En el mar interior verde sedoso de la Lagunas de Ruidera, nadado en el Campeonato de Castilla-La Mancha Open (Aguas Abiertas)
De Carlos Bousoño:
Poeta en un abordaje con el mar en calma (siglo xvi)
La vida, el mar, tumulto y honda seda inmóvil (Cervantes)
Guerreaste en mar sedoso,
Te hiciste, te rehiciste,
Te creciste en el acoso,
Y, al luchar, te malheriste.
Y luego, ¿qué es lo que queda?
En la memoria cruel
del lector, el verso aquel
Que hablaba de aquella seda…
¿Quién dejará, del verde prado umbroso,
las frescas yerbas y las frescas fuentes?
¿Quién, de seguir con pasos diligentes
la suelta liebre o jabalí cerdoso?
¿Quién, con el son amigo y sonoroso,
no detendrá las aves inocentes?
¿Quién, en las horas de la siesta, ardientes,
no buscará en las selvas el reposo,
por seguir los incendios, los temores,
los celos, iras, rabias, muertes, penas
del falso amor que tanto aflige al mundo?
Del campo son y han sido mis amores,
rosas son y jazmines mis cadenas,
libre nací, y en libertad me fundo.
THERE IS PLEASURE IN THE PATHLESS WOODS;
THERE IS RAPTURE IN THE LONELY SHORE;
THERE IS SOCIETY, WHERE NONE INTRUDES,
BY THE DEEP SEA, ANS MUSIC IN ITS ROAR:
I LOVE NOT MAN THE LESS, BUT NATURE MORE
LORD BYRON
Byron was an accomplished – and proud – swimmer. The club foot which prevented him from succeeding at most sports was no handicap in the water. This particular feat was also mentioned in Canto II of Don Juan, and in an entertaining letter to his friend, Henry Drury. Byron told Drury that the swim took an hour and ten minutes.
If, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont
(What maid will not the tale remember?)
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont!
If, when the wintry tempest roar’d,
He sped to Hero, nothing loth,
And thus of old thy current pour’d,
Fair Venus! how I pity both!
For me, degenerate modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,
And think I’ve done a feat to-day.
But since he cross’d the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,
To woo,—and—Lord knows what beside,
And swam for Love, as I for Glory;
’Twere hard to say who fared the best:
Sad mortals! thus the Gods still plague you!
He lost his labour, I my jest:
For he was drown’d, and I’ve the ague.
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