BACKWELL FAMILY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL SUBJECT FILE Spanish-American Poems: Translation by Alice S. BlackwellWhile we dance in a circle The shadows grow stronger The sun has departed The mount glows no longer. But still the dance will go on, go on, Although from the heavens the sun is gone. Dancing & dancing That live life so fair Heard him not, coming And entering there. He has passed through the dancers without a sound, And from the centre sheds light around The song sinks to silence - Air brushed the hand Hand presses hand closely Small, trembling hand (over) We circle around him in silent wavering lines Nor break the glory that from him shines Now mute is the chorus No voice breathes a note 'Tis the heart that is heard now Instead of the throat And, seeing the light on his face divine We think the dawn is about to [shine] The stars are children in circling dance At watching the world they play The wheat stalks are figures of little girls, Their play is to is to sway, to sway; The rivers are dancers of children, too - They meet in the seam with mirth; The waves are dancers of little girls, They play at embracing the earth! The Thistle By Gabrielle Mistral of Chile. Translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell (over) Once upon a time a lily in a garden - a rich man's garden - was asking the other flowers about [Christ]: The lily's master, passing by, had named him while praising the newly opened flower. A Rose of Sharon, of a vivid purple, answered: "I do not know him. He is perhaps a rustic [?] for I know all the [leading men]." "I have never seen him either," added a small fragrant jasmine, "and no delicate spirit fails to breath the perfume of my little flowers." "Nor I either," said the cold, impassible Camellia, "He must be some clownish fellow. I have been worn on the breasts of handsome men and beautiful women." The lily answered, "If he were, he would not be like me; and my master was reminded of him when he looked at me this morning."insert [Gabriela Mistal, from an obscure and beloved country school- teacher, has become famous and throughout Spain and Spanish America for her poems. She also writes parables in prose, like "The Thistle,"] 2 Then the violet said, "There is one of us who has certainly seen him; that is our poor brother the thistle. He lives by the roadside and knows everybody who goes by, and salutes them all, with his head covered with others. Although he is humiliated by the dust, he is gentle, s[???] he bears a flavor of my color" "You have said one true thing," answered the lily. "The thistle certainly knows [??????]; but you made a mistake when you called him our brother. He has prickles, and he is ugly like an evil doer. He is one, too, for the wool of the lambs sticks to him when the flocks go by." Then, softening his voice [????] critically, he turned towards the road & called: "Brother thistle, poor little brother of ours, the lily asks if you know thirst" And the voice of the thistle, weary and3 as it were broken, came on the wind: "Yes, he has passed along this road, and I have touched his garments; I, a sorrowful thistle!" "And is it true that he is like me?" "Only a little, and when the moon gives you an air of sadness. You carry your head too high. He carries his a little bent; but his mantle is as white as your cup, and you are happy enough to be like him. Nobody will ever compare him to the dusty thistle!." "Tell us, thistle, what are his eyes like?" The thistle opened a blue flower. "What is his breast like?" The thistle opened a red flower. "He goes with his breast like this," he said. "It is too crude a color," said the lily. "And what does he wear on his head for a wreath in spring?" 4 The thistle held up his thorns. "That is a horrible wreath," said the camellia. "The rose is forgiven for her little thorns; but those are like the spines of the cactus, the bristly cactus that grows on the slopes." "And does Christ love?" continued the lily, troubled. "What is his love like?" "The love of Christ is like this," said the thistle, casting the tiny feathers of his dead corolla to fly upon all the winds. "After all," said the lily, "I should like to know him. How could that be, brother thistle?" "To see him pass, to get a glance from him, become a wayside thistle," he answered. "He goes continually along the paths, without rest. When he passed me he said, 'Blessed be you, because5 you blossom amid the dust, and cheer the fevered glance of the wayfarer. And he would not [rest] tarry in the rich man's garden for the sake of your fragrance, [he] [fragrance,] [perfume] because as he goes [seeking searching out] [in the winds] he watched out for another [fragrance] odor in the wind, the [fragrance] odor of the [wou] wounds of men." But [nether] neither the lily, [whom] that they called his brother, nor the Rose of Sharon that he picked as a child upon the hills, nor the [entwined] twining honeysuckle [wanted] wished to become a wayside thistle; and, like the prominent [great] men and the worldly women who refused to follow him over the scorching plains, they remained without knowing Christ. Poems of Ecstasy By Gabriela Mistral of Chile. Translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell. I Am Weeping [?] You have told me that you love me, and I am weeping. You have told me that you will pass through the valleys of the world with me in your arms. You have stabbed me with the unhoped-for happiness. You might have given it to me drop by drop, like water to the sick; [but] and you put me in the torrent to drink! Fallen upon the earth, I shall remain weeping until my soul understands. My senses have heard, my face, my heart; my soul does not yet fully comprehend. When the divine evening dies, I2 shall return home tottering, [leav] leaning against the tree trunks by the road. It is the path that I took this morning, and I shall not recognize it. I shall look with astonishment on the sky, the valley, the roofs of the village, and I shall ask them their names, because I have forgotten my whole life. Tomorrow, I shall sit on my bed and shall ask them to call me, in order to hear my name and to believe. And I shall burst into tears again. You have stabbed me with happiness! The World (subhead) "They do not love each other," they said, "because they do not seek each other out. They have not kissed, for she goes still innocent." They do now know that we give ourselves to each other in a single glance! 