Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Wikipedia

Odysseus - Wikipedia

Marianne - Wikipedia

Measure for Measure - Wikipedia

In Memoriam A.H.H. - Wikipedia

Ulysses

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea. I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known, — cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honor'd of them all, —
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle, —
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me, —
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads, — you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are, —
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

尤利西斯

闲散的国王少有好处可言：
在这平静的炉边，四野峭壁荒瘠，
老妻相依为伴，我宣诏推行
不平等的法律治理野蛮的种族，
他们只顾贮藏和吃睡，却并不了解我。

我不能停止旅行：我要痛饮人生
只留下酒糟;这辈子我已享受
无数，也受苦无数，有时候伙伴
同舟共济，有时候只身孤影;在岸边，
或在雨星激激晕昏暗海翻天覆水时
穿梭漂流阵。 我这个人已化成名字;
由于内心饥渴，我一直在漂泊，
早已见多识广：民众聚集的城市
及其习俗、风气、议会、政府，
所到之处我尤其备受敬重;
和袍泽共同品尝战斗的乐趣，
远在风城特洛伊杀声震天的战场，
那一切遭遇处处有我生命留鸿爪;
所有的经验却只是一座拱门，从那里
尚未旅游的世界透光进来，边缘
随着我一步步前进而不断消失。
停下来，做个了结，任凭蒙尘生铖，
而不是在使用中发亮，那多么沉闷！
彷佛呼吸就是人生。 人生堆叠人生
总和都嫌太少，更何况我这一生
所剩无几：但是从永恒的寂静
抢救的每小时都是额外的收获
带来新东西;这样会令人不齿：
三年的光景把自己储存又囤积，
心灵斑白却怀抱豪情壮志
憧憬要追求知识，像殒星那样，
超越人类知识的边疆界限。


这是我儿子，我亲生的帖列马寇斯，
我把王杖和岛国留给他——
他深得我喜爱，我确实明白他能胜任
这项苦劳，凭有耐心的智虑教化
粗野的民族，采取温和的步骤
开导他们成为有用而且善良。
他无可非议，一心专注在
公共领域的本分，走正道完成
讲究温和敦厚的职务，而且
奉祀家祭神从来不怠慢，我大可
放心出远门。 他将做他的工作，而我将做我的。


海港在那边，船已经扬帆待发，
辽阔的大海在那边朦胧一片。 我的水手，
跟我一起努力、一起工作、志同道合的人，
他们总是怀着兴高采烈的心情
迎接雷电和阳光，同样挺身
展现无拘无束的心境和脑海——你们和我
都老了，老年人有自己的荣誉和辛劳：
死亡终结一切，可是抵达终点以前
仍然有调性高贵的工作尚待完成，
并非不适合抗衡天神的男子汉。
礁石上的灯标开始闪闪发光：
长昼将尽，月亮缓缓攀升，
低沉的呻吟回响嗓音无数。 来吧，
朋友们，探寻更新的世界不嫌晚！
推船下水，依次坐稳，摇桨划破海面
耕犁喧嚣的田畦，我打定主意
要航越太阳沉落的地点以及
西方所有星辰的浴场，至死方休。
有可能漩涡把我们卷入水底;
也可能我们在海外极乐岛上岸，
看到功名盖世的阿基里斯，我们都认识他。
得手的虽多，未到手的也多;虽然
我们现在的体力不像当初那样
旋乾转坤，尽其在我却是能力所及;
声气相投同舟共济的英雄豪情纵使
难免于时间与命运的消磨，却意志坚决
要去奋斗、去探索、去寻找，绝对不屈服。

Mariana

'Mariana in the moated grange.'

— Measure for Measure

With blackest moss the flower-plots
    Were thickly crusted, one and all;
The rusted nails fell from the knots
    That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
    Unlifted was the clinking latch;

    Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.

    She only said, 'My life is dreary,

    He cometh not,' she said;

    She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,

    I would that I were dead!'

Her tears fell with the dews at even;
    Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
    Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
    When thickest dark did trance the sky,

    She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.

    She only said, 'The night is dreary,

    He cometh not,' she said;

    She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,

    I would that I were dead!'

Upon the middle of the night,
    Waking she heard the night-fowl crow;
The cock sung out an hour ere light;
    From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her; without hope of change,
    In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,

    Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.

    She only said, 'The day is dreary,

    He cometh not,' she said;

    She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,

    I would that I were dead!'

About a stone-cast from the wall
    A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
    The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
    All silver-green with gnarled bark:

    For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.

    She only said, 'My life is dreary,

    He cometh not,' she said;

    She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,

    I would that I were dead!'

And ever when the moon was low,
    And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
    She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low,
    And wild winds bound within their cell,

    The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.

    She only said, 'The night is dreary,

    He cometh not,' she said;

    She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,

    I would that I were dead!'

All day within the dreamy house,
    The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
    Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
    Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors,

    Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.

    She only said, 'My life is dreary,

    He cometh not,' she said;

    She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,

    I would that I were dead!'

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
    The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
    The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
    When the thick-moted sunbeam lay

    Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.

    Then, said she, 'I am very dreary,

    He will not come,' she said;

    She wept, 'I am aweary, aweary,

    Oh God, that I were dead!'

玛丽安娜

“玛丽安娜在围有水沟的农舍里。”

                    ——《一报还一报》

黑黢黢苔藓厚厚的一层
    将整整一片花床全盖没，
把梨树拉向山墙的粗绳、
    系绳的铁钉都锈烂掉落。
残破的棚屋冷寂又古怪；
    围有水沟的农舍多凄清——

    野草长满破旧的茅草顶，
丁当作响的门闩没拉开。

    她只说，“我的生活多悲惨，
    这人不来了，”她说道；
    她说道，“我感到厌倦、厌倦，
    我但愿死去了才好！”

她到了傍晚就泣不成声，
    眼泪要流到露水都干掉；
无论在早晨还是在黄昏，
    要她看晴空她可办不到。
要到蝙蝠都出来翻飞时，
    要到黢黑的夜色掩苍天，

    这时她才把窗帘拉一边，
看看窗外的黑沉沉洼地。

    她只说，“这黑夜真是悲惨，
    这人不来了，”她说道；
    她说道，“我感到厌倦、厌倦，
    我但愿死去了才好！”

躺到半夜里再也睡不着，
    她听见夜啼鸟雀的啁啾；
天明前一小时公鸡啼晓，
    昏黑沼泽地里的那些牛
也哞哞在叫：仍然没希望，
    她恍若在梦中独自徘徊，

    直到那凄清农舍的四外
冷风吹醒了灰蒙蒙曙光。

    她只说，“这个白天多悲惨，
    这人不来了，”她说道；
    她说道，“我感到厌倦、厌倦，
    我但愿死去了才好！”

离墙约投石之遥的地方，
    水闸里拦着发黑的死水；
有多少泽地苔藓漂水上，
    又小又圆，一簇簇一堆堆；
边上是棵银青色白杨树，
    节节瘤瘤的它不停抖颤；

    在这片灰沉沉平坦荒原，
方圆几十里树只此一株。

    她只说，“我的生活多悲惨，
    这人不来了，”她说道；
    她说道，“我感到厌倦、厌倦，
    我但愿死去了才好！”

每一次月亮低挂在夜天，
    尖啸的烈风刮起或平息；
透过左右飘动的白窗帘，
    她看见树影在风中摇曳。
但是在月亮很低的时候，
    当狂风幽禁在洞穴里面，

    白杨的影子便投进房间，
落在她床上，横在她额头。

    她只说，“这黑夜真是悲惨，
    这人不来了，”她说道；
    她说道，“我感到厌倦、厌倦，
    我但愿死去了才好！”

这屋子里整日朦朦胧胧，
    门上的铰链都吱吱嘎嘎；
绿头蝇贴着窗玻璃嗡嗡，
    发霉的墙板后耗子叽喳，
有时从缝隙还伸头窥探。
    旧时的脸儿在门前闪过，

    旧时的脚步在楼上走过，
旧时的嗓音在门外呼唤。

    她只说，“我的生活真悲惨，
    这人不来了，”她说道；
    她说道，“我感到厌倦、厌倦，
    我但愿死去了才好！”

屋顶上麻雀的唧唧喳喳，
    时钟悠缓的滴答，白杨树
对求爱之风的冷冷应答，
    这些都使她神智变模糊；
但是最惹她生厌的时光，
    是阳光中间满含着微尘

    照进她居室，是夕阳一轮
斜斜地溜进其西天卧房。

    这时候她说，“我可真悲惨，
    这人不会来，”她说道；
    她哭道，“我感到厌倦、厌倦，
    上帝啊，我死了才好！”

from Idylls of the King: The Passing of Arthur

That story which the bold Sir Bedivere,
First made and latest left of all the knights,
Told, when the man was no more than a voice
In the white winter of his age, to those
With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds.

       For on their march to westward, Bedivere,
Who slowly paced among the slumbering host,
Heard in his tent the moanings of the King:

       "I found Him in the shining of the stars,
I mark'd Him in the flowering of His fields,
But in His ways with men I find Him not.
I waged His wars, and now I pass and die.
O me! for why is all around us here
As if some lesser god had made the world,
But had not force to shape it as he would,
Till the High God behold it from beyond,
And enter it, and make it beautiful?
Or else as if the world were wholly fair,
But that these eyes of men are dense and dim,
And have not power to see it as it is:
Perchance, because we see not to the close;—
For I, being simple, thought to work His will,
And have but stricken with the sword in vain;
And all whereon I lean'd in wife and friend
Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm
Reels back into the beast, and is no more.
My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death:
Nay—God my Christ—I pass but shall not die."

       Then, ere that last weird battle in the west,
There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain kill'd
In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain blown
Along a wandering wind, and past his ear
Went shrilling, "Hollow, hollow all delight!
Hail, King! to-morrow thou shalt pass away.
Farewell! there is an isle of rest for thee.
And I am blown along a wandering wind,
And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight."
And fainter onward, like wild birds that change
Their season in the night and wail their way
From cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dream
Shrill'd; but in going mingled with dim cries
Far in the moonlit haze among the hills,
As of some lonely city sack'd by night,
When all is lost, and wife and child with wail
Pass to new lords; and Arthur woke and call'd,
"Who spake? A dream. O light upon the wind,
Thine, Gawain, was the voice—are these dim cries
Thine? or doth all that haunts the waste and wild
Mourn, knowing it will go along with me?"

       This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake:
"O me, my King, let pass whatever will,
Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field;
But in their stead thy name and glory cling
To all high places like a golden cloud
For ever: but as yet thou shalt not pass.
Light was Gawain in life, and light in death
Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man;
And care not thou for dreams from him, but rise—
I hear the steps of Modred in the west,
And with him many of thy people, and knights
Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown
Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee.
Right well in heart they know thee for the King.
Arise, go forth and conquer as of old."

       Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"Far other is this battle in the west
Whereto we move, than when we strove in youth,
And brake the petty kings, and fought with Rome,
Or thrust the heathen from the Roman wall,
And shook him thro' the north. Ill doom is mine
To war against my people and my knights.
The king who fights his people fights himself.
And they my knights, who loved me once, the stroke
That strikes them dead is as my death to me.
Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way
Thro' this blind haze, which ever since I saw
One lying in the dust at Almesbury,
Hath folded in the passes of the world."

       Then rose the King and moved his host by night,
And ever push'd Sir Modred, league by league,
Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse—
A land of old upheaven from the abyss
By fire, to sink into the abyss again;
Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt,
And the long mountains ended in a coast
Of ever-shifting sand, and far away
The phantom circle of a moaning sea.
There the pursuer could pursue no more,
And he that fled no further fly the King;
And there, that day when the great light of heaven
Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling year,
On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed.
Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight
Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west.
A deathwhite mist slept over sand and sea:
Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew
Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold
With formless fear; and ev'n on Arthur fell
Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought.

For friend and foe were shadows in the mist,
And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew;
And some had visions out of golden youth,
And some beheld the faces of old ghosts
Look in upon the battle; and in the mist
Was many a noble deed, many a base,
And chance and craft and strength in single fights,
And ever and anon with host to host
Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn,
Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash
Of battleaxes on shatter'd helms, and shrieks
After the Christ, of those who falling down
Look'd up for heaven, and only saw the mist;
And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights,
Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous blasphemies,
Sweat, writhings, anguish, labouring of the lungs
In that close mist, and cryings for the light,
Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead.

       Last, as by some one deathbed after wail
Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' death
Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore,
Save for some whisper of the seething seas,
A dead hush fell; but when the dolorous day
Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came
A bitter wind, clear from the North, and blew
The mist aside, and with that wind the tide
Rose, and the pale King glanced across the field
Of battle: but no man was moving there;
Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon,
Nor yet of heathen; only the wan wave
Brake in among dead faces, to and fro
Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down
Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen,
And shiver'd brands that once had fought with Rome,
And rolling far along the gloomy shores
The voice of days of old and days to be.

       Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere,
And whiter than the mist that all day long
Had held the field of battle was the King:

       "Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world,
And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move,
And beats upon the faces of the dead,
My dead, as tho' they had not died for me?—
O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fall'n
Confusion, till I know not what I am,
Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King.
Behold, I seem but King among the dead."

       Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere: "My King,
King everywhere! and so the dead have kings,
There also will I worship thee as King.
Yet still thy life is whole, and still I live
Who love thee; but who hates thee, he that brought
The heathen back among us, yonder stands,
Modred, unharm'd, the traitor of thine house."

       Then spake the King: "My house hath been my doom.
But call not thou this traitor of my house
Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof with me.
My house are rather they who sware my vows,
Yea, even while they brake them, own'd me King.
And well for thee, saying in my dark hour,
When all the purport of my throne hath fail'd,
That quick or dead thou hottest me for King.
King am I, whatsoever be their cry;
And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see
Yet, ere I pass." And uttering this the King
Made at the man: then Modred smote his liege
Hard on that helm which many a heathen sword
Had beaten thin; while Arthur at one blow,
Striking the last stroke with Excalibur,
Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell.

       So all day long the noise of battle roll'd
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur's Table, man by man,
Had fall'n in Lyonnesse about their lord,
King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren land:
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

       Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep—the men I loved. I think that we
Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made,—
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule once more; but, let what will be, be,
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding the sword—and how I row'd across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king;
And, wheresoever I am sung or told
In aftertime, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur,
And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what thou seëst, and lightly bring me word."

       To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:
"It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm—
A little thing may harm a wounded man;
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word."

       So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept,
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock,
Came on the shining levels of the lake.

       There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon,
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long
That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood,
This way and that dividing the swift mind,
In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd
There in the many-knotted waterflags,
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.
So strode he back slow to the wounded King.

       Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave?
What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?"

