John William Waterhouse (English painter, 1849–1917),
"I Am Half-Sick of Shadows, Said the Lady of Shalott", 1915,
Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto.
A Senhora de Shalott
Parte I
Em cada margem do rio estendem-se
Longos campos de cevada e de centeio
Que vestem o mundo e confrontam o céu
E pelos campos corre uma estrada
Até às muitas torres de Camelot;
E as pessoas passam a subir e descer
Apreciando os lírios a florescer
Em torno de uma ilha ali em baixo
A Ilha de Shalott.
Os salgueiros alvejam, os álamos ondulam
Suaves brisas turvam e tremem
Por sobre a torrente que corre para sempre
Junto à ilha no meio do rio
Fluindo até Camelot.
Quatro muros pardos e quatro torres pardas
Debruçam-se sobre um espaço de flores
E a ilha silenciosa alberga sob as árvores
A Senhora de Shalott
Junto à margem, velada de salgueiros
Deslizam as pesadas barcaças puxadas
Por cavalos lentos, e sozinha
Desliza a escuna com velas de seda
Sem escuma até Camelot
Mas quem a viu acenar com a mão?
Ou ao parapeito a viu arvorar?
Será ela conhecida por toda a terra
A Senhora de Shalott?
Só os segadores ceifando cedo
Por entre as espigas da cevada
Ouvem uma canção que ecoa alegre
Claramente soprada do rio
Até às torres de Camelot
E sob a lua o ceifeiro cansado
Empilhando feixes em regos arejados
Escutando, murmura: «É a fada
A Senhora de Shalott.»
Parte II
Ali ela tece de noite e de dia
Uma teia mágica com cores alegres.
Ela ouviu um murmúrio dizer
Que uma maldição sobre si cairá
Se olhar para Camelot
Não sabe bem o que a maldição possa ser
E por isso vai tecendo constante
E nenhuns outros cuidados tem
A Senhora de Shalott.
E movendo-se por um espelho claro
Dependurado diante de si o ano todo
Sombras do mundo lhe aparecem.
Ali ela vê a estrada perto
Serpenteando até Camelot:
Ali o redemoinho do ribeiro rodopia
E ali os rústicos aldeãos de caracóis
E as capas vermelhas das vendedeiras
Passam além de Shalott.
Às vezes um bando de donzelas alegres
Um abade caminhando lento
Às vezes um pastorinho de caracóis
Ou um pajem carmesim de longos cabelos
Passam até às torres de Camelot
E às vezes pelo espelho azul
Vêm os cavaleiros, a dois e dois:
Não tem cavaleiro leal e verdadeiro
A Senhora de Shalott.
Mas na sua tapeçaria ainda se delicia
A tecer as visões mágicas do espelho
Pois muitas vezes nas noites caladas
Um funeral, com plumas e luzes
E música, entrou em Camelot
Ou quando a lua se ergueu a pique
Vieram dois jovens amantes recém casados
«Estou meio farta das sombras» disse
A Senhora de Shalott.
Parte III
A um lance de seta do átrio da alcova,
Cavalgou ele entre os feixes de cevada,
O sol saiu brilhante por entre as folhas
E flamejou sobre as luzentes grevas
Do audaz Senhor Lancelot
Um paladino de cruz vermelha ajoelhado
Diante de uma dama para sempre no escudo
Que reluzia no campo amarelo
No flanco da remota Shalott.
A rédea com joias cintilava livre,
Como algum ramo de estrelas que vemos
Dependurado da galáxia dourada.
As sinetas da rédea cantavam alegremente
Com ele a cavalgar até Camelot:
E do cinto da espada brasonado
Pendia uma poderosa corneta de prata
E com o cavalgar o arnês tilintava
No flanco da remota Shalott.
Todo, sob o tempo azul sem nuvens
Brilhava denso de joias o couro da sela.
A viseira, e a pena do elmo
Ardiam juntos como uma única chama,
Com ele a cavalgar até Camelot.
Como tantas vezes na noite púrpura
Sob os cachos de estrelas brilhantes,
Algum meteoro de cauda, rasteando luz
Move-se sobre a calma Shalott.
A testa larga e clara brilhava-lhe à luz do sol.
Com cascos polidos trotava o corcel de guerra.
De sob o seu elmo flutuavam-lhe
Os caracóis de azeviche, com ele a cavalgar,
A cavalgar até Camelot.
Da margem e do ribeiro
Ele faiscou no espelho de cristal
«Tira lira», junto ao rio,
Cantava o Senhor Lancelote.
Ela abandonou a teia, abandonou o tear:
Deu três passos a cruzar a sala
E viu os rebentos dos nenúfares:
Ela viu o elmo e a pluma
Ela olhou para Camelot.
