¡ QUE GOCE TRISTE ESTE!...

¡ Que goce triste este                                                                                                                                   
de hacer todas las cosas como ella las hacia !                                                                                         

Se me torna celeste                                                                                                                              
la mano, me contagio de otra poesia.                                                                                                       

Y las rosas de olor,                                                                                                                              
que pongo como ella las ponia,                                                                                                            
exaltan su color;                                                                                                                                    
y los bellos cojines,                                                                                                                              
que pongo como ella los ponia,                                                                                                               
florecen sus jardines;                                                                                                                      
y si pongo mi mano                                                                                                                               
-como ella la ponia-                                                                                                                              
en el negro piano,                                                                                                                                 
surge, como en un piano muy lejano,                                                                                                  
mas honda la diaria melodia.                                                                                                                   

! Que goce tan triste este                                                                                                                            
de hacer todas las cosas como ella las hacia !                                                                                     

Me inclino a los cristales del balcon,                                                                                                   
con un gesto de ella,                                                                                                                         
y parece que el pobre corazon                                                                                                           
no esta tan solo. Miro                                                                                                                      
al jardin de la tarde, como ella,                                                                                                                
y el suspiro y la estrella                                                                                                                           
se funden en romantica armonia.                                                                                                            

¡ Que goce tan triste este                                                                                                                     
de hacer todas las cosas como ella las hacia !                                                                                           

Dolorido y con flores,                                                                          
                                                

voy, como un heroe de poesia mia,                                                                                        

            

por los desiertos corredores                                                                                                             
que despertara ella con su blando paso,                                                                                              
y mis pies son de raso                                                                                                                              
- ¡ oh, ausencia hueca y fria !-                                                                                                                  
y mis pisadas dejan resplandores.                                                                                                  

¡ Que goce tan trite este                                                                                                                     
de hacer todas las cosas como ella las hacia !                                                                                  

Juan Ramon Jimenez