La voz del Otoño

Murmurando á la contina
Sopla alada ventolina,
Y retostadas y rojas
Cual copos de luz, las hojas
Remolina.

Ya mustia campiña rása,
Ya el árbol que el sol abrasa
Roza en blando movimiento;
Doquier de otoño el aliento
Corre y pasa.

Sobre el musgoso arroyuelo
Susurra, y saluda, al vuelo,
La última desierta flor
Que lánguida y sin color
Mira al cielo.

Y á rapaces bullidores
Llega, y besos voladores
Les da en ojos y mejillas,
Y deja atrás sus cuadrillas
Y clamores.

Y á lago y selva remota
Va triscando, y alborota
El más recóndito nido,
Do entre peñas escondido
Raudal brota.

Ni en la granja se guarece
Que alegre ninfa embellece,
Ni en concavidad repuesta;
Huye, y la cima traspuesta,
Desparece.

Dí, ¿no te causa pesar,
Nunca haber de reposar,
Blanda brisa, ni en laderas
De los montes, ni en riberas
De la mar?

Perenne inquietud te asiste,
Para agitarte naciste,
Sin cesar, de Oriente á Ocaso;
Aura que detiene el paso,
Ya no existe.

Pienso que dejando lloras,
Mil formas encantadoras
Que, doquiera que resbalas,
Con tus levísimas alas
Mal desfloras.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Collection: 
Spanish
1814
William Cullen Bryant

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