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letra de the garden of proserpine - ralph vaughan williams

here, where the world is quiet;
here, where all trouble seems
dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot
in doubtful dreams of dreams;
i watch the green field growing
for reaping folk and sowing
for harvest-time and mowing
a sleepy world of streams

i am tired of tears and laughter
and men that laugh and weep;
of what may come hereafter
for men that sow to reap:
i am weary of days and hours
blown buds of barren flowers
desires and dreams and powers
and everything but sleep

herе life has death for neighbour
and far from еye or ear
wan waves and wet winds labour
weak ships and spirits steer;
they drive adrift, and whither
they wot not who make thither;
but no such winds blow hither
and no such things grow here
no growth of moor or coppice
no heather-flower or vine
but bloomless buds of poppies
green grapes of proserpine
pale beds of blowing rushes
where no leaf blooms or blushes
save this whereout she crushes
for dead men deadly wine

pale, without name or number
in fruitless fields of corn
they bow themselves and slumber
all night till light is born;
and like a soul belated
in h-ll and heaven unmated
by cloud and mist abated
comes out of darkness morn

though one were strong as seven
he too with death shall dwell
nor wake with wings in heaven
nor weep for pains in h-ll;
though one were fair as roses
his beauty clouds and closes;
and well though love reposes
in the end it is not well
pale, beyond porch and portal
crowned with calm leaves, she stands
who gathers all things mortal
with cold immortal hands;
her languid lips are sweeter
than love’s who fears to greet her
to men that mix and meet her
from many times and lands

she waits for each and other
she waits for all men born;
forgets the earth her mother
the life of fruits and corn;
and spring and seed and swallow
take wing for her and follow
where summer song rings hollow
and flowers are put to scorn

there go the loves that wither
the old loves with wearier wings;
and all dead years draw thither
and all disastrous things;
dead dreams of days forsaken
blind buds that snows have shaken
wild leaves that winds have taken
red strays of ruined springs
we are not sure of sorrow
and joy was never sure;
to-day will die to-morrow;
time stoops to no man’s lure;
and love, grown faint and fretful
with lips but half regretful
sighs, and with eyes forgetful
weeps that no loves endure

from too much love of living
from hope and fear set free
we thank with brief thanksgiving
whatever gods may be
that no life lives for ever;
that dead men rise up never;
that even the weariest river
winds somewhere safe to sea

then star nor sun shall waken
nor any change of light:
nor sound of waters shaken
nor any sound or sight:
nor wintry leaves nor vernal
nor days nor things diurnal;
only the sleep eternal
in an eternal night

- ralph vaughan williams

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