       And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,
And the wild water lapping on the crag."

       To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:
"Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name,
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight:
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.
This is a shameful thing for men to lie.
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again,
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word."

       Then went Sir Bedivere the second time
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought;
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote
His palms together, and he cried aloud:

       "And if indeed I cast the brand away,
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.
What good should follow this, if this were done?
What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey,
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand
An act unprofitable, against himself?
The King is sick, and knows not what he does.
What record, or what relic of my lord
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath
And rumours of a doubt? But were this kept,
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,
Some one might show it at a joust of arms,
Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.'
So might some old man speak in the aftertime
To all the people, winning reverence.
But now much honour and much fame were lost."

       So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,
And hid Excalibur the second time,
And so strode back slow to the wounded King.

       Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:
"What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?'

       And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"I heard the water lapping on the crag,
And the long ripple washing in the reeds."

       To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!
Authority forgets a dying king,
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art,
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
In whom should meet the offices of all,
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands."

       Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,
And, leaping down the ridges, lightly, plunged
Among the bulrush beds, and clutch'd the sword,
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch,
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock
By night, with noises of the Northern Sea.
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur:
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
Clothed in white samite, mystic wonderful,
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.
And lightly went the other to the King.

       Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:
"Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?"

       And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men,
So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;
But when I look'd again, behold an arm,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere."

       And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:
"My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone.
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die."

       So saying, from the pavement he half rose,
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not words;
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.

       But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard,
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King,
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quick!
I fear it is too late, and I shall die."
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd,
Larger than human on the frozen hills.
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves
And barren chasms, and all to left and right
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels—
And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,
And the long glories of the winter moon.

       Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,
Beneath them; and descending they were ware
That all the decks were dense with stately forms,
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream—by these
Three Queens with crowns of gold: and from them rose
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.

       Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge."
So to the barge they came. There those three Queens
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.
But she, that rose the tallest of them all
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands,
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,
And dropping bitter tears against a brow
Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white
And colourless, and like the wither'd moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls—
That made his forehead like a rising sun
High from the daïs-throne—were parch'd with dust
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.
So like a shatter'd column lay the King;
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

       Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:
"Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.
Such times have been not since the light that led
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
But now the whole Round Table is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world,
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds."

       And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge:
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seëst—if indeed I go
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)—
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

       So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.

       But when that moan had past for evermore,
The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn
Amazed him, and he groan'd, The King is gone.''
And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme,
"From the great deep to the great deep he goes."

       Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly clomb
The last hard footstep of that iron crag;
Thence mark'd the black hull moving yet, and cried,
"He passes to be King among the dead,
And after healing of his grievous wound
He comes again; but—if he come no more—
O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat,
Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three whereat we gazed
On that high day, when, clothed with living light,
They stood before his throne in silence, friends
Of Arthur, who should help him at his need?"

       Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, but faint
As from beyond the limit of the world,
Like the last echo born of a great cry,
Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice
Around a king returning from his wars.

       Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb
Ev'n to the highest he could climb, and saw,
Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand,
Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King,
Down that long water opening on the deep
Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go
From less to less and vanish into light.
And the new sun rose bringing the new year.

IN MEMORIAM A. H. H.

In Memoriam A. H. H.: Preface


Strong Son of God, immortal Love,
       Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
       By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
   Believing where we cannot prove;
   Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
       Thou madest Life in man and brute;
       Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot
   Is on the skull which thou hast made.
   Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:
      Thou madest man, he knows not why,
      He thinks he was not made to die;
  And thou hast made him: thou art just.

  Thou seemest human and divine,
      The highest, holiest manhood, thou.
      Our wills are ours, we know not how,
  Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

  Our little systems have their day;
      They have their day and cease to be:
      They are but broken lights of thee,
  And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

  We have but faith: we cannot know;
      For knowledge is of things we see;
      And yet we trust it comes from thee,
  A beam in darkness: let it grow.

  Let knowledge grow from more to more,
      But more of reverence in us dwell;
      That mind and soul, according well,
  May make one music as before,

  But vaster. We are fools and slight;
      We mock thee when we do not fear:
      But help thy foolish ones to bear;
  Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.

  Forgive what seem'd my sin in me,
      What seem'd my worth since I began;
      For merit lives from man to man,
  And not from man, O Lord, to thee.

  Forgive my grief for one removed,
      Thy creature, whom I found so fair.
      I trust he lives in thee, and there
  I find him worthier to be loved.

  Forgive these wild and wandering cries,
      Confusions of a wasted youth;
      Forgive them where they fail in truth,
  And in thy wisdom make me wise.

  1849

I

I held it truth, with him who sings

  To one clear harp in divers tones,

  That men may rise on stepping-stones

Of their dead selves to higher things.



But who shall so forecast the years

  And find in loss a gain to match?

  Or reach a hand thro' time to catch

The far-off interest of tears?



Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd,

  Let darkness keep her raven gloss:

  Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss,

To dance with death, to beat the ground,



Than that the victor Hours should scorn

  The long result of love, and boast,

  `Behold the man that loved and lost,

But all he was is overworn.'

我握住真理，随着他音调各异
    对着一张清澈的竖琴吟唱，
    人们可从死亡本身的垫脚石上
升腾而成更高级的东西。

然而谁将预测到这些岁月
    在失却中找到相称的获益？
    要么寻得援手，穿越流光过隙
去捕捉遥远的泪水之噱？

让爱情紧扣忧伤，以免双双溺毙，
    让黑暗保持她乌黑的光彩；
    啊，醉而有失更甜来，
与死神共舞，去击败大地，

超过胜者之际应当蔑视
    爱情和吹嘘带来的久长硕果，
    “快看那人，他爱过、失去过，
但他整个就是身心俱疲。”

II

Old Yew, which graspest at the stones

  That name the under-lying dead,

  Thy fibres net the dreamless head,

Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.



The seasons bring the flower again,

  And bring the firstling to the flock;

  And in the dusk of thee, the clock

Beats out the little lives of men.



O, not for thee the glow, the bloom,

  Who changest not in any gale,

  Nor branding summer suns avail

To touch thy thousand years of gloom:



And gazing on thee, sullen tree,

  Sick for thy stubborn hardihood,

  I seem to fail from out my blood

And grow incorporate into thee.


苍老紫杉树，你笼住的碑
    把下面死者的姓名道出，
    你细枝网住无梦的头颅，
你根儿裹在遗骨的周围。

花开时节又带来了花朵，
    带来了初生的幼畜雏禽；
    你荫影里的一下下钟声
把短短的人生逐点敲走。

你呀，任何风改变不了你，
　　阳光和花朵都同你无关，
　　连烙铁一般的夏日也难
触动你悠悠千年的阴郁。

看着你这棵阴沉沉的树，
　　愿像你一样地坚忍顽强，
　　我仿佛血气消尽人变僵，
渐渐地与你融合在一处。

翻译II

苍老的紫杉拽紧岩石
    它们命名了潜在的亡户，
    你的纤维罗织无梦之颅，
你的根系包裹有骨质。

季节再次带来花朵，
    驱使幼雏壮而成群，
    时钟在你的黄昏
敲扁人生之脆弱。

哦，不为你这光彩，这花开，
    狂风中也不变化，
    而标记夏日之阳也无法，
触摸你千年忧郁之哀。

凝望着你，沉郁之树，
    患于你的顽固惊骇，
    我仿佛衰自气血之外，
渐次融合于汝。

III

O Sorrow, cruel fellowship,

  O Priestess in the vaults of Death,

  O sweet and bitter in a breath,

What whispers from thy lying lip?



'The stars,' she whispers, `blindly run;

  A web is wov'n across the sky;

  From out waste places comes a cry,

And murmurs from the dying sun:



'And all the phantom, Nature, stands—

  With all the music in her tone,

  A hollow echo of my own,—

A hollow form with empty hands.'



And shall I take a thing so blind,

  Embrace her as my natural good;

  Or crush her, like a vice of blood,

Upon the threshold of the mind?


哦，悲伤，这残酷的情谊，
    哦，死亡之窖的女祭司，
    哦，一呼一吸的甜苦，
是何耳语飘自你正说谎的唇际？

“星群” ，她低语，“茫然飞奔，
    有一张网正越空而织；
    一阵泣涕从外面荒地传来，
垂死的太阳杂音低迷”；

所有的幽灵，大自然，起立--
    音乐充盈在她的调子，
    一声我自己的空洞回音，--
伴随双手空空的虚空形式。”

我是否该如此盲目从事，
    拥抱她如同天赋德行；
    抑或粉碎她，犹如污血恶迹，
一旦触及心灵的阈值？

IV

To Sleep I give my powers away;

  My will is bondsman to the dark;

  I sit within a helmless bark,

And with my heart I muse and say:



O heart, how fares it with thee now,

  That thou should'st fail from thy desire,

  Who scarcely darest to inquire,

'What is it makes me beat so low?'



Something it is which thou hast lost,

  Some pleasure from thine early years.

  Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears,

That grief hath shaken into frost!



Such clouds of nameless trouble cross

  All night below the darken'd eyes;

  With morning wakes the will, and cries, 

'Thou shalt not be the fool of loss.'

我将自身伟力交付给睡眠；
    意志遂成黑暗的奴隶；
    坐在无舵之舟，
我心默想而语：

哦，心儿，而今它如此依附你，
    你不应从欲望中弃离，
    欲望它很少敢探究，
“是什么让我败得沉底 ？”

是一些你已丢失的东西，
    一些早年岁月的欢愉。
    碎了，灌满寒泪的深底花瓶，
那种忧伤颤栗成了霜气！

这样无名的困扰如流云穿越
    昏黑眼睛下的长夜凄凄；
    清晨唤醒了意志，于是恸哭，
“你不该象笨瓜般迷失” 。

V

I sometimes hold it half a sin

  To put in words the grief I feel;

  For words, like Nature, half reveal

And half conceal the Soul within.



But, for the unquiet heart and brain,

  A use in measured language lies;

  The sad mechanic exercise,

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.



In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,

  Like coarsest clothes against the cold:

  But that large grief which these enfold

Is given in outline and no more.


把心中哀伤用文字表出——
　　我有时认为这近乎罪愆；
　　因为文字也宛若大自然，
对内里的灵魂半遮半露。

但对不平静的心灵和脑，
　　有节律的诗句有个用途，
　　这哀哀劳作使痛苦麻木——
虽然机械却可充麻醉药。

我要把文字当丧服裹上，
　　一如以粗布的衣裳御寒；
　　但巨大的悲痛也在里面，
便仅仅显出个依稀模样。

翻译II

我有时半感罪恶薰薰
    为将悲痛付之言表；
    因为言语，如同大自然，半昭
半隐内在的灵魂。

然而，对躁动的心脑，
    谨慎用语意味着谎言；
    悲哀的机械训练，
一如无趣的麻醉剂，痛不知晓。

在如杂草的话中，我将自己覆盖，
    似用最粗鄙的衣服抵挡寒冷；
    可是所拥的哀伤之盛
不过付诸个大概。

VI

One writes, that `Other friends remain,'

  That `Loss is common to the race'—

  And common is the commonplace,

And vacant chaff well meant for grain.



That loss is common would not make

  My own less bitter, rather more:

  Too common! Never morning wore

To evening, but some heart did break.



O father, wheresoe'er thou be,

  Who pledgest now thy gallant son;

  A shot, ere half thy draught be done,

Hath still'd the life that beat from thee.



O mother, praying God will save

  Thy sailor,—while thy head is bow'd,

  His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud

Drops in his vast and wandering grave.



Ye know no more than I who wrought

  At that last hour to please him well;

  Who mused on all I had to tell,

And something written, something thought;



Expecting still his advent home;

  And ever met him on his way

  With wishes, thinking, `here to-day,'

Or `here to-morrow will he come.'



O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove,

  That sittest ranging golden hair;

  And glad to find thyself so fair,

Poor child, that waitest for thy love!



For now her father's chimney glows

  In expectation of a guest;

  And thinking `this will please him best,'

She takes a riband or a rose;



For he will see them on to-night;

  And with the thought her colour burns;

  And, having left the glass, she turns

Once more to set a ringlet right;



And, even when she turn'd, the curse

  Had fallen, and her future Lord

  Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford,

Or kill'd in falling from his horse.



O what to her shall be the end?

  And what to me remains of good?

  To her, perpetual maidenhood,

And unto me no second friend.



有人写道：‘尚有朋友们留存如始‘，
    ‘失却对一个种类来说司空见惯’ --
    司空见惯就是老生常谈，
空虚的谷壳对谷粒仍有意义。

失却实在是种平常现象
    不增不减我的苦涩；
    太司空见惯了！从未携这
失意从朝到暮，但有心儿破碎遭殃。

哦，神父，无论你在哪个角落，
    那人发誓做你勇武之子；
    在你半枯竭之前，再试一次
仍会拥有源自你光彩的生活。

哦，圣母，祈祷上帝会拯救
    你的水手，--当你躬首垂落
    他弹痕累累的吊床样桅索
堕入他广阔而漫游的坟柩。

你所知不比我多多少
    我在最后一小时让他安舒；
    他默思我不得不告知的全部，
有笔录，也有思考。

依然期待他那将临的家园；
    总想于其途中和他相遇
    怀揣愿望，想着，“ 今--日” ，
或者“明--天他会出现” 。

哦，某处温顺而迷离的鸽子，
    坐而梳理金色的毛发;
    乐于发现你自己光鲜绝佳，
可怜的孩子，那是在祈爱于你！

此刻，她神父的烟囱光焰荟萃
    正期待一个贵客到来；
    于是想，“这将最让他开怀” ，
她拿起装饰缎带，或一朵玫瑰。

因为他将看见他们, 就今晚；
    思绪她光华如灼，
    放下玻璃杯, 她转过
去再次弄妥那个小发卷。

甚至当她传过身子时，
    诅咒已降，她的未来之主
    溺毙于穿越滩涂，
抑或从马上跌落而死。

VII

Dark house, by which once more I stand

  Here in the long unlovely street,

  Doors, where my heart was used to beat

So quickly, waiting for a hand,



A hand that can be clasp'd no more—

  Behold me, for I cannot sleep,

  And like a guilty thing I creep

At earliest morning to the door.



He is not here; but far away

  The noise of life begins again,

  And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain

On the bald street breaks the blank day.

