Pero aún sin sombras, suspiros o tiempo; hay algo, que compromete lo humano, la dignidad, en ese momento en el cual por su existencia misma o por exigencia de las circunstancias, del tiempo, el lugar o el grupo (la comunidad); la voluntad propia debe ceder(se) al otro o a los otros, a «lo que corresponde» y es aquí, donde se distingue el valor de la cobardía, el sustento del vacío, el fuste del engaño, la pieza, lo que se es y lo que persiste. Así como la gramática del idioma es la estructura misma del pensamiento; aquello a lo que llamamos el carácter, que es el modo de sentir, el de la aproximación para pensar la vida, el del compromiso para con la naturaleza, el pensamiento reflexivo y el trabajo, están estrechamente ligados a la geografía (en su forma), el clima (en su sustancia), la historia (en su duelo) y la comunidad (en su supervivencia); son las características propias de cada latitud las moldean a las personas y a sus pensamientos colectivos; las personas son «con y como» es su lugar y son irremediablemente de éste; aún los más desarraigados, tienen su lugar oculto, a veces hasta teórico o utópico, su propia isla, su país de la utopía, sus ciudades invisibles, en donde el clima les trae a la memoria el sonido del entorno natural o social que escuchaban mientras se alimentaban con la leche materna; la luz que iluminaba la casa, la calle o el campo donde por primera vez anduvieron o se pusieron en pie, siempre hay un árbol que hace sombra y ¿cómo es esa sombra? por ejemplo, para los que nacen y nacieron en las altas serranías de los Himalayas, que mueren sin haber visto nunca un árbol; ¿qué fue la idea de distancia para las huestes napoleónicas, que enloquecieron de agarofobia frente las interminables llanuras de la estepa rusa que parece eterna; los lugares fantásticos que describen los viajeros, lugares distintos que siempre tienen a su gente distinta, la que pertenece a ese lugar la que ahí se hizo con las costumbres y las condiciones que responden a su lugar, lugar al que le dan nombre, bandera y límite: frontera. Esa Irlanda entera de roca sólida, la que soñaron los celtas, está más cerca; en la misma isla desolada, de colinas desnudas y tormentas sorpresivas; pero más republicana, más libre, menos católica; es también la misma que hoy juega, a ser la capital del capital y en la que aún hay pobreza y, Yeats especialmente en dos poemas, «A prayer for my daughter» (1919) y «Estern 1916» (escrito en septiembre 1916) ambos compuestos por ochenta líneas en verso y escritos en momentos muy distintos; dos poemas que literalmente se complementan el uno a otro, línea por línea; en los cuales describe lo que es irlanda (A terrible beauty is born), lo que son los irlandeses, sus formas, sus miedos, sus lealtades (To some who are near my heart), sus costumbres (Ceremony's a name for the rich horn) y también sus odios (For England may keep faith). El porqué de que ésta isla le ha dado tanto a una lengua conquistadora, lengua que en un principio fue enemiga, pero que en las mentes (Because of her opinionated mind), cultura y modos irlandeses (My mind, because the minds that I have loved), a conseguido darle a la humanidad, una extensa y vasta literatura, llena de fantasía y creatividad; de ideas propias; con reflexiones insuperables; y por supuesto, grande en calidad, extensa en cantidad y sumamente profunda, poesía:
A prayer for my daughter Eastern 1916
Once more the storm is howling, and half hid I have met them at close of day
Under this cradle-hood and coverlid Coming with vivid faces
My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle From counter or desk among grey
But Gregory's wood and one bare hill Eighteenth-century houses.
Whereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind. I have passed with a nod of the head
Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed; Or polite meaningless words,
And for an hour I have walked and prayed Or have lingered awhile and said
Because of the great gloom that is in my mind. Polite meaningless words, ...…..
I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour And thought before I had done .
And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower, Of a mocking tale or a gibe .
