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miércoles, 14 de noviembre de 2012


Louis Untermeyer (ESTADOS UNIDOS. Octubre 1, 1885 a Diciembre 18, 1977) fue un poeta, antólogo, crítico y editor.


The Younger Quire (parodies), Mood Publishing, 1911.
First Love, French, 1911.
Challenge, Century, 1914.
These Times, Holt, 1917.
Including Horace, Harcourt, 1919.
The New Adam, Harcourt, 1920.
Roast Leviathan, Harcourt, 1923, reprinted, Arno, 1975.
(With son, Richard Untermeyer) Poems, privately printed, 1927.
Burning Bush, Harcourt, 1928.
Adirondack Cycle, Random House, 1929.
Food and Drink, Harcourt, 1932.
First Words before Spring, Knopf, 1933.
Selected Poems and Parodies, Harcourt, 1935.
For You with Love (juvenile), Golden Press, 1961.
Long Feud: Selected Poems, Harcourt, 1962.
One and One and One (juvenile), Crowell-Collier, 1962.
This Is Your Day (juvenile), Golden Press, 1964.
Labyrinth of Love, Simon & Schuster, 1965.
Thanks: A Poem (juvenile), Odyssey, 1965.
Thinking of You (juvenile), Golden Press, 1968.
A Friend Indeed, Golden Press, 1968.
You: A Poem, (juvenile), illustrations by Martha Alexander, Golden Press, 1969.

From Another World (1935)
Bygones (1965)


American Poetry Since 1900 (19??)
The Forms Of Poetry (1926)
Play in Poetry (1938)
Doorways to Poetry (1938)
The Lowest Form of Wit (1947)
The Pursuit of Poetry (1969)

Final de la comedia

Las once en punto, y cae el telón.
El viento frío desgarra las hebras de la ilusión;
la música delicada se pierde
con el barullo de la gente que vuelva a casa
y un diario de medianoche.

La noche se ha vuelto marcial;
nos enfrenta con golpes y desgracia.
Las mismas estrellas se han vuelto metralla,
fijas en mudas explosiones.
Y aquí en nuestra puerta
la luz de la luna se extiende
como una espada desenvainada.

Versión © Gerardo Gambolini

End of the Comedy

Eleven o’clock, and the curtain falls.
The cold wind tears the strands of illusion;
The delicate music is lost
In the blare of home-going crowds
And a midnight paper.

The night has grown martial;
It meets us with blows and disaster.
Even the stars have turned shrapnel,
Fixed in silent explosions.
And here at our door
The moonlight is laid 
Like a drawn sword.


You have not conquered me—it is the surge
   Of love itself that beats against my will;
It is the sting of conflict, the old urge
   That calls me still.

It is not you I love—it is the form
   And shadow of all lovers who have died
That gives you all the freshness of a warm
   And unfamiliar bride.

It is your name I breathe, your hands I seek;
   It will be you when you are gone.
And yet the dream, the name I never speak,
   Is that that lures me on.

It is the golden summons, the bright wave
   Of banners calling me anew;
It is all beauty, perilous and grave—
   It is not you.

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