3 Your work is far from mine, and my seat is not at your feet, and yet, while I do my work, I feel as if I were interweaving around you the net of the softest wool; and you are feeling, there in the distance, that my glance descends upon your bended head. And your heart is breaking with sweetness! When the day is dead, we shall meet for a few moments; but the sweet wound of love will uphold us until [the next] another evening. [Those that] They, who wallow in voluptuousness without attaining to being united, [succeeding in] [being] [becoming] [one], do not know that we become husband and wife by a glance! They Spoke of You (subhead) They spoke to me of you, accusing you bitterly of wrongdoing, with many words. Why will the tongues of mentire themsevles in vain? I closed my eyes and saw you in my heart, tud you were pure, as the white frost that comes at daybreak, asleep on the crystals. They spoke to me of you, praising you with many words. Why will the generosity of men fatigue itself in vain? I kept silence, and the praise rose up from my heart, luminous as the vapors rise from the sea. Another day they did not mention your name, and spoke others, with glowing laudation. The stranger named fell on me, inert and lost. And your name, which no one uttered, was present like the spring, which covered the valley, although no one should have sung of it in that diaphanous hour. The Shadow (sublead) Go trhough the field at evenfall,WHERE SHALL WE DANCE? By Gabriele Mistral. Translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell. Where shall we dance in a circle? Shall it be by the shore of the sea? The sea will dance with its thousand waves, An orange-flower garland free. Shall it be at the foot of the mountains? Each one will an answer fling, As if all the stones in all the world Were longing at heart to sing. Shall it be in the midst of the forest? Its voices will blend, in bliss. The songs of children and songs of birds On the wind will meet and kiss. We will dance in an infinite circle; In the woods we will weave it with glee; We will dance at the foot of the mountains, And on the shores of the sea! THE DAISY The sky of December is limpid, Divinely clear flows the rill, And the grasses, trembling, call us To dance our round on the hill. The mothers gaze from the valley. O'er grass in the wind athrill They see an enormous daisy - Our circling dance on the hill. They see a snow-white daisy That rises and bends at will, That scatters and comes together; 'Tis our circling dance on the hill. Today a rose has blossomed, And the pink breathed perfume still; A lamb was born in the valley, And we danced our round on the hill.THOSE THAT DO NOT DANCE. A girl who is weak and ailing Said, with a mournful glance, "How can I dance?" We told her She should set her heart to dance. Then said the sick girl, sadly, "I am too frail a thing. How can I sing?" We told her She should set her heart to sing. The poor dead thistle whispered, "How can I dance? Not I!" We said to the thistle, "Cast your heart On the wind and let it fly!" Said God from his far blue heaven, "How shall I descend from the height?" We told him he should come down to us In the sunbeams dancing bright. All the valley is dancing, In the light of the sun on high; And if anyone will not join us, His heart as the dust is dry! THE LAND We dance on Chilean soil, sweeter Than honey or roses ablow. It moulds men whose lips and their hearts, too, No envy or bitterness know. The land that is greenest with gardens, Most golden with broad fields of wheat, The land that is purplest with vineyards; How sweetly it touches our feet! Its dust made our cheeks in their beauty, Its river our laughters blithe tones, And it kisses the feet of the dancers, Which drew forth soft, motherly moans. 'Tis fair, so we love well to whiten Its carpet with dances of grace. 'Tis free, so we love as we circle To bathe with our songs its bright face. Tomorrow we'll make it a vineyard, A garden, the eye to entrance, - Cleave its rocks, build its towns by our labor; Today we but know how to dance!GIVE ME YOUR HAND. Give me your hand and we will dance; You will love me, and I adore, We shall be like a single flower - A blossom and nothing more. The self-same verses we both shall sing, Tread the same measure, the grasses o'er; Like one wheat-ear we both shall sway - A wheat-ear and nothing more. Your name is Rose and mine is Hope, But you will forget what they called you before, Because we shall be but a dance, a dance On the hill, and nothing more. A LULLABY Sleep, oh, sleep, my love, my king, Fearless and with tranquil breast, Though my spirit does not sleep, Though I slumber not, nor rest. Sleep, oh, sleep, and in the night Be more soundless, in thy peace, Than a blade of waving grass, Than a thread of silky fleece! In thee slumbers my tired flesh, All my anguish, all my fear; In thy sleep mine eyes are closed, In thee sleeps my heart, my dear!PRAYER FOR THE NEST. From the Spanish of Gabriela Mistral of Chile. Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell. Sweet Lord, I for a brother make my prayer: The nest, defenseless, innocent and fair! From it’s small feathers ring delicious trills; On its wee cushion birdlings learn to fly; And song, thou sayest,is a thing divine- The wing is of the heavens blue and high! Soft by the breeze that rocks it to and fro, And soft by the moon that silvers it by night; Strong be thy branch upholding it in air, Beauteous thy dew that lends in jewels bright! Oh, from the dainty, delicate we shell, Woven of raveling red, with care and pain, Turn thou aside the frost so keen, glassy ice, The pebbles of the fiercely- pelting rain! Oh, turn aside the wind’s impetuous wing, That might destroy it with a rough caress, And turn aside the glance that seeks for it- Eyes all on fire with evil eagerness! Thou who dost blame me when I martyrize The creatures delicate and dainty- fair,- The lilies with their fragile cups of snow, The tiny pinks whose purple warms the eir,- Oh, guard it’s form with gentle tenderness! Touch it with love, set on its branch apart! It shivers in the wind, as ‘twere a child; The bird’s nest bears the semblance of a heart!The Evening. By Gabriela Mistral of Chile. Translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell. (over) I dreamed that I was already dust - that I was a metre of dark [dust] earth by the side of the road. When the [wagons loaded] loaded hay-carts [with hay] passed by in the evening, the fragrance that they left in the air made me [q] quiver [which] [as] [they] reminding me the field where I was born. Afterwards, when the [rep] reapers passed, with their arms around one another, it called up [other] memories also; and at the plaintive sound of the twilight bells, my soul, under its blind dust, remembered God. Close to me, the soil formed a little mound of red clay, with an outline like a woman's breast; and, thinking that it too might hold a soul, I asked it: "Who are you?" [It] It answered, "I am your Enemy - she whom you used to call, simply andinsert Gabriela Mistral, from an obscure country school- teacher, has become one of the most famous and beloved poets of Spanish America. She also writes poetical prose, as in "The Enemy." [She was lately invited to give a course of lectures on education and on South American literature at the University of Mexico, and her journey from Chile was like a triumphal progress. The Latin Americans almost adore their] 2 terribly, 'The Enemy'." I answered, "I used to hate when I was still flesh - flesh that had youth, flesh that had pride. But now I am [blackened] dark dust, and I love even the thistle that grows above me, and the wheels of the carts that [pass and] mangle me as they pass." ["I do not hate now, ] "Neither do I now hate," she said, "and I am red like a wound because I have suffered, and they put me close to you because I asked to love you." "I wish you were nearer," I answered, "upon my arms, which [have] never [clasped] enfolded you." She answered, "I wish you were upon my heart, int he place on my heart that bore the burn of your hatred." One evening a potter passed; [and] he sat down to rest, and he gently caressed both mounds of earth.3 "They are soft," he said; "they are equally soft, although one is dark and the other is blood-red. I will carry them away and make a vase of them." The potter mingled us together more completely than anything is mingled in the light; more than two breezes, more than two waters. And no acid, no chemistry of men could have separated us. When he put us into a glowing [furnace] kiln, we acquired the most luminous and most beautiful color that the sun ever [beheld] looked upon; it was a living rose with freshly- opened petals. [Like God, he had succeeded in making a flower!] That was a simple vase, without ornamented borders, without [cutt] incisions, without anything that separated us. When the potter took it out of the glowing [furnace] kiln, I thought that it was not mud, but a flower. Like God, he had attained to the making of a flower! And the vase sweetened the water 4 [so that] to such a degree that the man who bought it took delight in pouring into it [enjoyed when he poured them out,] the bitterest juices - wormwood, hemlock - to receive them back [honey-sweet] made honey sweet, [as honey]. And if the soul of Cain himself could have been immersed in the vase, it would have risen from it like a honeycomb dripping with honey.THE ENEMY. By Gabiela Mistral of Chile. Translated from the xxx Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell. (Gabriela Mistral, from an obscure country school teacher, has become one of the most famous and beloved poets of Spanish America. She also writes poetical prose, as in "The Enemy".) I dreamed that I was already dust - that I was a metre of dark earth by the side of a road. When the loaded hay-carts passed by in the evening, the fragrance that they left in the air made me quiver, reminding me of the field where I was born. Afterwards, when the reapers passed, with their arms around one another, it called up memories also; and at the plaintive sound of the twilight bells, my soul, under its blind dust, remembered God. Close to me, the soil formed a little mound of red clay, with an outline like a woman's breast; and, thinking that it too might hold a soul, I asked it: "Who are you?" It answered, "I am you Enemy - she whom you used to call, simply and terribly, 'The Enemy'." I