Como la primavera / Like the Spring - Juana de Ibarbourou

[seasight.livejournal.com]

Como un ala negra tendí mis cabellos sobre tus rodillas.
Cerrando los ojos su olor aspiraste diciéndome luego:
-¿Duermes sobre piedras cubiertas de musgos?
¿Con ramas de sauces te atas las trenzas?
¿Tu almohada es de trébol? ¿Las tienes tan negras
porque acaso en ellas exprimiste un zumo
retinto y espeso de moras silvestres?

¡Qué fresca y extraña fragancia te envuelve!
Hueles a arroyuelos, a tierra y a selvas.
¿Qué perfume usas? Y riendo le dije:
-¡Ninguno, ninguno!
Te amo y soy joven, huelo a primavera.

Este olor que sientes es de carne firme,
de mejillas claras y de sangre nueva.
¡Te quiero y soy joven, por eso es que tengo
las mismas fragancias de la primavera!


*

Like a black wing I laid my hair across your knees.
Closing your eyes you breathe its scent, saying to me then:
Do you sleep on moss-covered rocks?
Do you tie your braids with willow branches?
Is the clover your pillow? Is your hair is so dark
Because perhaps in it you have squeezed out
the dark, thick juice of wild blackberries?

What a fresh and strange fragrance surrounds you!
You smell like brooks, like the earth and the jungle.
What perfume do you use? And laughing I tell you:
None, none!
I love you and I am young, I smell of the spring.

This smell that you feel is of firm flesh,
Of clear cheeks and of new blood.
I love you and I am young, and that is why I have
The same smells as the spring!


-Juana de Ibarbourou




I translated it myself, let me know if I made any huge errors.

THE WAY THROUGH THE WOODS - RUDYARD KIPLING

[mirmusing.livejournal.com]

They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
When the otter whistles his mate,
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods...
But there is no road through the woods.