La belle dame sans merci

‘La belle dame sans merci (La bella dama sin piedad)’ es una de las más hermosas y a la vez tristes baladas del poeta británico John Keats. Narra el encuentro de un caballero con una mujer extraña, quizás un hada de los bosques, quizás… algo mucho peor. De tono melancólico y al mismo tiempo misterioso, esta balada es famosa en todo el mundo. A la hora de elegirla para la sección ‘Poemas Eternos de Fantasía y Misterio’ de nuestro programa de videos originales ‘El Santuario’, hemos hecho una traducción libre, intentando respetar y mantener al máximo toda la belleza del original.


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Este es el poema original en inglés:

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful, a faery’s child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery’s song.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gaz’d and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes–
So kiss’d to sleep.

And there we slumber’d on the moss,
And there I dream’d, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dream’d
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cry’d–«La belle Dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!»

I saw their starv’d lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.

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