昏暗的屋边我再度站立，
　　站在这不可爱的长街上；
　　在这门前，往常我的心脏
为筹待一只手总跳得急。

可这只手再也无从紧握－－．
　　瞧我呀，如今已无法入睡，
　　却像个可怜东面负着罪，
绝早地悄悄溜到这门口。

他不在这里；但是听远处，
　　生活的嘈杂声又在响起，
　　而透过空街上蒙蒙细雨，
茫茫中露出苍白的初曙。

VIII

A happy lover who has come

  To look on her that loves him well,

  Who 'lights and rings the gateway bell,

And learns her gone and far from home;



He saddens, all the magic light

  Dies off at once from bower and hall,

  And all the place is dark, and all

The chambers emptied of delight:



So find I every pleasant spot

  In which we two were wont to meet,

  The field, the chamber, and the street,

For all is dark where thou art not.



Yet as that other, wandering there

  In those deserted walks, may find

  A flower beat with rain and wind,

Which once she foster'd up with care;



So seems it in my deep regret,

  O my forsaken heart, with thee

  And this poor flower of poesy

Which little cared for fades not yet.



But since it pleased a vanish'd eye,

  I go to plant it on his tomb,

  That if it can it there may bloom,

Or, dying, there at least may die.

IX

Fair ship, that from the Italian shore

  Sailest the placid ocean-plains

  With my lost Arthur's loved remains,

Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er.



So draw him home to those that mourn

  In vain; a favourable speed

  Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead

Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn.



All night no ruder air perplex

  Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright

  As our pure love, thro' early light

Shall glimmer on the dewy decks.



Sphere all your lights around, above;

  Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;

  Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now,

My friend, the brother of my love;



My Arthur, whom I shall not see

  Till all my widow'd race be run;

  Dear as the mother to the son,

More than my brothers are to me.

好船哪，你从意大利岸旁
　　载着我热爱的亚瑟遗骸，
　　驶过广袤平静的洋和海，
请张足翅膀，送他回故乡。

送他给空为他哀伤的人；
　　迅捷的船犁碎那倒影在
　　水中的枪杆，驶过那大海，
我回他灵柩，愿一路平稳。

愿整夜里没有厉风搅乱
　　你疾驰的船身，直到晓星——
　　晶莹得如我们爱的明净——
照在曙色里沾露的甲板。

把你的光洒遍昊昊苍穹。
　　船前的长天哪，愿你安息；
　　和风啊，愿你也像他安息——
像我挚友，我亲爱的弟兄——

这亚瑟我将永远见不到，
　　直至失伴的我此生结束；
　　他对我。这情分胜过手足，
可以同母子之情相比较。

X

I hear the noise about thy keel;

  I hear the bell struck in the night:

  I see the cabin-window bright;

I see the sailor at the wheel.



Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife,

  And travell'd men from foreign lands;

  And letters unto trembling hands;

And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life.



So bring him; we have idle dreams:

  This look of quiet flatters thus

  Our home-bred fancies. O to us,

The fools of habit, sweeter seems



To rest beneath the clover sod,

  That takes the sunshine and the rains,

  Or where the kneeling hamlet drains

The chalice of the grapes of God;



Than if with thee the roaring wells

  Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine;

  And hands so often clasp'd in mine,

Should toss with tangle and with shells.

XI

Calm is the morn without a sound,

  Calm as to suit a calmer grief,

  And only thro' the faded leaf

The chestnut pattering to the ground:



Calm and deep peace on this high world,

  And on these dews that drench the furze,

  And all the silvery gossamers

That twinkle into green and gold:



Calm and still light on yon great plain

  That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,

  And crowded farms and lessening towers,

To mingle with the bounding main:



Calm and deep peace in this wide air,

  These leaves that redden to the fall;

  And in my heart, if calm at all,

If any calm, a calm despair:



Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,

  And waves that sway themselves in rest,

  And dead calm in that noble breast

Which heaves but with the heaving deep.

宁静的早晨没一点声响，
　　静得可配更宁静的悲切；
　　只听见穿过枯萎的树叶，
栗子嗒一声掉落在地上；

宁静和安谧遍布这高原，
　　遍布于荆豆花上的露滴，
　　遍布于一根根银色蛛丝——
闪烁成绿辉和金光一片；

宁静、安谧的光普照田野——
　　它载着日渐稀少的堡塔，
　　秋日的林丛、拥挤的农家，
绵绵延延地同大海相接；

宁静和安谧充满这大气，
　　秋色把树叶染成了殷红，
　　而我的心中即使有宁静，
无非是宁静的绝望而已；

宁静的海是银色的睡乡，
　　睡着的波浪轻摇着自己，
　　海面起伏只因为它叹息，
它胸中的宁静一如死亡。

XII

Lo, as a dove when up she springs

  To bear thro' Heaven a tale of woe,

  Some dolorous message knit below

The wild pulsation of her wings;



Like her I go; I cannot stay;

  I leave this mortal ark behind,

  A weight of nerves without a mind,

And leave the cliffs, and haste away



O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large,

  And reach the glow of southern skies,

  And see the sails at distance rise,

And linger weeping on the marge,



And saying; `Comes he thus, my friend?

  Is this the end of all my care?'

  And circle moaning in the air:

'Is this the end? Is this the end?'



And forward dart again, and play

  About the prow, and back return

  To where the body sits, and learn

That I have been an hour away.

XIII

Tears of the widower, when he sees

  A late-lost form that sleep reveals,

  And moves his doubtful arms, and feels

Her place is empty, fall like these;



Which weep a loss for ever new,

  A void where heart on heart reposed;

  And, where warm hands have prest and closed,

Silence, till I be silent too.



Which weep the comrade of my choice,

  An awful thought, a life removed,

  The human-hearted man I loved,

A Spirit, not a breathing voice.



Come, Time, and teach me, many years,

  I do not suffer in a dream;

  For now so strange do these things seem,

Mine eyes have leisure for their tears;



My fancies time to rise on wing,

  And glance about the approaching sails,

  As tho' they brought but merchants' bales,

And not the burthen that they bring.

XIV

If one should bring me this report,

  That thou hadst touch'd the land to-day,

  And I went down unto the quay,

And found thee lying in the port;



And standing, muffled round with woe,

  Should see thy passengers in rank

  Come stepping lightly down the plank,

And beckoning unto those they know;



And if along with these should come

  The man I held as half-divine;

  Should strike a sudden hand in mine,

And ask a thousand things of home;



And I should tell him all my pain,

  And how my life had droop'd of late,

  And he should sorrow o'er my state

And marvel what possess'd my brain;



And I perceived no touch of change,

  No hint of death in all his frame,

  But found him all in all the same,

I should not feel it to be strange.

XV

To-night the winds begin to rise

  And roar from yonder dropping day:

  The last red leaf is whirl'd away,

The rooks are blown about the skies;



The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd,

  The cattle huddled on the lea;

  And wildly dash'd on tower and tree

The sunbeam strikes along the world:



And but for fancies, which aver

  That all thy motions gently pass

  Athwart a plane of molten glass,

I scarce could brook the strain and stir



That makes the barren branches loud;

  And but for fear it is not so,

  The wild unrest that lives in woe

Would dote and pore on yonder cloud



That rises upward always higher,

  And onward drags a labouring breast,

  And topples round the dreary west,

A looming bastion fringed with fire.

XVI

What words are these have falle'n from me?

  Can calm despair and wild unrest

  Be tenants of a single breast,

Or sorrow such a changeling be?



Or cloth she only seem to take

  The touch of change in calm or storm;

  But knows no more of transient form

In her deep self, than some dead lake



That holds the shadow of a lark

  Hung in the shadow of a heaven?

  Or has the shock, so harshly given,

Confused me like the unhappy bark



That strikes by night a craggy shelf,

  And staggers blindly ere she sink?

  And stunn'd me from my power to think

And all my knowledge of myself;



And made me that delirious man

  Whose fancy fuses old and new,

  And flashes into false and true,

And mingles all without a plan?

XVII

Thou comest, much wept for: such a breeze

  Compell'd thy canvas, and my prayer

  Was as the whisper of an air

To breathe thee over lonely seas.



For I in spirit saw thee move

  Thro' circles of the bounding sky,

  Week after week: the days go by:

Come quick, thou bringest all I love.



Henceforth, wherever thou may'st roam,

  My blessing, like a line of light,

  Is on the waters day and night,

And like a beacon guards thee home.



So may whatever tempest mars

  Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark;

  And balmy drops in summer dark

Slide from the bosom of the stars.



So kind an office hath been done,

  Such precious relics brought by thee;

  The dust of him I shall not see

Till all my widow'd race be run.


惹人流泪的你一路驶来，
　　微风推你的帆，我的祷辞
　　就像是低声细语的气息，
把你吹送过寂寥的大海。

因为我心灵之眼看见你，
　　看见你穿过周遭的天边——
　　一周接一周，一天又一天；
快来吧，带来我爱的一切。

今后无论你在哪里漂航，
　　我的祝福将像一道光线，
　　日日夜夜地射向那洋面，
像座灯塔引导你回故乡。

任什么暴风雨逞威洋中，
　　愿它豁免你这神圣的船；
　　只愿露珠在夏日的夜晚
带着温馨芬芳滴自星空。

你提供的帮助至善至仁，
　　把他那可贵的遗体载回；
　　但是我将没法同他相会，
直到失伴的我了却余生。

XVIII

'Tis well; 'tis something; we may stand

  Where he in English earth is laid,

  And from his ashes may be made

The violet of his native land.



'Tis little; but it looks in truth

  As if the quiet bones were blest

  Among familiar names to rest

And in the places of his youth.



Come then, pure hands, and bear the head

  That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep,

  And come, whatever loves to weep,

And hear the ritual of the dead.



Ah yet, ev'n yet, if this might be,

  I, falling on his faithful heart,

  Would breathing thro' his lips impart

The life that almost dies in me;



That dies not, but endures with pain,

  And slowly forms the firmer mind,

  Treasuring the look it cannot find,

The words that are not heard again.

XIX

The Danube to the Severn gave

  The darken'd heart that beat no more;

  They laid him by the pleasant shore,

And in the hearing of the wave.



There twice a day the Severn fills;

  The salt sea-water passes by,

  And hushes half the babbling Wye,

And makes a silence in the hills.



The Wye is hush'd nor moved along,

  And hush'd my deepest grief of all,

  When fill'd with tears that cannot fall,

I brim with sorrow drowning song.



The tide flows down, the wave again

  Is vocal in its wooded walls;

  My deeper anguish also falls,

And I can speak a little then.



多瑙河把他交还给塞文——
　　他不跳的心已变得灰暗；
　　人们埋他在美好的河岸，
那里听得见水波的声音。

每一天塞文河两次涨潮，
　　这时咸咸的海水流过去，
　　使潺潺的葳河半无声息，
使那山地里一片静悄悄。

葳河没了声息、暂不流动，
　　我最深的痛苦也已喑哑，
　　每当我满眼的泪难滴下，
销愁的欢便充满我心中。

潮水回流，夹峙的林木里
　　水波又发出流动的声音，
　　我更深的哀痛也已减轻，
这时，我略略能出言吐语。

XX

The lesser griefs that may be said,

  That breathe a thousand tender vows,

  Are but as servants in a house

Where lies the master newly dead;



Who speak their feeling as it is,

  And weep the fulness from the mind:

  `It will be hard,' they say, `to find

Another service such as this.'



My lighter moods are like to these,

  That out of words a comfort win;

  But there are other griefs within,

And tears that at their fountain freeze;



For by the hearth the children sit

  Cold in that atmosphere of Death,

  And scarce endure to draw the breath,

Or like to noiseless phantoms flit;



But open converse is there none,

  So much the vital spirits sink

  To see the vacant chair, and think,

'How good! how kind! and he is gone.'

XXI

I sing to him that rests below,

  And, since the grasses round me wave,

  I take the grasses of the grave,

And make them pipes whereon to blow.



The traveller hears me now and then,

  And sometimes harshly will he speak:

  `This fellow would make weakness weak,

And melt the waxen hearts of men.'



Another answers, `Let him be,

  He loves to make parade of pain

  That with his piping he may gain

The praise that comes to constancy.'



A third is wroth: `Is this an hour

  For private sorrow's barren song,

  When more and more the people throng

The chairs and thrones of civil power?



'A time to sicken and to swoon,

  When Science reaches forth her arms

  To feel from world to world, and charms

Her secret from the latest moon?'



Behold, ye speak an idle thing:

  Ye never knew the sacred dust:

  I do but sing because I must,

And pipe but as the linnets sing:



And one is glad; her note is gay,

  For now her little ones have ranged;

  And one is sad; her note is changed,

Because her brood is stol'n away.

我为长眠地下的他歌唱；
　　我看到草在我周围摇曳，
　　就摘些这种墓上。草的叶。
做成了哨子放嘴上吹响。

过路人不时听着我哨音，
　　有时某个人会严厉地说：
　　“这家伙会使软弱的更弱，
会融化掉人们蜡做的心。”

另外一人会答道：“随他去，
　　他就是爱当众展示哀痛，
　　就想凭这哨音博取称颂，
让人家称赞他忠贞不渝。”

第三个人气愤：“什么当口，
　　还凭闲曲儿诉个人哀伤；
　　如今民权的交椅、宝座上
挤挤叠叠的人越来越稠——

“这世道真叫人恶心、昏厥。
　　连科学之神也伸手杨臂，
　　摸索一个个世界，凭魔力
新近叫卫星把秘密吐泄！”

你们都在说废话；你们瞧，
　　全不认识那作古的死者。
　　我要唱是由于非唱不可，
吹哨子只犹如红雀啼叫：

有的红雀欢，啼声像欢笑，
　　因为它幼雀已四下飞翔；
　　有的红雀悲，啼声变了样。
因为它一窝雏鸟被偷掉。

XXII

The path by which we twain did go,

  Which led by tracts that pleased us well,

  Thro' four sweet years arose and fell,

From flower to flower, from snow to snow:



And we with singing cheer'd the way,

  And, crown'd with all the season lent,

  From April on to April went,

And glad at heart from May to May:



But where the path we walk'd began

  To slant the fifth autumnal slope,

  As we descended following Hope,

There sat the Shadow fear'd of man;



Who broke our fair companionship,

  And spread his mantle dark and cold,

  And wrapt thee formless in the fold,

And dull'd the murmur on thy lip,



And bore thee where I could not see

  Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste,

  And think, that somewhere in the waste

The Shadow sits and waits for me.