answered, "I used to hate when I was still flesh - flesh that had youth, flesh that had pride. But now xxxx I am dark dust, and I love even the thistle that grows above me, and the wheels of the carts that mangle me as they pass." "Neither do I now hate," she said, "and I am red like a wound because I have suffered, and they put me close to you because I asked to love you." "I wish you were nearer," I answered, "upon my arms, which never enfolded you." She answered, "I wish you were upon my heart, in the place on my heart that bore the burn of your hatred." The Enemy - page 2. One evening a potter passed; he sat down to rest, and he gently caressed both mounds of earth. "They are soft," he said; "they are equally soft, although one is dark and the other is blood-red. I will carry them away and make a vase of them." The potter mingled us together more completely than anything is mingled in the light; more than two breezes, more than two waters. And no acid, no chemistry of men could have separated us. When he put us into a glowing kiln, we acquired the most luminous and most beautiful color that the sun ever looked upon; it was a living rose with freshly-opened petals. That was a simple vase, without ornamental borders, without incisions, without anything that separated us. When the potter took it out of the glowing kiln, I thought that it was not mud, but a flower. Like God, he had attained to the making of a flower! And the vase sweetened the water to such a degree that the man who bought it took delight in pouring into it the bitterest juices - wormwood, hemlock - to receive them back made honey sweet. And if the soul of Cain himself could have been immersed in the vase, it would have risen from it like a honeycomb dripping with honey.THE THISTLE By Gabriela Mistral of Chile. Translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell. (Gabriela Mistral, from an obscure country school teacher, has become famous and beloved throughout Spain and Spanish America for her poems. She also writes parables in prose, like "The Thistle".) Once upon a time a lily in a garden - a rich man's garden - was asking the other flowers about Christ. The lily's master, passing by, had named him while promising the newly-opened flower. A Rose of Sharon, a vivid purple, answered: "I do not know him. He is perhaps a rustic, for I know all the leading men." "I have never seen him either", added a small fragrant jasmine, x "and no delicate spirit fails to breathe the perfume of my little flowers." "Nor I either", said the cold, impassible camellia. "He must be some clownish fellow. I have been worn on the breasts of men and of beautiful women". The xx lily answered, "If he were, he would not be like me; and my master was reminded of him when he looked at me this morning." Then the violet said, "There is one of us who has certainly seen him; that is our poor brother the thistle. He lives by the roadside and knows everybody who goes by, and salutes them all with his head covered in ashes. Although he is bowed down by the dust, he is gentle, since he bears a flower of my color." "You have said one true thing", answered the lily. "The thistle certainly knows Christ; but you made a mistake when you called him our brother. He has prickles, and he is ugly like an evil-doer. He is one, too, for the wool of the lambs sticks to him when the flocks go by." The Thistle, by Gabriela Mistral, - page 2. Then, softening his voice hypocritically, he turned towards the road and called: "Brother thistle, poor little brother of ours, the lily asks if you know Christ." And the voice of the thistle, weary and as it were broken, came on the wind: "Yes, he has passed along this road and I have touched his garments: I, a sorrowful thistle!" "And it is true that he is like me?" "Only a little, and when the moon gives you an air of sadness. You carry your head too high. He carries his as a little bent; but his mantle is as white as your cup, and you are happy enough to be like him. Nobody will ever compare him to the dusty thistle!" "Tell us, thistle, what are his eyes like?" The thistle opened a blue flower. "What is his breat like?" The thistle opened a red flower. "He goes with his breast like this", he said. "It is too crude a color", said the lily. "And what does he wear on his head for a wreath in spring?" The thistle held up his thorns. "That is a horrible wreath", said the camellia. "The rose is forgiven for her little thorns; but those are like the spines of the cactus, the bristly cactus that grows on the slopes." "And does Christ love?" continued the lily, troubled. "What is his love like?" "The love of Christ is like this," said the thistle, casting theThe Thistle, by Gabriela Mistral, - page 3. tiny features of his dead corolla to fly upon all the winds. "After all", said the lily, "I should like to know him. How could that be, brother thistle?" "To see him pass, to get a glance from him, become a wayside thistle," he answered. "He goes continually along the paths, without rest. When he passed me he said, 'Blessed be you, because you blossom amid the dust, and cheer the fevered glances of the wayfarer'. And he would not tarry in the rich man's garden for the sake of your fragrance, because as he goes he watches out for another odor in the wind, the odor of the wounds of men." But neither the lily, that they called his brother, nor the Rose of Sharon that he picked as a child upon the hills nor the twining honeysuckle wished to become a wayside thistle; and, like the prominent men and the worldly women who refused to follow him over the scorching plains, they remained without knowing Christ.