Me he enamorado

Me he enamorado de un poema. Podría leerlo mil quinientas 

veces y mil quinientas veces sentiría ese mismo cosquilleo.

Lewis Carrol fue un genio, mi genio favorito.

 Three Sunsets

He saw her once, and in the glance
A moment's glance of meeting eyes,
His heart stood still in sudden trance
He trembled with a sweet surprise-
All in the waning light she stood
The star of perfect womanhood

That summer eve his heart was light
With lighter step he trod the ground
And life was fairer in his sight
And music was in every sound
He blessed the world where there could be
So beautiful a thing as she

There once again, as evening fell
And stars were peering overhead,
Two lovers met to bid farewell:
The western sun gleamed faint and red
Lost in a drift of purple cloud
That wrapped him like a funeral shroud

Long time the memory of that night-
The hand that clasped, the lips that kissed,
The form that faded from his sight
Slow sinking through the tearful mist -
In dreamy music seemed to roll
Through the dark chambers of his soul.
So after many years he came
A wanderer from a distant shore:
The street, the house, were still the same,
But those he sought were there no more;
His burning words, his hopes and fears,
Unheeded, fell on alien ears.

Only the children from their play
Would pause the mournful tale to hear,
Shrinking in half-alarm away,
Or step by step would venture near,
To touch with timid curious hands
That strange wild man from other lands.

He sat beside the busy street
There, where he last had seen her face;
And thronging memories, biiter-sweet
Seemed yet to haunt the ancient place :
Her footfall ever floated near:
Her voice was ever in his ear.
He sometimes as the daylight waned
And evening mists began to roll
In half soliloquy complained
Of that black shadow in his soul
And blindly fanned with cruel care
The ashes of a vain despair.

The summer fled; the lonely man
Still lingered out the lessening days;
Still as the night drew on, would scan
Each passing face with closer gaze,
Till sick at heart he turned away,
And sighed, "She will not come today".

So by degrees his spirit bent
To mock its own despairing cry
In stern self torture to invent
New luxuries of agony,
And people all the vacant space
With visions of her perfect face.

Then for a moment she was nigh;
He heard no step, but she was there;
As if an angel suddenly
Were bodied from the viewless air,
And all here fine ethereal frame
Should fade as swiftly as it came.

So half in Fancy's sunny trance,
And half in Misery's aching void,
With set and stony countenance
His bitter being he enjoyed,
And thrust for ever from his mind
The happiness he could not find.

As when the wretch in lonely room
To selfish death is madly hurled,
The glamour of that fatal fume
Shuts out the wholesome living world -
So all his manhood, strength and pride
One sickly dream had set aside.

Yea brother and we passed him there
But yesterday, in merry mood
And marvelled at the lordly air
That shamed his beggar's attitude
Nor heeded that ourselves might be
Wretches as desperate as he

Who let the thought of bliss denied
Make havoc of our life and powers
And pine in solitary pride
For peace that never shall be ours,
Because we will not work and wait
In trustful patience for our fate.

And so it chanced once more that she
Came by the old familiar spot;
The face that he would have died to see
Bent o'er him, and he knew it not;
Too rapt in selfish grief to hear,
Even when happiness was near.

And pity filled her gentle breast
For him that would not stir nor speak;
The dying crimson of the West
That faintly tinged his haggard cheek,
Fell on her as she stood, and shed
A glory round the patient head.

Ah, let him wake! The moments fly;
This awful tryst may be the last;
And see, the tear that dimmed her eye
Had fallen on him e'er she passed -
She passed: the crimson paled to grey
And hope departed with the day .

The heavy hours of night went by,
And silence quickened into sound,
And light slid up the eastern sky,
And life began its daily round.
But light and life for him were fled:
His name was numbered with the dead.

Lewis Carroll 

Liia'12