广袤的土地令我们惬意，
　　我们俩走着那里的小路，
　　美妙的四年里起起伏伏，
历经了多少回花时雪季；

一路上我们喜洋洋唱歌，
　　享受着时令提供的一切，
　　经过了一个又一个四月，
从五月到五月满心欢乐。

但在第五个秋日坡道上，
　　我们走的路已开始偏斜，
　　当我们随希望之神走下
可怕的死神却坐在前方；

他拆散我们美好的友情，
　　把他冰冷的黑大髦一摊，
　　让你在其中被裹成一团，
闷得你咕吭声模糊不清。

他带着你去了，去的地方
　　我看不见也没法去，虽说
　　我急急地走，心里在想着；
他也等我在某处荒原上。

XXIII

Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut,

  Or breaking into song by fits,

  Alone, alone, to where he sits,

The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot,



Who keeps the keys of all the creeds,

  I wander, often falling lame,

  And looking back to whence I came,

Or on to where the pathway leads;



And crying, How changed from where it ran

  Thro' lands where not a leaf was dumb;

  But all the lavish hills would hum

The murmur of a happy Pan:



When each by turns was guide to each,

  And Fancy light from Fancy caught,

  And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought

Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech;



And all we met was fair and good,

  And all was good that Time could bring,

  And all the secret of the Spring

Moved in the chambers of the blood;



And many an old philosophy

  On Argive heights divinely sang,

  And round us all the thicket rang

To many a flute of Arcady.

XXIV

And was the day of my delight

  As pure and perfect as I say?

  The very source and fount of Day

Is dash'd with wandering isles of night.



If all was good and fair we met,

  This earth had been the Paradise

  It never look'd to human eyes

Since our first Sun arose and set.



And is it that the haze of grief

  Makes former gladness loom so great?

  The lowness of the present state,

That sets the past in this relief?



Or that the past will always win

  A glory from its being far;

  And orb into the perfect star

We saw not, when we moved therein?

XXV

I know that this was Life,—the track

  Whereon with equal feet we fared;

  And then, as now, the day prepared

The daily burden for the back.



But this it was that made me move

  As light as carrier-birds in air;

  I loved the weight I had to bear,

Because it needed help of Love:



Nor could I weary, heart or limb,

  When mighty Love would cleave in twain

  The lading of a single pain,

And part it, giving half to him.

XXVI

Still onward winds the dreary way;

  I with it; for I long to prove

  No lapse of moons can canker Love,

Whatever fickle tongues may say.



And if that eye which watches guilt

  And goodness, and hath power to see

  Within the green the moulder'd tree,

And towers fall'n as soon as built—



Oh, if indeed that eye foresee

  Or see (in Him is no before)

  In more of life true life no more

And Love the indifference to be,



Then might I find, ere yet the morn

  Breaks hither over Indian seas,

  That Shadow waiting with the keys,

To shroud me from my proper scorn.

XXVII

I envy not in any moods

  The captive void of noble rage,

  The linnet born within the cage,

That never knew the summer woods:



I envy not the beast that takes

  His license in the field of time,

  Unfetter'd by the sense of crime,

To whom a conscience never wakes;



Nor, what may count itself as blest,

  The heart that never plighted troth

  But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;

Nor any want-begotten rest.



I hold it true, whate'er befall;

  I feel it, when I sorrow most;

  'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.


我不妒忌笼中出生的小鸟——
    这缺乏高贵怒火的囚徒，
    不管它自己是否觉得幸福，
它从未见过夏天森林的奇妙；

我不妒忌为所欲为的野兽，
    它在自己的期限里放纵，
    不因犯罪感而约束行动，
也不因良心觉醒而发愁；

我不妒总从未作过盟誓的心，
    尽管它可以自诩为幸福，
    它只在懒惰的莠草中朽腐，
我不妒忌匮乏造成的安宁。

不论何事降临，我确信，
    在最悲痛的时刻我觉得：
    宁肯爱过而又失却，
也不愿做从未爱过的人。

XXVIII

The time draws near the birth of Christ:
    The moon is hid; the night is still;
    The Christmas bells from hill to hill
Answer each other in the mist.

Four voices of four hamlets round,
    From far and near, on mead and moor,
    Swell out and fail, as if a door
Were shut between me and the sound:

Each voice four changes on the wind,
    That now dilate, and now decrease,
    Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,
Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.

This year I slept and woke with pain,
    I almost wish'd no more to wake,
    And that my hold on life would break
Before I heard those bells again:

But they my troubled spirit rule,
    For they controll'd me when a boy;
    They bring me sorrow touch'd with joy,
The merry merry bells of Yule.


时间已接近基督的诞辰。
　　月亮隐没了，夜色静悄悄；
　　圣诞之钟此起彼伏地敲，
相应在山山之间的雾中。

附近四处村落的四套钟
　　响在远近的草场、荒原上。
　　响了又归于沉寂，就好像
我和钟声间关了一道门。

回响的钟声在风里变奏，
　　一会儿昂扬，一会儿低沉，
　　是安宁友善，是友善安宁，
是这些送到一切人心头。

今年我是睡是醒都是苦，
    差点儿只求永远别再醒，
    只求没听到下一次钟声，
我苟延的生命就已结束。

但这管住我不宁的心情，
　　因为这支配过年幼的我，
　　这带给我含喜悦的悲苦——
这欢欢喜喜的圣诞钟声。

XXIX

With such compelling cause to grieve
    As daily vexes household peace,
    And chains regret to his decease,
How dare we keep our Christmas-eve;


Which brings no more a welcome guest
    To enrich the threshold of the night
    With shower'd largess of delight
In dance and song and game and jest?


Yet go, and while the holly boughs
    Entwine the cold baptismal font,
    Make one wreath more for Use and Wont,
That guard the portals of the house;



Old sisters of a day gone by,
    Gray nurses, loving nothing new;
    Why should they miss their yearly due
Before their time? They too will die.

XXX

With trembling fingers did we weave
    The holly round the Chrismas hearth;
    A rainy cloud possess'd the earth,
And sadly fell our Christmas-eve.


At our old pastimes in the hall
    We gambol'd, making vain pretence
    Of gladness, with an awful sense
Of one mute Shadow watching all.


We paused: the winds were in the beech:
    We heard them sweep the winter land;
    And in a circle hand-in-hand
Sat silent, looking each at each.


Then echo-like our voices rang;
    We sung, tho' every eye was dim,
    A merry song we sang with him
Last year: impetuously we sang:br>

We ceased:a gentler feeling crept
    Upon us: surely rest is meet:
    `They rest,' we said, `their sleep is sweet,'
And silence follow'd, and we wept.


Our voices took a higher range;
    Once more we sang: `They do not die
    Nor lose their mortal sympathy,
Nor change to us, although they change;


'Rapt from the fickle and the frail
    With gather'd power, yet the same,
    Pierces the keen seraphic flame
From orb to orb, from veil to veil.'


Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn,
    Draw forth the cheerful day from night:
    O Father, touch the east, and light
The light that shone when Hope was born.


我们颤抖的手都在编绕
　　装点火炉旁的圣诞冬令
　　大地上笼罩着一片雨云，
圣诞夜凄凄惨惨地来到。

我们空做出高兴的样子，
　　在门厅里凭旧遣寻欢，
　　但是都有个可怕的直感：
有一缕幽魂注视着一切。

我们不玩了：风正吹柏树；
　　只听得风扫过冬日大地；
　　大家都是你看我，我看你，
默默地围坐着，手拉着手。

我们回声般的嗓音响起；
　　我们唱，眼里虽郁郁不乐，
　　唱去年同他一起唱的歌；
这欢歌我们唱得多躁急。

我们不唱了；沉静的感觉
　　悄悄来临：安息是最恰当。
　　我们说，“安息者睡得最香。”
接着静无声，我们摘下泪。

我们再把歌声唱得更响：
　　“他们虽变了，他们却没死，
　　同人间的感应也没丧失。
对我们来说并没有变样；

“这精魂之火聚足了力量，
　　给摄离脆弱多变的躯体，
　　一如其故从夭体到天体，
在天国的各部忽来忽往。”

来吧，欢乐而神圣的早晨，
　　从黑夜托出愉人的白天；
　　天父啊，请把东方点一点，
点亮那带来希望的明灯。

XXXI

When Lazarus left his charnel-cave,
And home to Mary's house return'd,
Was this demanded—if he yearn'd
To hear her weeping by his grave?


'Where wert thou, brother, those four days?'
There lives no record of reply,
Which telling what it is to die
Had surely added praise to praise.


From every house the neighbours met,
The streets were fill'd with joyful sound,
A solemn gladness even crown'd
The purple brows of Olivet.



Behold a man raised up by Christ!
The rest remaineth unreveal'd;
He told it not; or something seal'd
The lips of that Evangelist.

XXXII

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer,
Nor other thought her mind admits
But, he was dead, and there he sits,
And he that brought him back is there.


Then one deep love doth supersede
All other, when her ardent gaze
Roves from the living brother's face,
And rests upon the Life indeed.


All subtle thought, all curious fears,
Borne down by gladness so complete,
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet
With costly spikenard and with tears.



Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,
Whose loves in higher love endure;
What souls possess themselves so pure,
Or is there blessedness like theirs?

XXXIII

O thou that after toil and storm
Mayst seem to have reach'd a purer air,
Whose faith has centre everywhere,
Nor cares to fix itself to form,


Leave thou thy sister when she prays,
Her early Heaven, her happy views;
Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse
A life that leads melodious days.


Her faith thro' form is pure as thine,
Her hands are quicker unto good:
Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood
To which she links a truth divine!



See thou, that countess reason ripe
In holding by the law within,
Thou fail not in a world of sin,
And ev'n for want of such a type.

XXXIV

My own dim life should teach me this,
    That life shall live for evermore,
    Else earth is darkness at the core,
And dust and ashes all that is;


This round of green, this orb of flame,
    Fantastic beauty such as lurks
    In some wild Poet, when he works
Without a conscience or an aim.


What then were God to such as I?
    'Twere hardly worth my while to choose
    Of things all mortal, or to use
A tattle patience ere I die;


'Twere best at once to sink to peace,
    Like birds the charming serpent draws,
    To drop head-foremost in the jaws
Of vacant darkness and to cease.

此生虽暗淡，也应给教诲。
　　生命啊，就该是生生不息；
　　要不，世界就黑到芯子里——
一切，不过是骨殖和残灰。

这一团火焰，这一围绿地，
　　美得异样，就像是深埋在
　　某癫狂诗人心中的奇才——
创作时，他没意识和目的。

倘上帝对此有同感，怎办？
　　万物都得死，那就不值得
　　在其间作什么选择，或者
死前让性子稍稍耐一点；

那最好就立即瘫倒不动，
　　犹如被蛇唬得怔怔的鸟，
　　一头往上下毒牙间直掉，
掉进使它毙命的黑洞洞。

XXXV

Yet if some voice that man could trust
Should murmur from the narrow house,
`The cheeks drop in; the body bows;
Man dies: nor is there hope in dust:'


Might I not say? `Yet even here,
But for one hour, O Love, I strive
To keep so sweet a thing alive:'
But I should turn mine ears and hear


The moanings of the homeless sea,
The sound of streams that swift or slow
Draw down Æonian hills, and sow
The dust of continents to be;


And Love would answer with a sigh,
`The sound of that forgetful shore
Will change my sweetness more and more,
Half-dead to know that I shall die.'


O me, what profits it to put
An idle case? If Death were seen
At first as Death, Love had not been,
Or been in narrowest working shut,

Mere fellowship of sluggish moods,
Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape
Had bruised the herb and crush'd the grape,
And bask'd and batten'd in the woods.

XXXVI

Tho' truths in manhood darkly join,
Deep-seated in our mystic frame,
We yield all blessing to the name
Of Him that made them current coin;


For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers,
Where truth in closest words shall fail,
When truth embodied in a tale
Shall enter in at lowly doors.


And so the Word had breath, and wrought
With human hands the creed of creeds
In loveliness of perfect deeds,
More strong than all poetic thought;

Which he may read that binds the sheaf,
Or builds the house, or digs the grave,
And those wild eyes that watch the wave
In roarings round the coral reef.

XXXVII

Urania speaks with darken'd brow:
`Thou pratest here where thou art least;
This faith has many a purer priest,
And many an abler voice than thou.


'Go down beside thy native rill,
On thy Parnassus set thy feet,
And hear thy laurel whisper sweet
About the ledges of the hill.'


And my Melpomene replies,
A touch of shame upon her cheek:
`I am not worthy ev'n to speak
Of thy prevailing mysteries;


'For I am but an earthly Muse,
And owning but a little art
To lull with song an aching heart,
And render human love his dues;


'But brooding on the dear one dead,
And all he said of things divine,
(And dear to me as sacred wine
To dying lips is all he said),

'I murmur'd, as I came along,
Of comfort clasp'd in truth reveal'd;
And loiter'd in the master's field,
And darken'd sanctities with song.'

XXXVIII

With weary steps I loiter on,
Tho' always under alter'd skies
The purple from the distance dies,
My prospect and horizon gone.


No joy the blowing season gives,
The herald melodies of spring,
But in the songs I love to sing
A doubtful gleam of solace lives.


If any care for what is here
Survive in spirits render'd free,
Then are these songs I sing of thee
Not all ungrateful to thine ear.

XXXIX

Old warder of these buried bones,
    And answering now my random stroke
    With fruitful cloud and living smoke,
Dark yew, that graspest at the stones


And dippest toward the dreamless head,
    To thee too comes the golden hour
    When flower is feeling after flower;
But Sorrow—fixt upon the dead,



And darkening the dark graves of men,—
    What whisper'd from her lying lips?
    Thy gloom is kindled at the tips,
And passes into gloom again.

你这地下骸骨的老守卫，
　　我随意拍动，你便一蓬蓬
　　扬出能结果、传种的花粉，
郁郁的紫杉，你伸向石碑，

朝无梦的头低低地俯着，
    黄金般时光你也同样有，
    那时侯花儿把花儿寻求。
但悲苦之神笼罩着死者，

遮暗了人们幽暗的墓地，
    是什么出自她撒谎的嘴？
    阴暗的你枝梢上亮一会，
随即再次淹没在阴暗里。

XL

Could we forget the widow'd hour
And look on Spirits breathed away,
As on a maiden in the day
When first she wears her orange-flower!


When crown'd with blessing she doth rise
To take her latest leave of home,
And hopes and light regrets that come
Make April of her tender eyes;


And doubtful joys the father move,
And tears are on the mother's face,
As parting with a long embrace
She enters other realms of love;


Her office there to rear, to teach,
Becoming as is meet and fit
A link among the days, to knit
The generations each with each;


And, doubtless, unto thee is given
A life that bears immortal fruit
In those great offices that suit
The full-grown energies of heaven.


Ay me, the difference I discern!
How often shall her old fireside
Be cheer'd with tidings of the bride,
How often she herself return,


And tell them all they would have told,
And bring her babe, and make her boast,
Till even those that miss'd her most
Shall count new things as dear as old:

But thou and I have shaken hands,
Till growing winters lay me low;
My paths are in the fields I know.
And thine in undiscover'd lands.

XLI

Thy spirit ere our fatal loss
Did ever rise from high to higher;
As mounts the heavenward altar-fire,
As flies the lighter thro' the gross.

