[sempre de acordo com a antiga ortografia]

quarta-feira, 9 de abril de 2014

7 de Abril 1770

William Wordsworth 
(m. 1850)

"Lines Written in Early Spring"

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure: --
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

A percepção deste poema de Wordsworth - que pertinente conclusão e interrogação final!... - há muito que se me impõe articulada com a Sonata para Violino No. 3 em Mi bemol, op. 12. E não é que esta peça de Beethoven e o poema são contemporâneos, exactamente do mesmo ano de 1798? Aqui têm o primeiro andamento, Allegro con spirito, numa soberba interpretação de Gidon Kremer e Martha Argerich.

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