John Keats. Sobre la Muerte. On Death.
On Death
I
Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream,
And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?
The transient pleasures as a vision seem,
And yet we think the greatest pain's to die.
II
And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?
The transient pleasures as a vision seem,
And yet we think the greatest pain's to die.
II
How strange it is that man on earth should roam,
And lead a life of woe, but not forsake
His rugged path; nor dare he view alone
His future doom which is but to awake.
And lead a life of woe, but not forsake
His rugged path; nor dare he view alone
His future doom which is but to awake.
Sobre la Muerte
I
¿Puede la Muerte estar dormida, cuando la vida no es más que un sueño,
Y las escenas de dicha pasan como un fantasma?
Los efímeros placeres a visiones se asemejan,
Y aun creemos que el más grande dolor es morir.
II
Cuán extraño es que el hombre sobre la tierra deba errar,
Y llevar una vida de tristeza, pero no abandone
Su escabroso sendero, ni se atreva a contemplar solo
Su destino funesto, que no es sino despertar.
John Keats
Londres, 31 de octubre de 1795
Roma, 23 de febrero de 18
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