Tesis doctoral self y modernidad. La poesia de david herbert lawrence



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4. Versiones en Amores y en el MS 26 (según Ferrier) de la colección privada de L.D. Clarke.

“Dreams Old and Nascent”

Old
I have opened the window to warm my hands on the sill

Where the sunlight soaks in the stone: the afternoon

Is full of dreams, my love, the boys are all still

In a wistful dream of Lorna Doone.
The clink of the shunting engines is sharp and fine, (MS 26: fine)

Like savage music striking far off, and there

On the great, uplifted blue palace, lights stir and shine

Where the glass is domed in the blue, soft air.
There lies the world, my darling, full of wonder and wistfulness and strange

Recognition and greetings of half-acquaint things, as I greet the cloud (MS 26: Recognitions)

Of blue palace aloft there, among misty indefinite dreams that range (MS 26: Palace)

At the back of my life's horizon, where the dreamings of past lives crowd
Over the nearness of Norwood Hill, through the mellow veil

Of the afternoon glows to me the old romance of David and Dora,

( to me

MS 26 (only)

With the old, sweet, soothing tears, and laughter that shakes the sail

Of the ship of the soul over seas where dreamed dreams (MS 26: dreams lure) the

the unoceaned explorer



.



All the bygone, hushèd years

Streaming back where the mist distils

Into forgetfulness: soft-sailing waters where fears

No longer shake, where the silk sail fills

With an unfelt breeze that ebbs over the seas, where the storm

Of living has passed, ebbing on

Through the coloured iridescence that swims in the warm

Wake of the tumult now spent and gone,

Drifts my boat, wistfully lapsing after

the mists of vanishing tears, and the echo of laughter.

Dreams Old and Nascent



Nascent

My world is a painted fresco, where coloured shapes (MS 26: colored)

Of old, ineffectual lives linger blurred and warm;

An endless tapestry the past has woven drapes

The halls of my life, compelling my soul to conform.
The surface of dreams is broken,

The picture of the past is shaken and scattered (MS 26: scattered)

Fluent, active figures of men pass along the railway, and I am awoken

Form the dreams that the distance flattered.

Along the railway, active figures of men.

(Along the railway, the active figures of men!)

(MS 26: Fluent active figures of men pass along)

They have a secret that stirs in their limbs as they move

Out of the distance, nearer, commanding my dreamy world.

Here in the subtle, rounded flesh

Beats the active ecstasy. (MS 26: ecstasy)

In the sudden lifting my eyes, it is clearer, (MS 26: And in )

The fascination of the quick, restless Creator moving through the mesh

Of men, vibrating in ecstasy through the rounded flesh.
Oh my boys, bending over your books,

In you is trembling and fusing

The creation of a new-patterned dream, dream of a generation:

And I watch to see the Creator, the power that patterns the dream.
The old dreams are beautiful, beloved, soft-toned and sure, (MS 26: sure)

But the dream-stuff is molten and moving mysteriously, (MS 26:mysteriously)

Alluring my eyes; for I, am I not also dream-stuff,

Am I not quickening, diffusing myself in the pattern, shaping and shapen?
Here in my class is the answer for the great yearning:

Eyes where I can watch the swim of old dreams reflected on the molten metal of dreams,

Watch the stir which is rhythmic and moves them all as a heart-beat moves the blood,

and mov {es, ing} them all as a

(MS26: rhythmic,(whose heart-beat moves) heart-beat moves the blood)
Here in the swelling flesh the great activity working,

Visible there in the change of eyes and the mobile features.

Oh the great mystery and fascination of the unseen Shaper,

The power of the melting, fusing Force—heat, light, all in one, (MS 26: force —heat)

Everything great and mysterious in one, swelling and shaping the dream in the flesh,

As it swells and shapes a bud into blossom.

(As it swells and shapes a bud into blossom.

MS 26: Impelling, changing seen in the change of eyes and the features).

Oh the terrible ecstasy of the consciousness that I am life!

Oh the miracle of the whole, the widespread, labouring concentration

Swelling mankind like one bud to bring forth the fruit of a dream,

Oh the terror of lifting the innermost I out of the sweep ol the impulse ol life,

(Oh the terror of lilting the innermost

Oh the terror of lifting the innermost

Swelling the gigantic flesh of the world)

(MS 2.6: Into one bud, rounded and swelling with the fruit of a dream)

And watching the great Thing labouring through the whole round flesh of the world;

And striving to catch a glimpse of the shape of the coming dream,

As it quickens within the labouring, white-hot metal,

As it

(MS 26: That quickens)

Catch the scent and the colour of the coming dream, (MS 26: {And, Catch})

Then to fall back exhausted into the unconscious, molten life!