Para longe voou a teia, e flutuou esparsa;
O espelho partiu-se de lado a lado
«A maldição caiu sobre mim» gritou
A Senhora de Shalott.
Parte IV
Lutando contra o tempestuoso vento leste
Os bosques amarelo-pálido desvaneciam-se
O largo ribeiro a lamentar-se nas margens,
Pesadamente o céu baixo começou a chover
Sobre as torres de Camelot;
Ela desceu e descobriu um barco
Abandonado a flutuar sob um salgueiro
E em torno da proa escreveu
A Senhora de Shalott.
E pela extensão baça do ribeiro
Como algum ousado vidente num transe
Vendo toda a sua própria desgraça –
Com compostura de vidro
Olhou ela para Camelot
E chegando o fim do dia
Soltou a amarra e deitou-se nele
O ribeiro largo levou-a para muito longe
A Senhora de Shalott.
Deitada, um vestido branco de neve
Ondeava solto para a direita e a esquerda
Sobre si caindo leves as folhas
Por entre os ruídos da noite
Flutuou ela até Camelot
E a proa do barco ao cortar ao longo
Dos montes de salgueiros e por entre os campos
Ouviram-na cantar a sua última canção
A Senhora de Shalott.
Ouviram um cântico, funesto, sagrado
Cantado alto, cantado lentamente
Até que o sangue se lhe gelou lentamente
E os olhos de todo se lhe escureciam
Se viraram para as torres de Camelot
Pois até alcançar com a maré
A primeira casa junto à margem
Cantando a sua canção, ela morreu
A Senhora de Shalott.
Sob as torres e as sacadas
Junto aos muros dos jardins e galerias
Uma forma brilhante, ela flutuava,
Pálida de morte, entre as casa no alto
Em silêncio até Camelot.
Até ao embarcadouro eles vieram
Cavaleiros e burgueses, senhores e damas,
E em volta da proa o nome lhe leram
A Senhora de Shalott.
Quem aqui vai? O que está aqui?
E no palácio iluminado ali perto
Morreu o som dos clamores reais
E benzeram-se com medo
Todos os cavaleiros em Camelot:
Mas Lancelote ficou a pensar um pouco
E disse: «Tem uma cara formosa
Deus na sua misericórdia deu-lhe graça
À Senhora de Shalott.»
Alfred Tennyson, in "Poems, 1842"
Tradução de Helena Barbas
John William Waterhouse, The Lady of Shalott Looking at Lancelot, 1894.
[This is the second of three major paintings by Waterhouse that depicts scenes from the 1832 Alfred, Lord Tennyson poem, "The Lady of Shalott", between the first – The Lady of Shalott – in 1888 and the third – I Am Half-Sick of Shadows, Said the Lady of Shalott – in 1915].
John William Waterhouse, The Lady of Shalott, 1888.
The Lady of Shalott
(Original)
Part I
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road runs by
To many-towered Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow-veiled,
Slide the heavy barges trailed
By slow horses; and unhailed
The shallop flitteth silken-sailed
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to towered Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers “‘Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott.”
Part II
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-haired page in crimson clad,
Goes by to towered Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
“I am half sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.
Part III
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling through the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneeled
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glittered free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazoned baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burned like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often through the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed;
On burnished hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flowed
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
“Tirra lirra,” by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror cracked from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me,” cried
The Lady of Shalott.
Part IV
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over towered Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river’s dim expanse,
Like some bold seër in a trance
Seeing all his own mischance–
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right–
The leaves upon her falling light–
Through the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turned to towered Camelot.
For ere she reached upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, “She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.”
Alfred Tennyson, in "Poems, 1842"
,%20The%20Lady%20of%20Shalott,%201900..jpg)
George Edward Robertson (British artist, 1864–1964), "The Lady of Shalott", 1900.
(Original)
Part I
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road runs by
To many-towered Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow-veiled,
Slide the heavy barges trailed
By slow horses; and unhailed
The shallop flitteth silken-sailed
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to towered Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers “‘Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott.”
Part II
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-haired page in crimson clad,
Goes by to towered Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
“I am half sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.
Part III
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling through the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneeled
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glittered free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazoned baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burned like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often through the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed;
On burnished hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flowed
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
“Tirra lirra,” by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror cracked from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me,” cried
The Lady of Shalott.
Part IV
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over towered Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river’s dim expanse,
Like some bold seër in a trance
Seeing all his own mischance–
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right–
The leaves upon her falling light–
Through the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turned to towered Camelot.
For ere she reached upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, “She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.”
Alfred Tennyson, in "Poems, 1842"
,%20The%20Lady%20of%20Shalott,%201900..jpg)
George Edward Robertson (British artist, 1864–1964), "The Lady of Shalott", 1900.
