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-Meniña, ti a máis hermosa
que a luz do sol alumbrara;
ti a estrela da mañanciña
que en puras tintas se baña;
ti a frol das froridas cumbres,
ti a ninfa das frescas auguas,
ti como folla do lirio
branca, pura e contristada.
¿Quen eres, fada sin nome
de tan dormentes miradas,
de tan dorida sonrisa,
de feituriña tan cándida?
¿Quisais de muller naceches
sendo tan limpa e tan casta?
¿Quisais das brisas da tarde,
quisais das brétemas vagas...
das burbulliñas dun río,
quisais dunha nube branca?
¿Ou as espumas do mare
a un raio de sol xuntadas
pousáronte ó ser da aurora
nunha cunchiña de nacra?
Mais de onde queira que seas,
tristísima pasionaria,
por ti sinto un amor puro
que pouco a pouco me mata.
Por ti, de noite e de día,
cal vaga sombra encantada,
preto do teu vivir ximo,
ximo cos ventos que pasan
facendo vibrar sonoras
sentidas cordas dun arpa,
que con ecos tembradores
dos meus amores che falan.
Mais dime: ¿por que estás muda?,
di por que estás solitaria,
di por que vives nos montes
cos paxariños que cantan,
mentras ti choras e choras
ó pé dun olmo sentada,
toda de loito cuberta,
toda cuberta de lágrimas.
-Déixame vivir nos montes,
déixame estar solitaria,
déixame cos paxariños
que en derredor de min cantan.
Déixame vestir de loito,
cuberta por tristes bágoas,
i eco de homes non escoite
nin son de armoniosas arpas,
que eses sons de amor á vida
rompen as miñas entrañas.
¡Si deles, galán, por sorte
doce consolo arrancaras
para un dor que non ten cura,
para un mal que non se acaba!
¡Si ó seu vibrar sonoroso
as tombas se levantaran
i o polvo que nelas mora
volto a vivir se axitara!...
Mais, cala, galán...; non toques
as soaves cordas dun arpa
que nin dá vida ós que morren,
ni as tristes tombas levanta.
Cala, galán, cos cantares
que con pasión de amor cantas,
que os meus amores morreron
i aló antre tombas me agardan.
Para min morreu a dicha,
morreu tamén a esperanza,
cubreuse o seu de tristura
i a terra de ásperas prantas.
Déixame vivir nos montes,
déixame estar solitaria,
déixame vestir de loito,
cuberta de amargas lágrimas.
Que a rula que viudou,
xurou de non ser casada,
nin pousar en rama verde
nin beber da iaugua crara.
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"Lass, you the most beautiful
That the sunlight ever shone upon,
You the star of the early morning
That bathes in pure hues,
You the flower of the florid crests,
You the nymph of the fresh waters,
You like a leaf of the Madonna lily
White, pure and forlorn.
Who are you, nameless she-fairy
Of glances so sleepy,
Of smile so grieved,
Of elegant form so candid?
Were you perchance born of woman
Being so clean and so chaste?
Perhaps of the afternoon breezes,
Perhaps of the dim wind-borne fogs...
Of a stream's tiny bubbles,
Perchance of a white cloud?
Or did the sea's foam bonded to
A beam of sunlight lay you down
Gently in a small mother-of-pearl
Seashell at the break of dawn?
Regardless of your provenance,
Most sorrowful passionflower,
I feel a pure love for you
That kills me little by little.
By night and by day,
Like some vague enchanted shadow,
I moan wishing to be near you,
I moan with the winds that pass
Making the rich heartfelt strings
Of a harp vibrate,
Whose tremulous echoes
Speak to you of my loves.
But tell me: why are you so silent?
Say why you stay all alone,
Say why you dwell in the hills
With the small birds that sing,
While you weep and weep
Seated at the foot of an elm tree,
All clad in black,
All covered with tears."
"Let me dwell in the hills,
Let me be all alone,
Let me stay by the small birds
That roundabout me sing.
Let me dress in black,
Covered with sad tears,
And the echo of men not hear
Nor the sound of harmonious harps,
For those life-loving sounds
Sunder my inner core.
If from them, gallant, you could
By chance dig up sweet solace
For a pain that has no cure,
For an ailment that has no end!
If to the sound of their rich quaver
The tombs opened up
And the dust that dwells in them
Stirred back to life!...
But be quiet, gallant...; do not play
The mellow strings of a harp
Which neither brings the dead to life
Nor lifts open the dismal graves.
Gallant, refrain from the songs
You sing with love's passion,
For my loves passed away and they
Await me there among tombs.
Bliss died to me,
Hope died also,
The sky overspread with sorrow
And the earth with coarse plants.
Let me dwell in the hills,
Let me be by myself,
Let me put on black,
Covered with bitter tears.
"For the widowed turtle dove
Pledged not to marry
Nor perch on green branch
Nor drink of the clear water."
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