The Stolen Child - A poem by W.B. Yeats set to music by Loreena Mckennitt

William Butler Yeats (pronounced /ˈjeɪts/; 13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939) was an Irish poet and dramatist, and one of the foremost figures of 20th century literature. A pillar of both the Irish and British literary establishments, in his later years Yeats served as an Irish Senator for two terms. He was a driving force behind the Irish Literary Revival, and along with Lady Gregory and Edward Martyn founded the Abbey Theatre, serving as its chief during its early years. In 1923 he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literaturefor what the Nobel Committee described as "inspired poetry, which in a highly artistic form gives expression to the spirit of a whole nation." He was the first Irishman so honored.^[1] Yeats is generally considered one of the few writers who completed their greatest works after being awarded the Nobel Prize;^[2] such works includeThe Tower (1928) and The Winding Stair and Other Poems (1929).READ MORE (FROM WIKIPEDIA, THE FREE ENCYCLOPEDIA)

Yeats was born and educated in Dublin but spent his childhood in County Sligo. He studied poetry in his youth, and from an early age was fascinated by both Irish legends and the occult. Those topics feature in the first phase of his work, which lasted roughly until the turn of the century. His earliest volume of verse was published in 1889, and those slow paced and lyrical poems display debts to Edmund Spenser and Percy Bysshe Shelley, as well as to the Pre-Raphaelite poets. From 1900, Yeats' poetry grew more physical and realistic. He largely renounced the transcendental beliefs of his youth, though he remained preoccupied with physical and spiritual masks, as well as with cyclical theories of life. Over the years, Yeats adopted many different ideological positions, including, in the words of the critic Michael Valdez Moses, "those of [the] radicalnationalist, classical liberal, reactionary conservative and millenarian nihilist".^[3

William Butler Yeats (1835-1939), periodista polémico, senador, autor y empresario de teatro, Premio Nobel. En cierta forma, mago, pero antes que nada, poeta, en obra y vida. Apasionado del ocultismo, y por sobre todo de Irlanda, por cuya independencia trabajó y a cuyo renacimiento artístico dio impulso decisivo. Los poemas fueron cambiando bastante a lo largo de su vida ; hay mucho de simbolismo y de folklore y leyendas celtas.
A continuación escucharemos a Loreena McKenitt en una recreación de unos de los poemas más conocidos de Yeats, “The Stolen Child”. Este poema cuenta la historia de un niño al que las hadas se lo llevan embelesándolo con sus encantos. Se enmarca dentro del enorme interés que tenía Yeats en las leyendas paganas irlandesas.

Where dips the rocky highland Of Sleuth Wood in the lake, There lies a leafy island Where flapping herons wake The drowsy water-rats: There we’ve hid our faery vats, Full of berries And of reddest stolen cherries. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.	Donde se zambullen las montañas rocosas Del bosque de Sleuth en el lago, Hay una boscosa isla Donde las garzas al aletear despiertan A las soñolientas ratas de agua: Allí hemos ocultado nuestras tinajas encantadas, Llenas de bayas Y de las cerezas robadas más rojas. ¡Márchate, oh niño humano! A las aguas y lo silvestre con un hada, de la mano, pues hay en el mundo más llanto del que puedes entender.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses The dim grey sands with light, Far off by furthest Rosses We foot it all the night, Weaving olden dances, Mingling hands and mingling glances Till the moon has taken flight; To and fro we leap And chase the frothy bubbles, While the world is full of troubles And is anxious in its sleep. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.	Donde las olas del claro de luna alumbran Las oscuras arenas grises con su brillo, Lejos, en el lejano Rosses Nosotros caminamos por ellas toda la noche, Tejiendo viejas danzas, Juntando las manos y juntando las miradas Hasta que la luna emprende el vuelo; Saltamos de un lado a otro Y cazamos las burbujas de la espuma, Mientras el mundo está lleno de problemas Y duerme con ansiedad. ¡Márchate, oh niño humano! A las aguas y lo silvestre con un hada, de la mano, pues hay en el mundo más llanto del que puedes entender.
Where the wandering water gushes From the hills above Glen-Car, In pools among the rushes That scarce could bathe a star, We seek for slumbering trout And whispering in their ears Give them unquiet dreams; Leaning softly out From ferns that drop their tears Over the young streams. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.	Donde el agua errante cae Desde los cerros a Glen-Car, En lagunas entre los rápidos Que casi podrían bañar una estrella, Buscamos las truchas que dormitan Y susurrando en sus oídos Les damos sueños inquietos; Inclinándonos con suavidad desde Los helechos que lloran Sobre los jóvenes arroyos. ¡Márchate, oh niño humano! A las aguas y lo silvestre con un hada, de la mano, pues hay en el mundo más llanto del que puedes entender.
Away with us he’s going, The solemn-eyed: He’ll hear no more the lowing Of the calves on the warm hillside Or the kettle on the hob Sing peace into his breast, Or see the brown mice bob Round and round the oatmeal-chest. For he comes, the human child, To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, From a world more full of weeping than he can understand.	Con nosotros se marcha El de mirada solemne: Ya no oirá el mugido De los terneros en la cálida colina O a la tetera en la cocina Cantar paz para su pecho, Ni verá el cuello pardo de los ratones Alrededor del cajón de la harina de avena. Pues se viene, el niño humano, A las aguas y lo silvestre Con un hada, de la mano, Desde un mundo con más llanto del que puede entender.