Poesia kaiera
XXVII
Uda natzaio zure bihotzari, ez beste,
Badakit, eta ez urteko lau urtaroak;
Beste nonbaiten bilatu beharko, amante,
Niri arrotzak zaizkidan aldarte zintzoak.
Urre fruituen bilduma dotorerik nik ez
Daukat saltzeko, edo gauza zuhur negutarrik;
Eta lar luze eta lar ondo zu maitatzez,
Ez dut jada bedatse bular jaso eztirik.
Hortaz, entzun: oi maitea, udaren moduan,
Joan behar naiz, danbor isilez ezkutatu,
Hartara, uda bezala itzul nadinean,
Txori-arrosak berri lez ditzazun agurtu.
Bestela, zure uda, konturatu orduko,
Beste klimaren batean duzu bilatuko.
XXVII
I know I am but summer to your heart, / And not the full four seasons of the year; / And you must welcome from another part / Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear. / No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell / Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing; / And I have loved you all too long and well / To carry still the high sweet breast of Spring. / Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes, / I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums, / That you may hail anew the bird and rose / When I come back to you, as summer comes. / Else will you seek, at some not distant time, / Even your summer in another clime.