EthicalDative

Saint Jerome, patron saint of translators, by Bellini

“A Prayer for My Daughter” by W.B. Yeats
(Spanish translation by James Mansfield Nichols)

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/14635/a-prayer-for-my-daughter

A Prayer for My Daughter (4)

Helen, being chosen, found life flat and dull,
And later had much trouble from a fool;
While that great Queen that rose out of the spray,
Being fatherless, could have her way,
Yet chose a bandy-leggèd smith for man.
It’s certain that fine women eat
A crazy salad with their meat
Whereby the Horn of Plenty is undone.

Una Oración para mi Hija (4)

Helena, siendo escogida, encontró monótona y aburrida la vida,
Y más tarde tuvo mucho problema de un necio;
Mientras aquella gran Reina que surgió de la espuma,
No teniendo padre, podía hacer lo que quisiera,
Sin embargo tomó a un herrero estevado de marido.
Es cierto que las mujeres hermosas comen
Una ensalada loca con su carne
Por lo cual se deshace el Cuerno de la Abundancia.

[Copyright (c) 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.]

Saint Jerome, patron saint of translators, by Bellini

I’m nervous if a post of mine runs longer than a couple of scrolls, so I’m parceling the translation now into one stanza at a time until the end. I realize that I run the risk of confining myself to a vanishingly small audience if the requirement is that visitors must know or care about Spanish. I console myself, however, by reflecting that my including the source text (a common practice) means a passerby may at the very least taste a morsel of good English verse if nothing else. My sense of Yeats’s poem is that each stanza holds up well as a complete idea, so can repay a moment’s attention.

“A Prayer for My Daughter” by W. B. Yeats
(Spanish translation by James Mansfield Nichols)

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/14635/a-prayer-for-my-daughter

A Prayer for My Daughter (3)

May she be granted beauty and yet not
Beauty to make a stranger’s eye distraught,
Or hers before a looking-glass, for such,
Being made beautiful overmuch,
Consider beauty a sufficient end,
Lose natural kindness and maybe
The heart-revealing intimacy
That chooses right, and never find a friend.

Una Oración para mi Hija (3)

Que se le conceda belleza, pero no
La belleza que a un desconocido le perturbe el ojo,
Ni a ella tampoco ante un espejo; porque tales,
Habiendo sido embellecidas sobremanera,
Estiman que la belleza basta en sí,
Pierden la bondad natural, y tal vez
Esa intimidad reveladora del corazón
Que escoge bien, y nunca hallan amigo.

[Copyright (c) 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.]

Saint Jerome, patron saint of translators, by Bellini

“A Prayer for My Daughter” by W. B. Yeats
(Spanish translation by James Mansfield Nichols)

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/14635/a-prayer-for-my-daughter

A Prayer for My Daughter (2)

Once more the storm is howling, and half hid
Under this cradle-hood and coverlid
My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle
But Gregory’s Wood and one bare hill
Whereby the haystack and roof-levelling wind,
Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed.
And for an hour I have walked and prayed
Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.

I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour,
And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,
And under the arches of the bridge, and scream
In the elms above the flooded stream;
Imagining in excited reverie
That the future years had come
Dancing to a frenzied drum
Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.

Una Oración Para Mi Hija (2)

Una vez más la tormenta aúlla, y medio escondida
Debajo de esta capucha de cuna y la cubridora
Mi hija sigue durmiendo. No hay más obstáculo
Que el Bosque de Gregorio y una colina desnuda
Por el que el viento nivelador de techos y almiares,
Engendrado en el Atlántico, pueda ser detenido.
Y hace una hora que me paseo y rezo
A causa de la gran tristeza que llevo en la mente.

Hace una hora que me paseo y rezo por esta niña,
Y que escucho chillar el viento de mar sobre la torre,
Y por debajo de los arcos del puente, y chillar
En los olmos arriba del río inundado;
Imaginándome en un ensueño emocionado
Que hubieran llegado ya los años venideros
Bailando al toque de un tambor frenético
Desde la inocencia asesina del mar.

[Copyright (c) 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.]