September 1913
by William Butler Yeats
What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone;
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,
It’s with O’Leary in the grave.
Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman’s rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,
It’s with O’Leary in the grave.
Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,
It’s with O’Leary in the grave.
Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You’d cry, ‘Some woman’s yellow hair
Has maddened every mother’s son’:
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they’re dead and gone,
They’re with O’Leary in the grave.
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone;
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,
It’s with O’Leary in the grave.
Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman’s rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,
It’s with O’Leary in the grave.
Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,
It’s with O’Leary in the grave.
Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You’d cry, ‘Some woman’s yellow hair
Has maddened every mother’s son’:
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they’re dead and gone,
They’re with O’Leary in the grave.
***
O que precisas, tendo recuperado o juízo,
Senão vasculhar uma caixa gordurosa
E juntar os meio-centavos aos centavos
E orações às orações trêmulas, até
Teres secado a medula dos ossos;
Pois os homens nasceram para orar e salvar:
A Irlanda romântica está morta e enterrada,
Está com O'Leary na sepultura.
No entanto, eles eram de um tipo diferente,
Os nomes que silenciaram as suas brincadeiras infantis,
Percorreram o mundo como o vento,
Mas tiveram pouco tempo para rezar
Por quem a corda do carrasco foi tecida,
E o que, Deus nos ajude, poderiam eles salvar?
A Irlanda romântica está morta e desaparecida,
Está com O'Leary na sepultura.
Foi por isso que os gansos selvagens estenderam
As asas cinzentas sobre cada maré;
Por isso que todo aquele sangue foi derramado,
Por isso que Edward Fitzgerald morreu,
E Robert Emmet e Wolfe Tone,
Todo aquele delírio dos bravos?
A Irlanda romântica está morta e desaparecida,
Está com O'Leary na sepultura.
No entanto, se pudéssemos voltar a esses anos,
E chamar aqueles exilados como eles eram,
Em toda a sua solidão e dor,
Gritarias: «O cabelo loiro de alguma mulher
Enlouqueceu todos os filhos de suas mães»:
Eles deram tão pouco valor ao que ofereceram.
Mas deixe-os em paz, estão mortos e desaparecidos,
Estão com O'Leary na sepultura.
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