But thou art turn'd to something strange,
And I have lost the links that bound
Thy changes; here upon the ground,
No more partaker of thy change.


Deep folly! yet that this could be—
That I could wing my will with might
To leap the grades of life and light,
And flash at once, my friend, to thee.


For tho' my nature rarely yields
To that vague fear implied in death;
Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath,
The howlings from forgotten fields;


Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor
An inner trouble I behold,
A spectral doubt which makes me cold,
That I shall be thy mate no more,


Tho' following with an upward mind
The wonders that have come to thee,
Thro' all the secular to-be,
But evermore a life behind.

XLII

I vex my heart with fancies dim:
He still outstript me in the race;
It was but unity of place
That made me dream I rank'd with him.


And so may Place retain us still,
And he the much-beloved again,
A lord of large experience, train
To riper growth the mind and will:

And what delights can equal those
That stir the spirit's inner deeps,
When one that loves but knows not, reaps
A truth from one that loves and knows?

XLIII

If Sleep and Death be truly one,
And every spirit's folded bloom
Thro' all its intervital gloom
In some long trance should slumber on;

Unconscious of the sliding hour,
Bare of the body, might it last,
And silent traces of the past
Be all the colour of the flower:


So then were nothing lost to man;
So that still garden of the souls
In many a figured leaf enrolls
The total world since life began;


And love will last as pure and whole
As when he loved me here in Time,
And at the spiritual prime
Rewaken with the dawning soul.

XLIV

How fares it with the happy dead?
For here the man is more and more;
But he forgets the days before
God shut the doorways of his head.


The days have vanish'd, tone and tint,
And yet perhaps the hoarding sense
Gives out at times (he knows not whence)
A little flash, a mystic hint;


And in the long harmonious years
(If Death so taste Lethean springs
May some dim touch of earthly things)
Surprise thee ranging with thy peers.


If such a dreamy touch should fall,
O, turn thee round, resolve the doubt;
My guardian angel will speak out
In that high place, and tell thee all.

XLV

The baby new to earth and sky,
What time his tender palm is prest
Against the circle of the breast,
Has never thought that `this is I:'


But as he grows he gathers much,
And learns the use of `I' and `me,'
And finds `I am not what I see,
And other than the things I touch.'


So rounds he to a separate mind
From whence clear memory may begin,
As thro' the frame that binds him in
His isolation grows defined.


This use may lie in blood and breath,
Which else were fruitless of their due,
Had man to learn himself anew
Beyond the second birth of Death.

XLVI

We ranging down this lower track,
    The path we came by, thorn and flower,
    Is shadow'd by the growing hour,
Lest life should fail in looking back.


So be it: there no shade can last
    In that deep dawn behind the tomb,
    But clear from marge to marge shall bloom
The eternal landscape of the past;


A lifelong tract of time reveal'd;
    The fruitful hours of still increase;
    Days order'd in a wealthy peace,
And those five years its richest field.


O Love, thy province were not large,
    A bounded field, nor stretching far;
    Look also, Love, a brooding star,
A rosy warmth from marge to marge.

我们沿低处的小路漫步，
　　荆棘、繁花和来时的幽径
　　随时光流逝而蒙上暗影，
要不然生活将无从回顾。

任其如此：暗影将绝不会
　　存在于墓后一片曙色中，
　　而往昔的景物自始至终
将永远发出清澈的光辉，

呈现的将是一生的时光，
　　是果实不断积累的时刻，
　　是宁静有序的丰饶时日——一
其中数那五年最最充畅。

爱神哪，你的疆域并不大，
　　只不过有着很狭的四境；
　　但你看，一颗温暖的星星
把玫瑰的色彩普降天下。

XLVII

That each, who seems a separate whole,
Should move his rounds, and fusing all
The skirts of self again, should fall
Remerging in the general Soul,


Is faith as vague as all unsweet:
Eternal form shall still divide
The eternal soul from all beside;
And I shall know him when we meet:


And we shall sit at endless feast,
Enjoying each the other's good:
What vaster dream can hit the mood
Of Love on earth? He seeks at least

Upon the last and sharpest height,
Before the spirits fade away,
Some landing-place, to clasp and say,
'Farewell! We lose ourselves in light.'

XLVIII

If these brief lays, of Sorrow born,
Were taken to be such as closed
Grave doubts and answers here proposed,
Then these were such as men might scorn:


Her care is not to part and prove;
She takes, when harsher moods remit,
What slender shade of doubt may flit,
And makes it vassal unto love:


And hence, indeed, she sports with words,
But better serves a wholesome law,
And holds it sin and shame to draw
The deepest measure from the chords:


Nor dare she trust a larger lay,
But rather loosens from the lip
Short swallow-flights of song, that dip
Their wings in tears, and skim away.

XLIX

From art, from nature, from the schools,
Let random influences glance,
Like light in many a shiver'd lance
That breaks about the dappled pools:

The lightest wave of thought shall lisp,
The fancy's tenderest eddy wreathe,
The slightest air of song shall breathe
To make the sullen surface crisp.


And look thy look, and go thy way,
But blame not thou the winds that make
The seeming-wanton ripple break,
The tender-pencil'd shadow play.

Beneath all fancied hopes and fears
Ay me, the sorrow deepens down.
Whose muffled motions blindly drown
The bases of my life in tears.

L

Be near me when my light is low,
When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick
And tingle; and the heart is sick,
And all the wheels of Being slow.


Be near me when the sensuous frame
Is rack'd with pangs that conquer trust;
And Time, a maniac scattering dust,
And Life, a Fury slinging flame.


Be near me when my faith is dry,
And men the flies of latter spring,
That lay their eggs, and sting and sing
And weave their petty cells and die.


Be near me when I fade away,
To point the term of human strife,
And on the low dark verge of life
The twilight of eternal day.

请来我身边、当我年已暮，
　　血气已衰落，神经在刺痛；
　　当我的心感到怔忡沉重，
当生命的机能都已麻木。

请来我身边，当我的感官
　　为压倒信心的痛楚所苦；
　　而时光像狂徒乱撒尘土，
生活像复仇女神喷火焰。

请来我身边，当我的信仰
　　已枯竭，人们像晓春飞虫—一
　　下过了卵，又叮人又哼哼，
织成个小小茧儿等死亡。

请来我身边，当我逝去时，
　　来标明人生斗争的终点，
　　在生活低处的幽暗边缘，
来指点永恒白日的曙色。

LI

Do we indeed desire the dead
Should still be near us at our side?
Is there no baseness we would hide?
No inner vileness that we dread?


Shall he for whose applause I strove,
I had such reverence for his blame,
See with clear eye some hidden shame
And I be lessen'd in his love?


I wrong the grave with fears untrue:
Shall love be blamed for want of faith?
There must be wisdom with great Death:
The dead shall look me thro' and thro'.


Be near us when we climb or fall:
Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours
With larger other eyes than ours,
To make allowance for us all.

LII

I cannot love thee as I ought,
For love reflects the thing beloved;
My words are only words, and moved
Upon the topmost froth of thought.


'Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song,'
The Spirit of true love replied;
`Thou canst not move me from thy side,
Nor human frailty do me wrong.


'What keeps a spirit wholly true
To that ideal which he bears?
What record? not the sinless years
That breathed beneath the Syrian blue:

'So fret not, like an idle girl,
That life is dash'd with flecks of sin.
Abide: thy wealth is gather'd in,
When Time hath sunder'd shell from pearl.'

LIII

How many a father have I seen,
A sober man, among his boys,
Whose youth was full of foolish noise,
Who wears his manhood hale and green:


And dare we to this fancy give,
That had the wild oat not been sown,
The soil, left barren, scarce had grown
The grain by which a man may live?


Or, if we held the doctrine sound
For life outliving heats of youth,
Yet who would preach it as a truth
To those that eddy round and round?



Hold thou the good: define it well:
For fear divine Philosophy
Should push beyond her mark, and be
Procuress to the Lords of Hell.

LIV

Oh yet we trust that somehow good
    Will be the final goal of ill,
    To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;


That nothing walks with aimless feet;
    That not one life shall be destroy'd,
    Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete;


That not a worm is cloven in vain;
    That not a moth with vain desire
    Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another's gain.


Behold, we know not anything;
    I can but trust that good shall fall
    At last—far off—at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.


So runs my dream: but what am I?
    An infant crying in the night:
    An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.


我们仍然相信：不管如何
    恶最终将达到善的目的地，
    不论是信仰危机、血的污迹
自然的苦难和意志的罪恶；

相信天下事不走无目标之路
    相信等到造物完工之时，
    没有一条性命会被丢失，
被当作垃圾而投入虚无；

相信没一条虫被白白斩劈，
    没一只飞蛾带着徒然追求
    在无意义的火焰中烧皱，
或是仅仅去替别人赢利。

看哪，我们任什么都不懂．
    我只能相信善总会降临，
    在遥远的未来，降临众生，
而每个冬天都将化成春风。

我这样梦着，但我是何人？——
    一个孩子在黑夜里哭喊，
    一个孩子在把光明呼唤，
没有语言，而唯有哭声。

LV

The wish, that of the living whole
    No life may fail beyond the grave,
    Derives it not from what we have
The likest God within the soul?


Are God and Nature then at strife,
    That Nature lends such evil dreams?
    So careful of the type she seems,
So careless of the single life;


That I, considering everywhere
    Her secret meaning in her deeds,
    And finding that of fifty seeds
She often brings but one to bear,


I falter where I firmly trod,
    And falling with my weight of cares
    Upon the great world's altar-stairs
That slope thro' darkness up to God,



I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,
    And gather dust and chaff, and call
    To what I feel is Lord of all,
And faintly trust the larger hope.


我们总希望有生之物
    在死后生命也不止熄，
    这莫非是来自我们心底——
灵魂中最像上帝之处？

上帝和自然是否有冲突？
    因为自然给予的全是恶梦，
    她似乎仅仅关心物种，
而对个体的生命毫不在乎，

于是找到处探索、琢磨
    她行为中的隐秘含义，
    我发现在五十颗种子里
她通常仅仅养成一颗，

我的稳步已变成了蹒跚，
    忧虑的重压使我倾跌，
    登不上大世界祭坛之阶，
无力在昏暗中向上帝登攀，

我弱小伤残的信仰之掌，
    摸索着搜集灰尘和糠秕，
    呼唤那我感觉是上帝的东西
而模糊地相信更大的希望。

LVI

'So careful of the type?' but no.
From scarped cliff and quarried stone
She cries, `A thousand types are gone:
I care for nothing, all shall go.


'Thou makest thine appeal to me:
I bring to life, I bring to death:
The spirit does but mean the breath:
I know no more.' And he, shall he,


Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair,
Such splendid purpose in his eyes,
Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies,
Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,


Who trusted God was love indeed
And love Creation's final law—
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw
With ravine, shriek'd against his creed—


Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills,
Who battled for the True, the Just,
Be blown about the desert dust,
Or seal'd within the iron hills?


No more? A monster then, a dream,
A discord. Dragons of the prime,
That tare each other in their slime,
Were mellow music match'd with him.



O life as futile, then, as frail!
O for thy voice to soothe and bless!
What hope of answer, or redress?
Behind the veil, behind the veil.


“难送我关心物种吗？”不！
自然从岩层和化石中叫喊：
“物种已绝灭了千千万万，
我全不在乎，一切都要结束。

你向我呼吁，求我仁慈；
我令万物生，我使万物死，
灵魂仅仅意昧着呼吸，
我所知道的仅止于此。”

难道说，人——她最后最美的作品
眼中闪耀着目标的光芒，
建造起徒然祈祷的庙堂，
把颂歌迭上冰冷的天庭，

他相信上帝与仁爱一体，
相信爱是造物的最终法则，
而不管自然的爪牙染满了血，
叫喊着反对他的教义，
他曾为真理和正义而斗争，
他爱过，也受过无穷苦难，——
难道他也将随风沙吹散，
或被封存在铁山底层？

从此消灭？这是一场恶梦，
一个不和谐音。原始的巨龙
在泥沼之中互相撕裂，
与此相比也是柔美的音乐！

生命是多么徒劳而脆弱！
啊，但愿你的声音能安慰我！
哪儿能找到回答或补救？
唯有在通过了帷幕之后。

LVII

Peace; come away: the song of woe
    Is after all an earthly song:
    Peace; come away: we do him wrong
To sing so wildly: let us go.



Come; let us go: your cheeks are pale;
    But half my life I leave behind:
    Methinks my friend is richly shrined;
But I shall pass; my work will fail.


Yet in these ears, till hearing dies,
    One set slow bell will seem to toll
    The passing of the sweetest soul
That ever look'd with human eyes.



I hear it now, and o'er and o'er,
    Eternal greetings to the dead;
    And `Ave, Ave, Ave,' said,
'Adieu, adieu,' for evermore.


安静地走吧；这悲伤的歌
    毕竟是我们尘世的声音．
    安静地走吧；这狂烈哀吟
是对他的不敬。我们走吧。

让我们走吧；你脸上失色，
　　而我已留下了半个生命。
　　我想，这挚友葬得很隆重；
可我若不走多工作将耽搁。

但只要听觉尚存，我耳里
　　将仿佛有套钟慢慢敲响，
　　为最最温雅的灵魂报丧—
他观察的眼睛通情达理。

这钟声是对死者的祝愿，
　　如今我听到它始终在敲，
　　它在说“您好，您好，您好”，
它永远在说“再见啦再见”。

LVIII

In those sad words I took farewell:
Like echoes in sepulchral halls,
As drop by drop the water falls
In vaults and catacombs, they fell;


And, falling, idly broke the peace
Of hearts that beat from day to day,
Half-conscious of their dying clay,
And those cold crypts where they shall cease.



The high Muse answer'd: `Wherefore grieve
Thy brethren with a fruitless tear?
Abide a little longer here,
And thou shalt take a nobler leave.'

LIX

O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me
No casual mistress, but a wife,
My bosom-friend and half of life;
As I confess it needs must be;


O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood,
Be sometimes lovely like a bride,
And put thy harsher moods aside,
If thou wilt have me wise and good.


My centred passion cannot move,
Nor will it lessen from to-day;
But I'll have leave at times to play
As with the creature of my love;


And set thee forth, for thou art mine,
With so much hope for years to come,
That, howsoe'er I know thee, some
Could hardly tell what name were thine.

LX

He past; a soul of nobler tone:
My spirit loved and loves him yet,
Like some poor girl whose heart is set
On one whose rank exceeds her own.


He mixing with his proper sphere,
She finds the baseness of her lot,
Half jealous of she knows not what,
And envying all that meet him there.


The little village looks forlorn;
She sighs amid her narrow days,
Moving about the household ways,
In that dark house where she was born.

