Repetido involuntariamente durante la
noche y de madrugada, como si fuera una letanía para arribar al nuevo día:
“Si un perro sale a
tu encuentro sílbale”
Frente a la Laguna de Cebollera, otro automatismo del recuerdo (“los únicos bienes preciosos del hombre son los
recuerdos florecidos en la imaginación”):
“Walden is melting apace”
Después, en la
bajada, un macho cabrío blanco (¿qué hace aquí?) y crías de corzo.
“[14]
Walden is melting apace. There is a canal two rods wide along the northerly and
westerly sides, and wider still at the east end. A great field of ice has
cracked off from the main body. I hear a song sparrow singing from the bushes
on the shore — olit, olit, olit-chip, chip, chip, che char-che wiss, wiss,
wiss. He too is helping to crack it. How handsome the great sweeping curves
in the edge of the ice, answering somewhat to those of the shore, but more
regular! It is unusually hard, owing to the recent severe but transient cold,
and all watered or waved like a palace floor. But the wind
slides eastward over its opaque surface in vain, till it reaches the living
surface beyond. It is glorious to behold this ribbon of water sparkling in the
sun, the bare face of the pond full of glee and youth, as if it spoke the joy
of the fishes within it, and of the sands on its shore — a silvery sheen as
from the scales of a leuciscus,(5) as it were all one active fish. Such is the
contrast between winter and spring. Walden was dead and is alive again. But
this spring it broke up more steadily, as I have said.
[15]
The change from storm and winter to serene and mild weather, from dark and
sluggish hours to bright and elastic ones, is a memorable crisis which all
things proclaim. It is seemingly instantaneous at last. Suddenly an influx of
light filled my house, though the evening was at hand, and the clouds of winter
still overhung it, and the eaves were dripping with sleety rain. I looked out
the window, and lo! where yesterday was cold gray ice there lay the transparent
pond already calm and full of hope as in a summer evening, reflecting a summer
evening sky in its bosom, though none was visible overhead, as if it had
intelligence with some remote horizon. I heard a robin in the distance, the
first I had heard for many a thousand years, methought, whose note I shall not
forget for many a thousand more — the same sweet and powerful song as of yore. O
the evening robin, at the end of a New England
summer day! If I could ever find the twig he sits upon! I mean he; I
mean the twig. This at least is not the Turdus migratorius. The
pitch pines and shrub oaks about my house, which had so long drooped, suddenly
resumed their several characters, looked brighter, greener, and more erect and
alive, as if effectually cleansed and restored by the rain. I knew that it
would not rain any more. You may tell by looking at any twig of the forest, ay,
at your very wood-pile, whether its winter is past or not. As it grew darker, I
was startled by the honking of geese flying low over the woods, like weary
travellers getting in late from Southern lakes, and indulging at last in
unrestrained complaint and mutual consolation. Standing at my door, I could
bear the rush of their wings; when, driving toward my house, they suddenly
spied my light, and with hushed clamor wheeled and settled in the pond. So I
came in, and shut the door, and passed my first spring night in the woods.”
(HDT,
Walden)
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