XI

 

London, doi-doi izarretan— neurri gabe ta illuna—

   Zumardi utsetik ezetasun eta geitzearen usaia,

Pall Mall iñor gabe— Whitehall eremua. Johnnie ta biok

   Alkarrekin ibiltzen, agur egiteko gogorik gabe—

Billeren batetik aldegiñaz ixiltasun sakonean,

   Urrutira, Mayfair’en, morroien baten

Txistu zorrotza—basoan perren neurkada,

   Urrun eta urrunago ...

Orain geunden

   Zubi baten gañean, olerkaria etorri zan lekuan

Begiralle iri osoa lotan zegon bitartean—

   Westminster’ko Zubia, ta laister goiz-aldia,

Ori nere begiekin ikusiko.

   Bai, orain zetorren— argiduri zabal eta izugarria

Argitzearen lanbro morantzetik. “Ai, ez,”

   Esan nuen, “Lurrak ezin erakutsi

Ederragorik—naiz aldatua izan—auxe baño”.

   Musu batentzat bai atze bakana—

Gure leendabizikoa—Westminster’ko Zubia goizargitzean—

   Wordworth’en itzak, John’ek esaten zun bezela.

 

 

 

XI

London, just before dawn—immense and dark— / Smell of wet earth and growth from the empty Park / Pall Mall vacant—Whitehall deserted. Johnnie and I / Strolling together, averse to saying good-bye— / Strolling away from some party in silence profound, / Only far off in Mayfair, piercing, the sound / Of a footman’s whistle—the rhythm of hoofs on wood, / Further and further away... / And now we stood / On a bridge, where a poet came to keep / Vigil while all the city lay asleep— / Westminster Bridge, and soon the sun would rise, / And I should see it with my very eyes! / Yes, now it came—a broad and awful / Out of the violet mists of dawn. ‘Ah, no,’ / I said. ‘Earth has not anything to show / More fair—changed though it is—than this.’ / A curious background surely for a kiss— / Our first—Westminster Bridge at break of day— / Settings by Wordsworth, as John used to say.