"[plants don't talk, people say]" a poem by Rosalia de Castro, translated by Doris Earnshaw

A poem from the public domain

Apr 03, 2025

Intro

The last couple public domain poems I’ve shared with you I found via a poetry anthology I checked out from my local library (“Reveille” by Lola Ridge, “On the Expected General Rising of the French Nation in 1792” by Anna Barbauld). This one comes from another poetry anthology, Women Poets of the World (1983). This book has some incredible work, a fair amount of it by women poets who were not writing in English.

This Rosalia de Castro poem caught my eye on my first thumb through the book. I looked at some other poems (and will likely share at least a couple more from this text), but I kept coming back to this one. I like the understated but immensely powerful connection between the poem’s speaker and the vastness of nature.

I’ll publish both the original Spanish and Doris Earnshaw’s English translation. De Castro also wrote poems in Galician. poets.org has a brief bio, if you’d like to check that out. Even though I’m a competent reader in Spanish (and French and German), I’ve chosen to just share my English reading. Reading aloud in one of my secondary languages leads to too many hangups, and I think it would ruin the rhythm of the poem.

If you enjoy this poem, consider tipping me at ko-fi.com/thepoetmiranda and/or subscribing here. I also share original poems and tracks from my trans woman transition mixtape memoir.

I hope your National Poetry Month is off to a good start. Read poems. Share poems. Write poems. The poem text is below, followed by my video reading.

💜Miranda📚

Dicen que no hablan las plantas

Dicen que no hablan las plantas, ni las fuentes, ni los pájaros,
Ni el onda con sus rumores, ni con su brillo los astros,
Lo dicen, pero no es cierto, pues siempre cuando yo paso,
De mí murmuran y exclaman:
—Ahí va la loca soñando
Con la eterna primavera de la vida y de los campos,
Y ya bien pronto, bien pronto, tendrá los cabellos canos,
Y ve temblando, aterida, que cubre la escarcha el prado.

—Hay canas en mi cabeza, hay en los prados escarcha,
Mas yo prosigo soñando, pobre, incurable sonámbula,
Con la eterna primavera de la vida que se apaga
Y la perenne frescura de los campos y las almas,
Aunque los unos se agostan y aunque las otras se abrasan.

Astros y fuentes y flores, no murmuréis de mis sueños,
Sin ellos, ¿cómo admiraros ni cómo vivir sin ellos?