lies,
And weeds usurp the ground.
Though all around this mansion high
Invites the foot to roam,
And though its halls are fair within
Oh, give me back my HOME!
Turner
1820
“Las sonrisas y las lágrimas son tan parecidas conmigo, que ninguna de ellas está confinada a ningún sentimiento particular: a menudo lloro cuando estoy feliz, y sonrío cuando estoy triste.“
La inquilina de Wildfell Hall
***
MEMORY
BRIGHTLY the sun of summer shone,
Green fields and waving woods upon,
And soft winds wandered by;
Above, a sky of purest blue,
Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue,
Allured the gazer's eye.
But what were all these charms to me,
When one sweet breath of memory
Came gently wafting by?
I closed my eyes against the day,
And called my willing soul away,
From earth, and air, and sky;
That I might simply fancy there
One little flower–a primrose fair,
Just opening into sight;
As in the days of infancy,
An opening primrose seemed to me
A source of strange delight.
Sweet Memory! ever smile on me;
Nature's chief beauties spring from thee;
Oh, still thy tribute bring!
Still make the golden crocus shine
Among the flowers the most divine,
The glory of the spring.
Still in the wall-flower's fragrance dwell;
And hover round the slight blue bell,
My childhood's darling flower.
Smile on the little daisy still,
The buttercup's bright goblet fill
With all thy former power.
For ever hang thy dreamy spell
Round mountain star and heather bell,
And do not pass away
From sparkling frost, or wreathed snow,
And whisper when the wild winds blow,
Or rippling waters play.
Is childhood, then, so all divine?
Or Memory, is the glory thine,
That haloes thus the past?
Not all divine; its pangs of grief,
(Although, perchance, their stay be brief,)
Are bitter while they last.
Nor is the glory all thine own,
For on our earliest joys alone
That holy light is cast.
With such a ray, no spell of thine
Can make our later pleasures shine,
Though long ago they passed.
ACTON.
"Memory" es reimpreso de Poems By Currer, Ellis y Acton Bell .
Charlotte, Anne y Emily Bronte.
Filadelfia: Lea y Blanchard, 1848.
Anne Brontë
1820 -1849
Violin Concerto n°4
Henri Vieuxtemps
1820 - 1881
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