Rima I

by Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
translated by Howard A. Landman

Yo sé un himno gigante y extraño
que anuncia en la noche del alma una aurora,
y estas páginas son de este himno
cadencias que el aire dilata en la sombras.
Yo quisiera escribirlo, del hombre
domando el rebelde, mezquino idioma,
con palabras que fuesen a un tiempo
suspiros y risas, colores y notas.
Pero en vano es luchar; que no hay cifra
capaz de encerrarlo, y apenas, ¡oh hermosa!
si teniendo en mis manos las tuyas
pudiera al oído, contártelo a solas.

I know a strange gigantic hymn
that announces dawn in the night of the soul,
and these pages are cadences of this hymn
that the air diffuses into shadows.
I wanted to capture it, taming
the rebellious, stingy language of men,
with words that were at the same time
sighs and laughter, colors and notes.
But the struggle is in vain; there is no code
able to confine it, and barely, oh my beauty!
if holding your hands in mine, could I sing it softly to you alone.

Translations by others:

I know a hymn, titanical and strange
Which to the spirit's night proclaims the dawn;
These pages are its final cadences
Spread out among shadows by the air.
How gladly I would note it, if I could
Subdue the plain, rebellious speech of man
With words, which would be sighs and smiles at once,
Colors and notes as fitting characters.
Vain is the struggle! - For there is no form
Which may enshrine it. Scarcely, beateous one,
May I, on hearing it, sing it for thee,
Alone and holding thy dear hands in mine.
Translated by Jules Renard
Copyright ©1908 by Richard G. Badger
I know an anthem, mystic and tremendous,
Which in my soul's night heralds the morn,
And of this anthem are all these pages
Cadences on the air shadow-wards borne.
Fain would I write it, vanquishing the common
Rebellious idiom of human throats;
Write it in words that were at the same time
Sighing and laughter, colors and notes.
Vain the essay: no characters are there
That can contain it; - scarcely, O my own!
Clasping thy hands in mine might I
Hearing it, sing it to thee alone.
Translated by Young Allison
Copyright ©1924 by Young Allison

Next (Rima II)

Becquer's Rimas

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Created 2001 November 4
Last updated 2004 June 12

Yo sé un himno gigante y extraño que anuncia en la noche del alma una aurora, y estas páginas son de este himno cadencias que el aire dilata en la sombras. Yo quisiera escribirlo, del hombre domando el rebelde, mezquino idioma, con palabras que fuesen a un tiempo suspiros y risas, colores y notas. Pero en vano es luchar; que no hay cifra capaz de encerrarlo, y apenas, ¡oh hermosa! si teniendo en mis manos las tuyas pudiera al oído, contártelo a solas.			I know a strange gigantic hymn that announces dawn in the night of the soul, and these pages are cadences of this hymn that the air diffuses into shadows. I wanted to capture it, taming the rebellious, stingy language of men, with words that were at the same time sighs and laughter, colors and notes. But the struggle is in vain; there is no code able to confine it, and barely, oh my beauty! if holding your hands in mine, could I sing it softly to you alone.

Translations by others:

I know a hymn, titanical and strange Which to the spirit's night proclaims the dawn; These pages are its final cadences Spread out among shadows by the air. How gladly I would note it, if I could Subdue the plain, rebellious speech of man With words, which would be sighs and smiles at once, Colors and notes as fitting characters. Vain is the struggle! - For there is no form Which may enshrine it. Scarcely, beateous one, May I, on hearing it, sing it for thee, Alone and holding thy dear hands in mine. Translated by Jules Renard Copyright ©1908 by Richard G. Badger			I know an anthem, mystic and tremendous, Which in my soul's night heralds the morn, And of this anthem are all these pages Cadences on the air shadow-wards borne. Fain would I write it, vanquishing the common Rebellious idiom of human throats; Write it in words that were at the same time Sighing and laughter, colors and notes. Vain the essay: no characters are there That can contain it; - scarcely, O my own! Clasping thy hands in mine might I Hearing it, sing it to thee alone. Translated by Young Allison Copyright ©1924 by Young Allison