The door, clear. Soft and silently she came.
Not material, nor spirit. With her
she carried the light tilt of a ship's frame
and the young light of a clear day's glimmer.
Neither of rhythm nor of harmony,
nor made out of colors. The heart knows her,
I can't tell you how she was, earnestly,
because she shows no form, nor forms show her.
Tongue, incompetent chisel, mortal clay,
leave alone the flower that's the notion
on this, the clear eve of my wedding day,
and sing softly, humbly, with devotion
the sensations, the shadows, the events,
while within her my entire soul relents.
Dámaso Alonso
Traducción de Jorge Luis Pérez Armijos