And-under the arches of the bridge, and scream To please a companion .
In the elms above the flooded stream; Around the fire at the club,
Imagining in excited reverie Being certain that they and I
That the future years had come, But lived where motley is worn:
Dancing to a frenzied drum, All changed, changed utterly:
Out of the murderous innocence of the sea. A terrible beauty is born. .
May she be granted beauty and yet not That woman's days were spent
Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught, In ignorant good-will, .
Or hers before a looking-glass, for such, Her nights in argument .
Being made beautiful overmuch, Until her voice grew shrill.
Consider beauty a sufficient end, What voice more sweet than hers
Lose natural kindness and maybe When, young and beautiful,
The heart-revealing intimacy She rode to harriers?
That chooses right, and never find a friend. This man had kept a school .
Helen being chosen found life flat and dull And rode our winged horse; .
And later had much trouble from a fool, This other his helper and friend
While that great Queen, that rose out of the spray, Was coming into his force; .
Being fatherless could have her way He might have won fame in the end,
Yet chose a bandy-leggèd smith for man. So sensitive his nature seemed,
It's certain that fine women eat So daring and sweet his thought.
A crazy salad with their meat This other man I had dreamed
Whereby the Horn of plenty is undone. A drunken, vainglorious lout.
In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned; He had done most bitter wrong
Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned To some who are near my heart, .
By those that are not entirely beautiful; Yet I number him in the song;
Yet many, that have played the fool He, too, has resigned his part
For beauty's very self, has charm made wisc. In the casual comedy; .
And many a poor man that has roved, He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Loved and thought himself beloved, Transformed utterly: .
From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes. A terrible beauty is born.
May she become a flourishing hidden tree Hearts with one purpose alone
That all her thoughts may like the linnet be, Through summer and winter seem
And have no business but dispensing round Enchanted to a stone .
Their magnanimities of sound, To trouble the living stream.
Nor but in merriment begin a chase, The horse that comes from the road.
Nor but in merriment a quarrel. The rider, the birds that range
O may she live like some green laurel From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Rooted in one dear perpetual place. Minute by minute they change;
.
My mind, because the minds that I have loved, A shadow of cloud on the stream .
The sort of beauty that I have approved, Changes minute by minute;
Prosper but little, has dried up of late, A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
Yet knows that to be choked with hate And a horse plashes within it;
May well be of all evil chances chief. The long-legged moor-hens dive,
If there's no hatred in a mind And hens to moor-cocks call;
Assault and battery of the wind Minute by minute they live:
Can never tear the linnet from the leaf. The stone's in the midst of all.
An intellectual hatred is the worst, Too long a sacrifice .
So let her think opinions are accursed. Can make a stone of the heart.
Have I not seen the loveliest woman born O when may it suffice? .
Out of the mouth of plenty's horn, That is Heaven's part, our part
Because of her opinionated mind To murmur name upon name,
Barter that horn and every good As a mother names her child
By quiet natures understood When sleep at last has come
For an old bellows full of angry wind? On limbs that had run wild.
Considering that, all hatred driven hence, What is it but nightfall? .
The soul recovers radical innocence No, no, not night but death;
And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Was it needless death after all?
Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, For England may keep faith
And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will; For all that is done and said. .
She can, though every face should scowl We know their dream; enough
And every windy quarter howl To know they dreamed and are dead;
Or every bellows burst, be happy Still. And what if excess of love
And may her bridegroom bring her to a house Bewildered them till they died?
Where all's accustomed, ceremonious; I write it out in a verse -
For arrogance and hatred are the wares MacDonagh and MacBride
Peddled in the thoroughfares. And Connolly and pearse
How but in custom and in ceremony Now and in time to be,
Are innocence and beauty born? Wherever green is worn,
Ceremony's a name for the rich horn, Are changed, changed utterly:
And custom for the spreading laurel tree. A terrible beauty is born. .
William Butler Yeats
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