5. Versión de CP (Collected Poems).
Old

I have opened the windows to warm my hands on the sill

Where the sunlight soaks in the stone:

the afternoon Is full of dreams, my love; the boys are all still

In a wistful dream of Lorna Doone.
The clink of the shunting engines is sharp and fine

Like savage music striking far off; and there

On the great blue palace at Sydenham, lights stir and shine

Where the glass is domed on the silent air.
There lies the world, my darling, full of wonder and wistfulness, and strange

Recognitions and greetings of half-acquaint things, as I greet the cloud

Of glass palace aloft there, among misty, indefinite things that range

At the back of my life's experience, where dreams from the old lives crowd.
Over the nearness of Norwood Hill, through the mellow veil

Of the afternoon glows still the old romance of David and Dora,

With the old, sweet, soothing tears, and laughter that shakes the sail

Of the ship of the soul over seas where dreamed dreams lure the unoceaned explorer.

All the bygone, hushed years

Streaming back where the mists distil

To lorgetfulncss: soft-sailing waters where fears

No longer hurt where the silk sails fill
With that unlelt breeze that ebbs over the seas where the storm

Ofl living has passed, ebbing on

Through the stirred iridescence that swims in the warm

Wake of tumult now spent and gone,

Drifts my boat, wistfully lapsing after

The silence of vanishin tears, and the echoes of laughter.
Nascent

The world is a painted memory, where coloured shapes

Of old, spent lives linger blurred and warm;

An endless tapestry the past has woven, drapes

The halls of my mind, compelling my life to conform.
I have lived delighted in the halls of the past

Where dead men's lives glow gently, and iron hurts

No more, and money stinks not, and death at

Is only sad men taking off their shirts.
But now I think I have seen it all, and now

I feel thick walls of stone behind the arras.

I am shut in, a prisoner, I know not how.

And past lives hamper me, clog and embarrass.
They have no hands, they have no bodies, all

These shapes that now are dreams and once were men.

And so my heart begins to cry and call

But to get out from this dim, dreadful den.

The surface of dreams is broken, the arras is torn,

There's a breach in the walls of the past, lets the daylight through.

Fluent figures of men go down the upborne

Track of the railway, alive, and with something to do.
Along the railway, active figures of men!

Each with a secret which stirs in his limbs, as they move

Out of the distance nearer, coming to prove

With a touch the dead and the living, while time counts ten.
In the subtle lift of the thighs as they come unmarching

Beats the new fresh air of life.They come for strife,

For the ripping of arras, and smashing of walls, and the fight for life;

With axe in hand, and the hammer, and the pick-axe over-arching.

Oh come, and break this prison, this house of yesterday!
The arras is all illusion, oh come and tear it away!
The walls are thick, and the inner rooms are such, they dismay
The heart, all crowded-with slaves, most working, some few at play.


The old dreams are beautiful, beloved, soft-toned and sure,

But worn out, they hide no more the walls they stand before.

Walled in, walled in, the whole world is a vast impure Interior,

a house of dreams where the dreamers writhe and snore.
Oh come, and wake us up from the ghastly dream of to-day

We asphyxiate in a sleep of dreams, rebreathing the impure air.

For the house is shut and sealed, and the breath of the hosts is grey

As they dream corrupted dreams all poisoned with care.
The ghastly dream of labour and the stench of steel and of oil.

The writhing of myriads of workmen, all dreaming they are going to be rich

And giving off their dreadful effluvia in a gasltly effort of toil

Unfinished for ever, but gasping for money as they dream and they itch.
The ghasltly dream of riches, of masses of money to spend

Of walking over the faces of men like cobble-stones!

Of riding, and being envied, such envy has no end!

Of making a triuph of envy, the rich and successful ones.
The whole wide world is inteior now, and we´re all shut up.

The air is all close and poisonous, it has drugged our souls, so we sleep

A sleep tha is writhing stupor, weighed dowm, so we can´t wake up.

The rich and the poor alike dreaming and writhing, all in one heap.
Oh come, oh men along the railway! Oh come as men

And break the walls of possession of all the wide world!

Give us air, we cry. Oh, let us but breathe again!

Let us breathe fresh air and wake from foul dreams in which we are furled.
To feel fresh air in our throats, to have fresh breath in our breasts.

To make new words with our lips, to escape the foul dream

Of having and getting and owning, the struggle which wrests

Money from out of the earth or the beast or the man, as they labour in steam.
Oh, men with the axe and the pick-axe, break the walls of the filthy dream

And release us, poor ones and rich ones, letus breathe and touch

One another in wonder of waking, let us wake to the gleam

Of real daylight upon us, released from the foul dream´s hutch.
For the proper dream-stuff is molten, and moving mysteriously,

And the bodie sof men and women are molten matter of dreams

That stirs with a stir which is cosmic, as ever, invisibly

The heart of the live world pulses, and the blood of the the live world teems.
And what is life, but the swelling and shaping the dreamin the flesh!

And our bopdies molten drops of dream-blood that swirl and swell

In a tissue, as all the molten cells in the living mesh

Of a rose-tree move to roses and thorns and delicate smell.



(*) Subrayado del autor.

* ** Subrayados y signos de interrogación míos.

*




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