Camilo Pessanha's "Paisagens de inverno"

Today's been cold, and everything was covered in ice until the past hour or two, so it's fitting that this is my latest amateur translation of a Camilo Pessanha poem.

Aside from the usual spelling changes, there are some differences between this poem as it appears in the 1920 Ediçoes Lusitania version of Clepsidra, which is what I have in the form of a scanned copy, and later versions of the book, which can be found online. (The 1920 text is also available.) They're not huge differences, so I just picked a version (the newer one) and went with it. Also noteworthy is that the older edition of Clepsidra didn't have a title for either part of this poem, and the second part doesn't immediately follow the first. I'll have to do some digging into the book's publication history and find out why that is.

Divirta-se!
 
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Paisagens de inverno

I.

Ó meu coração, torna para trás.
Onde vais a correr, desatinado?
Meus olhos incendidos que o pecado
Queimou! — o sol! Volvei, noites de paz.

Vergam da neve os olmos dos caminhos.
A cinza arrefeceu sobre o brasido.
Noites da serra, o casebre transido...
Ó meus olhos, cismai como os velhinhos.

Extintas primaveras evocai-as:
— Já vai florir o pomar das macieiras.
Hemos de enfeitar os chapéus de maias. —

Sossegai, esfriai, olhos febris.
— E hemos de ir cantar nas derradeiras
Ladainhas... Doces vozes senis... —


II.

Passou o Outono já, já torna o frio...
— Outono de seu riso magoado.
Álgido Inverno! Oblíquo o sol, gelado...
— O sol, e as águas límpidas do rio.

Águas claras do rio! Águas do rio,
Fugindo sob o meu olhar cansado,
Para onde me levais meu vão cuidado?
Aonde vais, meu coração vazio?

Ficai, cabelos dela, flutuando,
E, debaixo das águas fugidias,
Os seus olhos abertos e cismando...

Onde ides a correr, melancolias?
— E, refractadas, longamente ondeando,
As suas mãos translúcidas e frias...



Winter Landscapes

I.

O, my heart, turn back.
Where are you going to run, so bewildered?
My blazing eyes that sin
Burned — the sun! Come back, nights of peace.

The elms along the roads are bent with snow.
The ash has cooled over the coals.
Nights in the mountains, the old hovel...
O, my eyes, you brood like old men.

You evoke extinct springtimes:
— The apple orchard is already in bloom.
We have to decorate the Maia hats.—

Rest, cool down, feverish eyes.
— And we have to go sing in the final
Litanies... sweet senile voices...


II.

The autumn already passed, the cold already returned...
— The autumn of her wounded laugh.
Algid winter! The sun oblique, frozen...
— The sun, and the limpid waters of the river.

Clear waters of the river! Waters of the river,
Fleeing under my tired gaze,
Whither are you taking my vain attention?
Where are you going, empty heart of mine?

Tarry, her hair floating,
And, under the fleeting waters,
Her eyes open and daydreaming...

Where will you run, melancholies?
— And, refracted, rippling at length,
Her hands, translucent and cold...