tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068843593826113425.post4587858213879204619..comments2012-02-26T16:25:41.420+01:00Comments on Papá Pitufo se mete a maestro: Men of destiny, by Jack B. Yeatsnadiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04926235090004278091noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068843593826113425.post-75142906602346114592012-02-26T00:28:18.202+01:002012-02-26T00:28:18.202+01:00Un poema sobre pescadores, por otro Yeats:
The Fi...Un poema sobre pescadores, por otro Yeats:<br /><br />The Fisherman<br /><br />Although I can see him still—<br />The freckled man who goes<br />To a gray place on a hill<br />In gray Connemara clothes<br />At dawn to cast his flies—<br />It's long since I began<br />To call up to the eyes<br />This wise and simple man. <br />All day I'd looked in the face <br />What I had hoped it would be <br />To write for my own race <br />And the reality: <br />The living men that I hate, <br />The dead man that I loved, <br />The craven man in his seat, <br />The insolent unreproved—<br />And no knave brought to book <br />Who has won a drunken cheer—<br />The witty man and his joke <br />Aimed at the commonest ear, <br />The clever man who cries <br />The catch cries of the clown, <br />The beating down of the wise <br />And great Art beaten down.<br /><br />Maybe a twelve-month since<br />Suddenly I began,<br />In scorn of this audience,<br />Imagining a man,<br />And his sun-freckled face<br />And gray Connemara cloth,<br />Climbing up to a place<br />Where stone is dark with froth,<br />And the down turn of his wrist<br />When the flies drop in the stream—<br />A man who does not exist, <br />A man who is but a dream; <br />And cried, “Before I am old <br />I shall have written him one <br />Poem maybe as cold <br />And passionate as the dawn."<br /><br />WILLIAM BUTLER YEATSM.T.https://www.blogger.com/profile/00418780115696818858noreply@blogger.com