quarta-feira, 5 de setembro de 2012

A Rose From Homer's Grave


ALL the songs of the east speak of the love of the nightingale for
the rose in the silent starlight night. The winged songster serenades
the fragrant flowers.
Not far from Smyrna, where the merchant drives his loaded
camels, proudly arching their long necks as they journey beneath
the lofty pines over holy ground, I saw a hedge of roses. 
The turtledove flew among the branches of the tall trees, and as the
sunbeams fell upon her wings, they glistened as if they were
mother-ofpearl. On the rose-bush grew a flower, more beautiful
than them all, and to her the nightingale sung of his woes; but the
rose remained silent, not even a dewdrop lay like a tear of
sympathy on her leaves. At last she bowed her head over a heap of
stones, and said, “Here rests the greatest singer in the world; over
his tomb will I spread my fragrance, and on it I will let my leaves
fall when the storm scatters them. He who sung of Troy became
earth, and from that earth I have sprung. I, a rose from the grave of
Homer, am too lofty to bloom for a nightingale.” 
Then thenightingale sung himself to death. 
A camel-driver came by, with
his loaded camels and his black slaves; his little son found the dead
bird, and buried the lovely songster in the grave of the great
Homer, while the rose trembled in the wind.
The evening came, and the rose wrapped her leaves more closely
round her, and dreamed: and this was her dream.
It was a fair sunshiny day; a crowd of strangers drew near who
had undertaken a pilgrimage to the grave of Homer. 
Among thestrangers was a minstrel from the north, the home of the clouds
and the brilliant lights of the aurora borealis. He plucked the rose
and placed it in a book, and carried it away into a distant part of
the world, his fatherland. The rose faded with grief, and lay
between the leaves of the book, which he opened in his own home,
saying, “Here is a rose from the grave of Homer.” Then the flower
awoke from her dream, and trembled in the wind. A drop of dew
fell from the leaves upon the singer’s grave. The sun rose, and the
flower bloomed more beautiful than ever. The day was hot, and
she was still in her own warm Asia. Then footsteps approached,
strangers, such as the rose had seen in her dream, came by, and
among them was a poet from the north; he plucked the rose,
pressed a kiss upon her fresh mouth, and carried her away to the
home of the clouds and the northern lights. Like a mummy, the
flower now rests in his “Iliad,” and, as in her dream, she hears him
say, as he opens the book, 
“Here is a rose from the grave of Homer.”
THE END

Hans Christian Andersen


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