The foolish neighbors come and go,
And tease her till the day draws by:
At night she weeps, `How vain am I!'
How should he love a thing so low?'

LXI

If, in thy second state sublime,
Thy ransom'd reason change replies
With all the circle of the wise,
The perfect flower of human time;


And if thou cast thine eyes below,
How dimly character'd and slight,
How dwarf'd a growth of cold and night,
How blanch'd with darkness must I grow!


Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore,
Where thy first form was made a man;
I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can
The soul of Shakspeare love thee more.

LXII

Tho' if an eye that's downward cast
Could make thee somewhat blench or fail,
Then be my love an idle tale,
And fading legend of the past;


And thou, as one that once declined,
When he was little more than boy,
On some unworthy heart with joy,
But lives to wed an equal mind;


And breathes a novel world, the while
His other passion wholly dies,
Or in the light of deeper eyes
Is matter for a flying smile.

LXIII

Yet pity for a horse o'er-driven,
And love in which my hound has part,
Can hang no weight upon my heart
In its assumptions up to heaven;


And I am so much more than these,
As thou, perchance, art more than I,
And yet I spare them sympathy,
And I would set their pains at ease.


So mayst thou watch me where I weep,
As, unto vaster motions bound,
The circuits of thine orbit round
A higher height, a deeper deep.

LXIV

Dost thou look back on what hath been,
    As some divinely gifted man,
    Whose life in low estate began
And on a simple village green;


Who breaks his birth's invidious bar,
    And grasps the skirts of happy chance,
    And breasts the blows of circumstance,
And grapples with his evil star;


Who makes by force his merit known
    And lives to clutch the golden keys,
    To mould a mighty state's decrees,
And shape the whisper of the throne;


And moving up from high to higher,
    Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope
    The pillar of a people's hope,
The centre of a world's desire;


Yet feels, as in a pensive dream,
    When all his active powers are still,
    A distant dearness in the hill,
A secret sweetness in the stream,


The limit of his narrower fate,
    While yet beside its vocal springs
    He play'd at counsellors and kings,
With one that was his earliest mate;



Who ploughs with pain his native lea
    And reaps the labour of his hands,
    Or in the furrow musing stands;
'Does my old friend remember me?'

你是不是回顾前尘往事？——
　　像一位特别有天赋的人，
　　他生于简朴的绿色农村，
他的生活在低微中开始。

他冲破出身的不利障碍，
　　抓住了幸运女神的长裙。
　　同他的灾星搏斗个不停，
对抗着逆境的跌打滚摔；

他硬使其优点为人所知，
　　终于把金钥匙捏在手中，
　　为一个强国拟订出法令。
左右着来自宝座的低语，

他在幸运的坡道上晋升，
　　升到登峰造极的位置上，
　　成了百姓期望中的栋梁，
也成了世人仰慕的中心；

但像在多思的梦中一般，
　　当他处于身心休憩之际，
　　仍感到遥远山丘的亲密，
感到对溪流的无名依恋——

那是他住时的狭窄天地，
　　在那水声淙淙的小河边，
　　他曾同他最早的小伙伴
就过大臣和国王的游戏；

这伙伴在故乡辛勤耕作，
　　收获他亲手劳动的果实，
　　会不会站在犁沟边沉思：
“我那老朋友可还记得我？”

LXV

Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt;
I lull a fancy trouble-tost
With `Love's too precious to be lost,
A little grain shall not be spilt.'


And in that solace can I sing,
Till out of painful phases wrought
There flutters up a happy thought,
Self-balanced on a lightsome wing:


Since we deserved the name of friends,
And thine effect so lives in me,
A part of mine may live in thee
And move thee on to noble ends.

LXVI

You thought my heart too far diseased;
You wonder when my fancies play
To find me gay among the gay,
Like one with any trifle pleased.


The shade by which my life was crost,
Which makes a desert in the mind,
Has made me kindly with my kind,
And like to him whose sight is lost;


Whose feet are guided thro' the land,
Whose jest among his friends is free,
Who takes the children on his knee,
And winds their curls about his hand:


He plays with threads, he beats his chair
For pastime, dreaming of the sky;
His inner day can never die,
His night of loss is always there.


每当月光洒到了我床上，
　　我知道在你的安息之地，
　　映着西部那大片的涟漪，
有一道光辉正照上了墙：

你那块云石亮在黑暗里，
　　这时银泽慢慢地挪啊挪，
    挪过你姓名的每个字母，
挪过你生卒的年份、日期。

这玄妙的光辉飘忽而逝，
　　月光也渐渐离开我的床；
　　于是我把疲倦的眼合上，
直睡到夜色里浸透晨曦。

这时我知道，透明的薄雾
    像面纱蒙上了我国大地，
    你的铭牌在漆黑教堂里
正在曙色中幽幽地显露。

LXVII

When on my bed the moonlight falls,
I know that in thy place of rest
By that broad water of the west,
There comes a glory on the walls;


Thy marble bright in dark appears,
As slowly steals a silver flame
Along the letters of thy name,
And o'er the number of thy years.


The mystic glory swims away;
From off my bed the moonlight dies;
And closing eaves of wearied eyes
I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray;


And then I know the mist is drawn
A lucid veil from coast to coast,
And in the dark church like a ghost
Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn.

LXVIII

When in the down I sink my head,
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times my breath;
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows not Death,
Nor can I dream of thee as dead:


I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn,
When all our path was fresh with dew,
And all the bugle breezes blew
Reveillée to the breaking morn.


But what is this? I turn about,
I find a trouble in thine eye,
Which makes me sad I know not why,
Nor can my dream resolve the doubt:

But ere the lark hath left the lea
I wake, and I discern the truth;
It is the trouble of my youth
That foolish sleep transfers to thee.

LXIX

I dream'd there would be Spring no more,
    That Nature's ancient power was lost:
    The streets were black with smoke and frost,
They chatter'd trifles at the door:


I wander'd from the noisy town,
    I found a wood with thorny boughs:
    I took the thorns to bind my brows,
I wore them like a civic crown:


I met with scoffs, I met with scorns
    From youth and babe and hoary hairs:
    They call'd me in the public squares
The fool that wears a crown of thorns:


They call'd me fool, they call'd me child:
    I found an angel of the night;
    The voice was low, the look was bright;
He look'd upon my crown and smiled:



He reach'd the glory of a hand,
    That seem'd to touch it into leaf:
    The voice was not the voice of grief,
The words were hard to understand.

我梦见春天已不再降临——
　　大自然丧失这固有能力；
　　浓烟和冰使街上黑漆漆，
人们在门边谈琐碎事情。

我信步走离喧闹的城厢，
　　来到了满是荆条的林边；
　　我用荆条在额头围一圈—一
像个普通花冠戴在头上。

我遇见幼儿、老人和青年，
    他们只对我轻蔑和耻笑，
    在大庭广众里把我呼叫，
骂我是戴着荆冠的笨蛋。

他们骂我没出息、是笨蛋，
　　我却遇到了夜间的天使；
　　他神情开朗，说话声很低，
他微笑着看看我的荆冠。

他伸出了光芒四射的手，
　　像要在冠上点化出绿叶；
　　他的说话声虽然不悲切，
但话中的意思却难领悟。

LXX

I cannot see the features right,
When on the gloom I strive to paint
The face I know; the hues are faint
And mix with hollow masks of night;


Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought,
A gulf that ever shuts and gapes,
A hand that points, and palled shapes
In shadowy thoroughfares of thought;


And crowds that stream from yawning doors,
And shoals of pucker'd faces drive;
Dark bulks that tumble half alive,
And lazy lengths on boundless shores;

Till all at once beyond the will
I hear a wizard music roll,
And thro' a lattice on the soul
Looks thy fair face and makes it still.

LXXI

Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance
And madness, thou hast forged at last
A night-long Present of the Past
In which we went thro' summer France.


Hadst thou such credit with the soul?
Then bring an opiate trebly strong,
Drug down the blindfold sense of wrong
That so my pleasure may be whole;


While now we talk as once we talk'd
Of men and minds, the dust of change,
The days that grow to something strange,
In walking as of old we walk'd

Beside the river's wooded reach,
The fortress, and the mountain ridge,
The cataract flashing from the bridge,
The breaker breaking on the beach.

LXXII

Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again,
And howlest, issuing out of night,
With blasts that blow the poplar white,
And lash with storm the streaming pane?


Day, when my crown'd estate begun
To pine in that reverse of doom,
Which sicken'd every living bloom,
And blurr'd the splendour of the sun;


Who usherest in the dolorous hour
With thy quick tears that make the rose
Pull sideways, and the daisy close
Her crimson fringes to the shower;


Who might'st have heaved a windless flame
Up the deep East, or, whispering, play'd
A chequer-work of beam and shade
Along the hills, yet look'd the same.


As wan, as chill, as wild as now;
Day, mark'd as with some hideous crime,
When the dark hand struck down thro' time,
And cancell'd nature's best: but thou,


Lift as thou may'st thy burthen'd brows
Thro' clouds that drench the morning star,
And whirl the ungarner'd sheaf afar,
And sow the sky with flying boughs,


And up thy vault with roaring sound
Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day;
Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray,
And hide thy shame beneath the ground.

LXXIII

So many worlds, so much to do,
So little done, such things to be,
How know I what had need of thee,
For thou wert strong as thou wert true?


The fame is quench'd that I foresaw,
The head hath miss'd an earthly wreath:
I curse not nature, no, nor death;
For nothing is that errs from law.


We pass; the path that each man trod
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds:
What fame is left for human deeds
In endless age? It rests with God.


O hollow wraith of dying fame,
Fade wholly, while the soul exults,
And self-infolds the large results
Of force that would have forged a name.

LXXIV

As sometimes in a dead man's face,
    To those that watch it more and more,
    A likeness, hardly seen before,
Comes out—to some one of his race:


So, dearest, now thy brows are cold,
    I see thee what thou art, and know
    Thy likeness to the wise below,
Thy kindred with the great of old.


But there is more than I can see,
    And what I see I leave unsaid,
    Nor speak it, knowing Death has made
His darkness beautiful with thee.


在越看越仔细的人眼里，
　　有时在一位死者的脸上
　　会发现前所未见的相像—一
同他家族里的某人相似。

同样，你亲爱的脸虽已冷，
　　我却看明白了你，看清了
　　你像已埋在地下的死者，
并是古代伟人们的至亲。

但我并没有全部看清楚，
    而看清之处我没有全说，
    也不想谈论，因为我懂得：
死神用你美化他那黑处。

LXXV

I leave thy praises unexpress'd
    In verse that brings myself relief,
    And by the measure of my grief
I leave thy greatness to be guess'd;


What practice howsoe'er expert
    In fitting aptest words to things,
    Or voice the richest-toned that sings,
Hath power to give thee as thou wert?


I care not in these fading days
    To raise a cry that lasts not long,
    And round thee with the breeze of song
To stir a little dust of praise.


Thy leaf has perish'd in the green,
    And, while we breathe beneath the sun,
    The world which credits what is done
Is cold to all that might have been.


So here shall silence guard thy fame;
    But somewhere, out of human view,
    Whate'er thy hands are set to do
Is wrought with tumult of acclaim.

LXXVI

Take wings of fancy, and ascend,
And in a moment set thy face
Where all the starry heavens of space
Are sharpen'd to a needle's end;


Take wings of foresight; lighten thro'
The secular abyss to come,
And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb
Before the mouldering of a yew;


And if the matin songs, that woke
The darkness of our planet, last,
Thine own shall wither in the vast,
Ere half the lifetime of an oak.



Ere these have clothed their branchy bowers
With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain;
And what are they when these remain
The ruin'd shells of hollow towers?

LXXVII

What hope is here for modern rhyme
To him, who turns a musing eye
On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie
Foreshorten'd in the tract of time?


These mortal lullabies of pain
May bind a book, may line a box,
May serve to curl a maiden's locks;
Or when a thousand moons shall wane


A man upon a stall may find,
And, passing, turn the page that tells
A grief, then changed to something else,
Sung by a long-forgotten mind.


But what of that? My darken'd ways
Shall ring with music all the same;
To breathe my loss is more than fame,
To utter love more sweet than praise.

LXXVIII

Again at Christmas did we weave
    The holly round the Christmas hearth;
    The silent snow possess'd the earth,
And calmly fell our Christmas-eve:


The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost,
    No wing of wind the region swept,
    But over all things brooding slept
The quiet sense of something lost.


As in the winters left behind,
    Again our ancient games had place,
    The mimic picture's breathing grace,
And dance and song and hoodman-blind.


Who show'd a token of distress?
    No single tear, no mark of pain:
    O sorrow, then can sorrow wane?
O grief, can grief be changed to less?


O last regret, regret can die!
    No—mixt with all this mystic frame,
    Her deep relations are the same,
But with long use her tears are dry.

圣诞节，我们又在用冬青
　　编着装点节日的壁炉；
　　无声的积雪把大地镇住，
我们的圣诞夜静静降临。

冻住的大木段火花直爆，
　　没有一丝风掠过这地方，
　　但在郁郁沉沉的万物上，
有种失落之感悄悄笼罩。

像以往那些冬天里一样，
　　我们又玩起从前的游戏。
　　照艺术品摆出逼真姿势，
再加唱歌、跳舞和捉迷藏。

谁流露一点忧伤的征兆？
　　没有一滴泪，没痛苦痕迹——
　　悲痛啊，悲痛也能够消逝？
哀愁啊，哀愁也能够变少？

极度的抱憾哪，能够凋殒！
　　不；同一切难解心情相缠，
　　哀痛的深层联系仍不变，
但是因哀痛已久泪流尽。

LXXIX

'More than my brothers are to me,'—
Let this not vex thee, noble heart!
I know thee of what force thou art
To hold the costliest love in fee.


But thou and I are one in kind,
As moulded like in Nature's mint;
And hill and wood and field did print
The same sweet forms in either mind.


For us the same cold streamlet curl'd
Thro' all his eddying coves, the same
All winds that roam the twilight came
In whispers of the beauteous world.


At one dear knee we proffer'd vows,
One lesson from one book we learn'd,
Ere childhood's flaxen ringlet turn'd
To black and brown on kindred brows.



And so my wealth resembles thine,
But he was rich where I was poor,
And he supplied my want the more
As his unlikeness fitted mine.

LXXX

If any vague desire should rise,
That holy Death ere Arthur died
Had moved me kindly from his side,
And dropt the dust on tearless eyes;


Then fancy shapes, as fancy can,
The grief my loss in him had wrought,
A grief as deep as life or thought,
But stay'd in peace with God and man.


I make a picture in the brain;
I hear the sentence that he speaks;
He bears the burthen of the weeks
But turns his burthen into gain.


