viernes, 15 de octubre de 2010


Un poema de Geoffrey Chaucer, "Truth":

Flee fro the prees, and dwelle with sothfastnesse,
Suffice thee thy good, tho hit be smal;
For hord hath hate, and climbing tickelnesse,
Prees hath envye, and wele blent overal;
Savour no more than thee bihove shal;
Werk wel thy-self, that other folk canst rede;
And trouthe thee shal delivere, hit is no drede.

Tempest thee noght al croked to redresse,
In trust of hir that turneth as a bal:
Gret reste stant in litel besinesse;
And eek bewar to sporne ageyn an al;
Stryve noght, as doth the crokke with the wal.
Daunte thy-self, that dauntest otheres dede;
And trouthe thee shal delivere, hit is no drede.

That thee is sent, receyve in buxumnesse,
The wrastling for this worlde axeth a fal.
Her nis non hoom, her nis but wildernesse:
Forth, pilgrim, forth! Forth, beste, out of thy stal!
Know thy contree, lok up, thank God of al;
Hold the hye way, and lat thy gost thee lede:
And trouthe thee shal delivere, hit is no drede.


Therefore, thou vache, leve thyn old wrecchednesse
Unto the worlde; leve now to be thral;
Crye him mercy, that of his hy goodnesse
Made thee of nought, and in especial
Draw unto him, and pray in general
For thee, and eek for other, hevenlich mede;
And trouthe thee shal delivere, hit is no drede.

Un ideal a la vez de independencia personal, de autoconocimiento y equilibrio, y de humildad cristiana. Chaucer nos anima a salir al camino con confianza y prudencia, y a ir más allá de nuestro pequeño mundo. Cierto que a él le tocó ir más lejos de Canterbury en sus peregrinaciones. Otra verdad algo distinta sobre el poeta nos la cuenta él mismo, en su poema "The House of Fame", en un pasaje en el que un águila lo coge en sus garras y lo eleva por los aires. Se pregunta Chaucer si es acaso que Júpiter lo va a hacer copero suyo, o si lo va a convertir en una estrella...  Así le contesta el águila:

'Thou demest of thy-self amis;
For Ioves is not ther-aboute—
I dar wel putte thee out of doute—
To make of thee as yet a sterre (...)
Ioves halt hit greet humblesse
And vertu eek, that thou wolt make
A-night ful ofte thyn heed to ake,
In thy studie so thou wrytest (...)
But of thy verray neyghebores,
That dwellen almost at thy dores,
Thou herest neither that ne this;
For whan thy labour doon al is,
And hast y-maad thy rekeninges,
In stede of reste and newe thinges,
Thou goost hoom to thy hous anoon;
And, also domb as any stoon,
Thou sittest at another boke,
Til fully daswed is thy loke,
And livest thus as an hermyte,
Although thyn abstinence is lyte.

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