Mi sono avvicinato a Yeats per caso; dieci anni fa, contagiato dalla fame tipica di chi ha appena scoperto la poesia, comprai un libriccino ritenendolo, causa stretta assonanza, una raccolta di Keats. All'inizio rimasi deluso: volevo la Belle Dame Sans Merci (Oh, what can ail thee, knight-at-arm...) e mi ritrovavo con un aviatore irlandese che vedeva, in un futuro vicino, la propria morte.
Decantato il disappunto, imparai presto a conoscere e ad apprezzare questo non facile poeta. La svolta decisiva l'ha segnata Aengus e la sua fiaba eterea, forse per l'atmosfera vicina a molte storielle di De André.
Negli anni successivi l'ho riscoperta prima con Donovan, che la cantò nel 1971; successivamente con Branduardi, che coverizzò il lavoro dello scozzese, con una felicissima traduzione italiana. Un autore va sempre letto in lingua, fintanto che la si mastica; propongo quindi il testo originale.
The Song of Wandering Aengus
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