His credit thus shall set me free;
And, influence-rich to soothe and save,
Unused example from the grave
Reach out dead hands to comfort me.

LXXXI

Could I have said while he was here,
`My love shall now no further range;
There cannot come a mellower change,
For now is love mature in ear'?


Love, then, had hope of richer store:
What end is here to my complaint?
This haunting whisper makes me faint,
'More years had made me love thee more.'


But Death returns an answer sweet:
`My sudden frost was sudden gain,
And gave all ripeness to the grain,
It might have drawn from after-heat.'

LXXXII

I wage not any feud with Death
For changes wrought on form and face;
No lower life that earth's embrace
May breed with him, can fright my faith.


Eternal process moving on,
From state to state the spirit walks;
And these are but the shatter'd stalks,
Or ruin'd chrysalis of one.


Nor blame I Death, because he bare
The use of virtue out of earth:
I know transplanted human worth
Will bloom to profit, otherwhere.


For this alone on Death I wreak
The wrath that garners in my heart;
He put our lives so far apart
We cannot hear each other speak.

LXXIII

Dip down upon the northern shore,
O sweet new-year delaying long;
Thou doest expectant nature wrong;
Delaying long, delay no more.


What stays thee from the clouded noons,
Thy sweetness from its proper place?
Can trouble live with April days,
Or sadness in the summer moons?


Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire,
The little speedwell's darling blue,
Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew,
Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire.


O thou, new-year, delaying long,
Delayest the sorrow in my blood,
That longs to burst a frozen bud
And flood a fresher throat with song.



迟迟不来的煦和新春哪，
    违拂了万物盼你的心意；
    请降临我们这北国之地；
你耽搁已久，别再耽搁吧！

是什么留住你那种温馨，
    留住你云翳遮掩的中午？
    忧烦怎能同四月天相处？
悲愁怎能和夏时月并存？

请带来幽兰、细嫩毛地黄、
    蓝得可爱的小小婆婆纳、
    串串火球一般的金链花、
露珠闪熠的浓彩郁金香．

啊，你这迟迟不来的新春，
    抑住我深入血脉的哀思；
    这哀思只求吐冻芽一支，
让温润的咽喉涌出歌声。

LXXXIV

When I contemplate all alone
    The life that had been thine below,
    And fix my thoughts on all the glow
To which thy crescent would have grown;


I see thee sitting crown'd with good,
    A central warmth diffusing bliss
    In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss,
On all the branches of thy blood;


Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine;
    For now the day was drawing on,
    When thou should'st link thy life with one
Of mine own house, and boys of thine


Had babbled `Uncle' on my knee;
    But that remorseless iron hour
    Made cypress of her orange flower,
Despair of Hope, and earth of thee.


I seem to meet their least desire,
    To clap their cheeks, to call them mine.
    I see their unborn faces shine
Beside the never-lighted fire.


I see myself an honor'd guest,
    Thy partner in the flowery walk
    Of letters, genial table-talk,
Or deep dispute, and graceful jest;


While now thy prosperous labor fills
    The lips of men with honest praise,
    And sun by sun the happy days
Descend below the golden hills


With promise of a morn as fair;
    And all the train of bounteous hours
    Conduct by paths of growing powers,
To reverence and the silver hair;


Till slowly worn her earthly robe,
    Her lavish mission richly wrought,
    Leaving great legacies of thought,
Thy spirit should fail from off the globe;


What time mine own might also flee,
    As link'd with thine in love and fate,
    And, hovering o'er the dolorous strait
To the other shore, involved in thee,


Arrive at last the blessed goal,
    And He that died in Holy Land
    Would reach us out the shining hand,
And take us as a single soul.


What reed was that on which I leant?
    Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake
    The old bitterness again, and break
The low beginnings of content.

每当我独自凝神地思量；
　　你本在下界度过的人生，
　　思量你那新月本会变盈——
那时将发出怎样的辉光——

就见你满心是善地坐着，
　　像散发福祉的温暖中心——
　　凭眼光和微笑、握手和吻
向你家族的所有人发射；

朋友，你的亲属是我亲戚；
　　因为那时候佳期已临近，
　　你的生活将同我家的人
联结在一起，而你的子女

爬上我膝头牙牙叫“舅父”，
　　但那个铁一般无情时刻
　　使她的香橙花变为柏枝，
使希望变泡影、你变尘土。

我仿佛满足他们小愿望。
　　拍他们脸颊，叫他们宝宝。
　　他们未出世的面庞闪耀
在你从未点起的炉火旁。

我看到自己还成了贵宾，
　　同你在一起作亲切探讨、
　　深入论争，开优雅的玩笑，
肩并肩走着文学的花径，

看到如今你宏富的创作。
　　博得了衷心的交口称赞，
　　日复一日让欢愉的白天
在晚霞金彩的山后沉落——

许下个同样晴朗的次晨，
　　而一系列岁月十分丰饶，
　　沿增人能力的条条小道
通向那威望和皓首银鬓：

直到你灵魂的人间外衣
　　渐渐被穿旧，宏伟的使命
　　出色地完成，留下了大宗
精神遗产，才离世而逝去；

而那时我灵魂也可乔迁，
　　同你的既共命运及共爱，
　　超越这痛苦的狭隘地带，
融合在一起后飞向彼岸；

最后到达那终点的洞天——
　　在那里，死于圣地的耶稣
　　会把他亮光光的手伸出，
把我们当一人接进里面。

我倚靠的是怎样的芦苇？
　　啊，对往事的幻想，为什么
　　又弄醒我这旧日的凄恻，
砸碎刚开始的一点宽慰？

LXXXV

This truth came borne with bier and pall,
I felt it, when I sorrow'd most,
'Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all—


O true in word, and tried in deed,
Demanding, so to bring relief
To this which is our common grief,
What kind of life is that I lead;


And whether trust in things above
Be dimm'd of sorrow, or sustain'd;
And whether love for him have drain'd
My capabilities of love;


Your words have virtue such as draws
A faithful answer from the breast,
Thro' light reproaches, half exprest,
And loyal unto kindly laws.


My blood an even tenor kept,
Till on mine ear this message falls,
That in Vienna's fatal walls
God's finger touch'd him, and he slept.


The great Intelligences fair
That range above our mortal state,
In circle round the blessed gate,
Received and gave him welcome there;


And led him thro' the blissful climes,
And show'd him in the fountain fresh
All knowledge that the sons of flesh
Shall gather in the cycled times.


But I remain'd, whose hopes were dim,
Whose life, whose thoughts were little worth,
To wander on a darken'd earth,
Where all things round me breathed of him. '


O friendship, equal-poised control,
O heart, with kindliest motion warm,
O sacred essence, other form,
O solemn ghost, O crowned soul!


Yet none could better know than I,
How much of act at human hands
The sense of human will demands
By which we dare to live or die.


Whatever way my days decline,
I felt and feel, tho' left alone,
His being working in mine own,
The footsteps of his life in mine;


A life that all the Muses deck'd
With gifts of grace, that might express
All-comprehensive tenderness,
All-subtilising intellect:


And so my passion hath not swerved
To works of weakness, but I find
An image comforting the mind,
And in my grief a strength reserved.


Likewise the imaginative woe,
That loved to handle spiritual strife
Diffused the shock thro' all my life,
But in the present broke the blow.


My pulses therefore beat again
For other friends that once I met;
Nor can it suit me to forget
The mighty hopes that make us men.


I woo your love: I count it crime
To mourn for any overmuch;
I, the divided half of such
A friendship as had master'd Time;


Which masters Time indeed, and is
Eternal, separate from fears:
The all-assuming months and years
Can take no part away from this:


But Summer on the steaming floods,
And Spring that swells the narrow brooks,
And Autumn, with a noise of rooks,
That gather in the waning woods,


And every pulse of wind and wave
Recalls, in change of light or gloom,
My old affection of the tomb,
And my prime passion in the grave:


My old affection of the tomb,
A part of stillness, yearns to speak:
`Arise, and get thee forth and seek
A friendship for the years to come.


'I watch thee from the quiet shore;
Thy spirit up to mine can reach;
But in dear words of human speech
We two communicate no more.'


And I, `Can clouds of nature stain
The starry clearness of the free?
How is it? Canst thou feel for me
Some painless sympathy with pain?'


And lightly does the whisper fall:
`'Tis hard for thee to fathom this;
I triumph in conclusive bliss,
And that serene result of all.'


So hold I commerce with the dead;
Or so methinks the dead would say;
Or so shall grief with symbols play
And pining life be fancy-fed.


Now looking to some settled end,
That these things pass, and I shall prove
A meeting somewhere, love with love,
I crave your pardon, O my friend;


If not so fresh, with love as true,
I, clasping brother-hands, aver
I could not, if I would, transfer
The whole I felt for him to you.


For which be they that hold apart
The promise of the golden hours?
First love, first friendship, equal powers,
That marry with the virgin heart.


Still mine, that cannot but deplore,
That beats within a lonely place,
That yet remembers his embrace,
But at his footstep leaps no more,


My heart, tho' widow'd, may not rest
Quite in the love of what is gone,
But seeks to beat in time with one
That warms another living breast.


Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring,
Knowing the primrose yet is dear,
The primrose of the later year,
As not unlike to that of Spring.

LXXXVI

Sweet after showers, ambrosial air,
That rollest from the gorgeous gloom
Of evening over brake and bloom
And meadow, slowly breathing bare


The round of space, and rapt below
Thro' all the dewy-tassell'd wood,
And shadowing down the horned flood
In ripples, fan my brows and blow


The fever from my cheek, and sigh
The full new life that feeds thy breath
Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death,
Ill brethren, let the fancy fly

From belt to belt of crimson seas
On leagues of odour streaming far,
To where in yonder orient star
A hundred spirits whisper `Peace.'

LXXXVII

I past beside the reverend walls
    In which of old I wore the gown;
    I roved at random thro' the town,
And saw the tumult of the halls;


And heard once more in college fanes
    The storm their high-built organs make,
    And thunder-music, rolling, shake
The prophet blazon'd on the panes;


And caught once more the distant shout,
    The measured pulse of racing oars
    Among the willows; paced the shores
And many a bridge, and all about


The same gray flats again, and felt
    The same, but not the same; and last
    Up that long walk of limes I past
To see the rooms in which he dwelt.


Another name was on the door:
    I linger'd; all within was noise
    Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys
That crash'd the glass and beat the floor;


Where once we held debate, a band
    Of youthful friends, on mind and art,
    And labour, and the changing mart,
And all the framework of the land;


When one would aim an arrow fair,
    But send it slackly from the string;
    And one would pierce an outer ring,
And one an inner, here and there;


And last the master-bowman, he,
    Would cleave the mark. A willing ear
    We lent him. Who, but hung to hear
The rapt oration flowing free


From point to point, with power and grace
    And music in the bounds of law,
    To those conclusions when we saw
The God within him light his face,



And seem to lift the form, and glow
    In azure orbits heavenly-wise;
    And over those ethereal eyes
The bar of Michael Angelo?

我经过一堵堵可敬的墙，
　　在那墙内我曾身穿长袍；
　　在路上我信步东走西跑。
看见人们在厅堂里喧嚷，

也再度听见学院教堂里
　　高耸的风琴奏出的轰鸣，
　　这雷似的音乐隆隆撼动
装饰在窗玻璃上的先知；

又再度听出远远的喊叫，
　　听出在柳荫里赛艇的桨
　　划动的节拍；那一带岸上
我踱着踱着，经过多少桥；

又走遍一样灰色的沙滩，
　　虽感到一样却又不一样；
　　最后到长长的根树道上，
去看看他曾住过的房间。

门上是另一个人的姓名。
　　我留连着；屋里阵阵喧响，
　　是小伙子们在歌唱、鼓掌，
是敲着杯子、地板的声音；

这里，我们曾进行过研讨：
　　一群年轻的朋友，谈思想、
　　艺术、劳动，议变化的市场
和国家的种种组织构造；

当有人想射支准确的箭——
　　但离弦之时箭却没有劲，
　　有人把外面的一环射中，
有人则射穿稍里的一圈；

最后他这射手命中目标。
　　我们总乐于听他发议论。
　　当我们看到他心中的神
使他容光焕发，还似乎叫

他的形体向碧空中升起
　　并发出超凡入圣的光芒；
　　看到他那非凡的眼睛上
有着米开朗琪罗的眉脊；

谁还能不倾听他的论述？——
　　他层层推进，话优雅有力，
　　让法律像音乐叫人着迷，
直听到他把结论全列出。

LXXXVIII

Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet,
Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks,
O tell me where the senses mix,
O tell me where the passions meet,


Whence radiate: fierce extremes employ
Thy spirits in the darkening leaf,
And in the midmost heart of grief
Thy passion clasps a secret joy:

And I—my harp would prelude woe—
I cannot all command the strings;
The glory of the sum of things
Will flash along the chords and go.

LXXXIX

Witch-elms that counterchange the floor
Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright;
And thou, with all thy breadth and height
Of foliage, towering sycamore;


How often, hither wandering down,
My Arthur found your shadows fair,
And shook to all the liberal air
The dust and din and steam of town:


He brought an eye for all he saw;
He mixt in all our simple sports;
They pleased him, fresh from brawling courts
And dusty purlieus of the law.


O joy to him in this retreat,
Inmantled in ambrosial dark,
To drink the cooler air, and mark
The landscape winking thro' the heat:


O sound to rout the brood of cares,
The sweep of scythe in morning dew,
The gust that round the garden flew,
And tumbled half the mellowing pears!


O bliss, when all in circle drawn
About him, heart and ear were fed
To hear him, as he lay and read
The Tuscan poets on the lawn:


Or in the all-golden afternoon
A guest, or happy sister, sung,
Or here she brought the harp and flung
A ballad to the brightening moon:


Nor less it pleased in livelier moods,
Beyond the bounding hill to stray,
And break the livelong summer day
With banquet in the distant woods;


Whereat we glanced from theme to theme,
Discuss'd the books to love or hate,
Or touch'd the changes of the state,
Or threaded some Socratic dream;


But if I praised the busy town,
He loved to rail against it still,
For `ground in yonder social mill
We rub each other's angles down,


'And merge,' he said, `in form and gloss
The picturesque of man and man.'
We talk'd: the stream beneath us ran,
The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss,


Or cool'd within the glooming wave;
And last, returning from afar,
Before the crimson-circled star
Had fall'n into her father's grave,


And brushing ankle-deep in flowers,
We heard behind the woodbine veil
The milk that bubbled in the pail,
And buzzings of the honied hours.

XC

He tasted love with half his mind,
Nor ever drank the inviolate spring
Where nighest heaven, who first could fling
This bitter seed among mankind;


That could the dead, whose dying eyes
Were closed with wail, resume their life,
They would but find in child and wife
An iron welcome when they rise:


'Twas well, indeed, when warm with wine,
To pledge them with a kindly tear,
To talk them o'er, to wish them here,
To count their memories half divine;


But if they came who past away,
Behold their brides in other hands;
The hard heir strides about their lands,
And will not yield them for a day.


Yea, tho' their sons were none of these,
Not less the yet-loved sire would make
Confusion worse than death, and shake
The pillars of domestic peace.


Ah dear, but come thou back to me:
Whatever change the years have wrought,
I find not yet one lonely thought
That cries against my wish for thee.

XCI

When rosy plumelets tuft the larch,
    And rarely pipes the mounted thrush;
    Or underneath the barren bush
Flits by the sea-blue bird of March;


Come, wear the form by which I know
    Thy spirit in time among thy peers;
    The hope of unaccomplish'd years
Be large and lucid round thy brow.


When summer's hourly-mellowing change
    May breathe, with many roses sweet,
    Upon the thousand waves of wheat,
That ripple round the lonely grange;


Come: not in watches of the night,
    But where the sunbeam broodeth warm,
    Come, beauteous in thine after form,
And like a finer light in light.


趁落叶松长出红红针叶，
　　高飞的画眉啼啭得美妙；
　　趁三月里，当海蓝色的鸟
在光秃的灌木丛间飞掠；

来吧，让你的外貌能使我
　　从你同类中认出你灵魂；
　　让你对未竟之年的憧憬
在你头的四周又亮又阔。

当夏日时刻正变得丰美，
　　把多少玫瑰的郁郁馨香
　　送往微风中的千重麦浪—一
起伏在平凡田庄的周围；

来吧，别在上更的夜同来，
　　挑日光暖洋洋普照之时
　　来吧，就凭你身后的英姿，
在光明之中更显出光彩。

XCII

If any vision should reveal
Thy likeness, I might count it vain
As but the canker of the brain;
Yea, tho' it spake and made appeal


To chances where our lots were cast
Together in the days behind,
I might but say, I hear a wind
Of memory murmuring the past.


Yea, tho' it spake and bared to view
A fact within the coming year;
And tho' the months, revolving near,
Should prove the phantom-warning true,


They might not seem thy prophecies,
But spiritual presentiments,
And such refraction of events
As often rises ere they rise.

XCIII

I shall not see thee. Dare I say
No spirit ever brake the band
That stays him from the native land
Where first he walk'd when claspt in clay?


No visual shade of some one lost,
But he, the Spirit himself, may come
Where all the nerve of sense is numb;
Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost.


O, therefore from thy sightless range
With gods in unconjectured bliss,
O, from the distance of the abyss
Of tenfold-complicated change,

Descend, and touch, and enter; hear
The wish too strong for words to name;
That in this blindness of the frame
My Ghost may feel that thine is near.

XCIV

How pure at heart and sound in head,
With what divine affections bold
Should be the man whose thought would hold
An hour's communion with the dead.


In vain shalt thou, or any, call
The spirits from their golden day,
Except, like them, thou too canst say,
My spirit is at peace with all.


They haunt the silence of the breast,
Imaginations calm and fair,
The memory like a cloudless air,
The conscience as a sea at rest:


But when the heart is full of din,
And doubt beside the portal waits,
They can but listen at the gates
And hear the household jar within.

XCV

By night we linger'd on the lawn,
    For underfoot the herb was dry;
    And genial warmth; and o'er the sky
The silvery haze of summer drawn;


And calm that let the tapers burn
    Unwavering: not a cricket chirr'd:
    The brook alone far-off was heard,
And on the board the fluttering urn:


And bats went round in fragrant skies,
    And wheel'd or lit the filmy shapes
    That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes
And woolly breasts and beaded eyes;


While now we sang old songs that peal'd
    From knoll to knoll, where, couch'd at ease,
    The white kine glimmer'd, and the trees
Laid their dark arms about the field.


But when those others, one by one,
    Withdrew themselves from me and night,
    And in the house light after light
Went out, and I was all alone,


A hunger seized my heart; I read
    Of that glad year which once had been,
    In those fall'n leaves which kept their green,
The noble letters of the dead:


And strangely on the silence broke
    The silent-speaking words, and strange
    Was love's dumb cry defying change
To test his worth; and strangely spoke


The faith, the vigour, bold to dwell
    On doubts that drive the coward back,
    And keen thro' wordy snares to track
Suggestion to her inmost cell.


So word by word, and line by line,
    The dead man touch'd me from the past,
    And all at once it seem'd at last
The living soul was flash'd on mine,


And mine in his was wound, and whirl'd
    About empyreal heights of thought,
    And came on that which is, and caught
The deep pulsations of the world,


Æonian music measuring out
    The steps of Time—the shocks of Chance--
    The blows of Death. At length my trance
Was cancell'd, stricken thro' with doubt.


Vague words! but ah, how hard to frame
    In matter-moulded forms of speech,
    Or ev'n for intellect to reach
Thro' memory that which I became:


Till now the doubtful dusk reveal'd
    The knolls once more where, couch'd at ease,
    The white kine glimmer'd, and the trees
Laid their dark arms about the field;


And suck'd from out the distant gloom
    A breeze began to tremble o'er
    The large leaves of the sycamore,
And fluctuate all the still perfume,


And gathering freshlier overhead,
    Rock'd the full-foliaged elms, and swung
    The heavy-folded rose, and flung
The lilies to and fro, and said,


'The dawn, the dawn,' and died away;
    And East and West, without a breath,
    Mixt their dim lights, like life and death,
To broaden into boundless day.


晚间，我们在草地上留连，
　　因为脚下的香草既不湿，
　　天气又暖和，而在空气里
有夏日的银色雾霭弥漫；

一片宁静中，烛焰既不晃，
　　也没有一只蟋蟀蛐蛐叫，
　　只听见远处有小河一条，
而河边茶炊下的火正旺。

蝙蝠翻飞在芬芳空气里；
　　暮色中盘旋的朦胧飞虫
　　在变亮，它们穿貂皮斗篷，
胸前毛茸茸，小眼珠两粒；

我们唱旧时的歌，让歌声
　　从土丘飘到土丘；那里
　　隐隐有白牛悠然伏在地，
而树木朝田野投下枝影。

但是当别人一个个退去，
　　离开了我也离开了夜色，
　　当屋里的灯一盏盏熄灭，
只留下我独自一人，这时，

饥渴之感就攫住我的心；
　　从那些青翠依旧的落叶—一
　　这是死者的华翰一页页—一
我读到往年那一度欢情。

这时，奇妙的无声言辞
　　打破了寂静，而奇妙的爱
　　也默默呼叫：料人间盛衰
无碍它的价值；还奇妙地

响起信念和魄力的话音——
　　敢面对挫败懦夫的疑虑，
　　渴求在言辞迷官里寻觅
那通向中心深处的幽径。

就是这样一字字、一行行，
　　那死者用往事把我打动。
　　突然间我灵魂似乎最终
同他鲜活的灵魂被照亮，

我的灵魂缠在他灵魂中，
　　在思想的九天之高急转，
　　偶尔碰上了现实，就此便
掌握了世界深奥的脉动——

这宇宙的万古音乐奏出
　　时间的进程——它冲击命运——
　　和死神的打击。我的出神
终于因充满惊疑而结束。

含糊的言辞！然而啊是难
　　以事实铸成的语言包藏，
　　就连通过回忆，在理解上
达到我已达到之处也难。

到现在，飘开了幽暗疑云，
　　又显出一个个土丘，那里，
　　隐隐有白牛悠然伏在地，
而树木朝田野投下枝影。

这时，远远的茫茫夜色中
　　微微的风儿巳开始吹起，
　　吹得槭树的大叶子颤栗，
使凝住的馨香阵阵飘送；

在上空它汇成清新的风
　　摇着茂盛的榆树，晃动著
　　重瓣紧裹的玫瑰，直吹得
百合来回摆动；还说了声

“天亮了，亮了，”就渐渐平息；
    没一点痕迹，东天和西天
    像生死，把微光融成一片——
为把白天拓得无边无际。

XCVI

You say, but with no touch of scorn,
Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes
Are tender over drowning flies,
You tell me, doubt is Devil-born.


I know not: one indeed I knew
In many a subtle question versed,
Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first,
But ever strove to make it true:


Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds,
At last he beat his music out.
There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds.


He fought his doubts and gather'd strength,
He would not make his judgment blind,
He faced the spectres of the mind
And laid them: thus he came at length


To find a stronger faith his own;
And Power was with him in the night,
Which makes the darkness and the light,
And dwells not in the light alone,

But in the darkness and the cloud,
As over Sinaï's peaks of old,
While Israel made their gods of gold,
Altho' the trumpet blew so loud.

XCVII

My love has talk'd with rocks and trees;
He finds on misty mountain-ground
His own vast shadow glory-crown'd;
He sees himself in all he sees.


Two partners of a married life—
I look'd on these and thought of thee
In vastness and in mystery,
And of my spirit as of a wife.


These two—they dwelt with eye on eye,
Their hearts of old have beat in tune,
Their meetings made December June
Their every parting was to die.


Their love has never past away;
The days she never can forget
Are earnest that he loves her yet,
Whate'er the faithless people say.


Her life is lone, he sits apart,
He loves her yet, she will not weep,
Tho' rapt in matters dark and deep
He seems to slight her simple heart.


He thrids the labyrinth of the mind,
He reads the secret of the star,
He seems so near and yet so far,
He looks so cold: she thinks him kind.


She keeps the gift of years before
A wither'd violet is her bliss
She knows not what his greatness is,
For that, for all, she loves him more.


For him she plays, to him she sings
Of early faith and plighted vows;
She knows but matters of the house,
And he, he knows a thousand things.


Her faith is fixt and cannot move,
She darkly feels him great and wise,
She dwells on him with faithful eyes,
'I cannot understand: I love.'

XCVIII

You leave us: you will see the Rhine,
And those fair hills I sail'd below,
When I was there with him; and go
By summer belts of wheat and vine


To where he breathed his latest breath,
That City. All her splendour seems
No livelier than the wisp that gleams
On Lethe in the eyes of Death.


Let her great Danube rolling fair
Enwind her isles, unmark'd of me:
I have not seen, I will not see
Vienna; rather dream that there,


A treble darkness, Evil haunts
The birth, the bridal; friend from friend
Is oftener parted, fathers bend
Above more graves, a thousand wants


Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey
By each cold hearth, and sadness flings
Her shadow on the blaze of kings:
And yet myself have heard him say,


That not in any mother town
With statelier progress to and fro
The double tides of chariots flow
By park and suburb under brown


Of lustier leaves; nor more content,
He told me, lives in any crowd,
When all is gay with lamps, and loud
With sport and song, in booth and tent,


Imperial halls, or open plain;
And wheels the circled dance, and breaks
The rocket molten into flakes
Of crimson or in emerald rain.

XCIX

Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again,
    So loud with voices of the birds,
    So thick with lowings of the herds,
Day, when I lost the flower of men;


Who tremblest thro' thy darkling red
    On yon swoll'n brook that bubbles fast
    By meadows breathing of the past,
And woodlands holy to the dead;


Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves
    A song that slights the coming care,
    And Autumn laying here and there
A fiery finger on the leaves;


Who wakenest with thy balmy breath
    To myriads on the genial earth,
    Memories of bridal, or of birth,
And unto myriads more, of death.


O, wheresoever those may be,
    Betwixt the slumber of the poles,
    To-day they count as kindred souls;
They know me not, but mourn with me.


鸟啼得高亢，牛叫得低哑，
　　朦胧的曙色，你呀又一次
　　这样地引进了这个日子——
在这天，我失去人间之花；

你透过幽幽的红光颤动，
　　映在湍急的涨水小河上——
　　它流过吐露往事的草场，
流过死者爱过的树林中；

你不顾将会来到的忧虑，
　　不顾秋日火焰般的手指
　　点上一处又一处的叶子，
却在繁枝来叶中哼小曲，

你温馨的气息勾醒往事，
　　叫温暖大地上千万居民
　　回忆起婚礼或人的诞生，
但也使更多的人想起死。

在昏昏沉睡的两极之间，
　　这些不认识我的人无论
　　在哪里，今天也算我亲人，
因为都同我一起在悼念。

C

I climb the hill: from end to end
Of all the landscape underneath,
I find no place that does not breathe
Some gracious memory of my friend;


No gray old grange, or lonely fold,
Or low morass and whispering reed,
Or simple stile from mead to mead,
Or sheepwalk up the windy wold;


Nor hoary knoll of ash and hew
That hears the latest linnet trill,
Nor quarry trench'd along the hill
And haunted by the wrangling daw;


Nor runlet tinkling from the rock;
Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves
To left and right thro' meadowy curves,
That feed the mothers of the flock;


But each has pleased a kindred eye,
And each reflects a kindlier day;
And, leaving these, to pass away,
I think once more he seems to die.

CI

Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway,
    The tender blossom flutter down,
    Unloved, that beech will gather brown,
This maple burn itself away;


Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair,
    Ray round with flames her disk of seed,
    And many a rose-carnation feed
With summer spice the humming air;


Unloved, by many a sandy bar,
    The brook shall babble down the plain,
    At noon or when the lesser wain
Is twisting round the polar star;


Uncared for, gird the windy grove,
    And flood the haunts of hern and crake;
    Or into silver arrows break
The sailing moon in creek and cove;


Till from the garden and the wild
    A fresh association blow,
    And year by year the landscape grow
Familiar to the stranger's child;



As year by year the labourer tills
    His wonted glebe, or lops the glades;
    And year by year our memory fades
From all the circle of the hills.

没人看，园中树仍将摆动，
　　柔嫩的花仍将抖落地上，
　　没人爱，山毛榉依然变黄，
枫树仍把自己烧得通红。

没人爱，围着它的一盘籽。
    向日葵闪着火焰般的光，
    同众多的玫瑰石竹一样。
把夏香添入嗡嗡的空气。

没人爱，小溪仍流过平原，
　　在多少沙洲边絮絮叨叨—一
　　无论这时候大阳当空照，
或者小熊座绕北极星转。

没人管，运行的月仍照临，
　　在河上。在湾中散成银箭
　　或者笼住风中的树一片，
为苍鹭、秧鸡的栖处照明；

直到从野外、从这花园里，
　　送来的是一种新的联想；
　　而岁月流逝，这里的风光
陌生人的孩子将会熟悉；

如同庄稼人一年年耕耘
　　他相熟的土地、砍伐树木；
　　而我们的忆念渐渐模糊，
一年年远离这一带山岭。

CII

We leave the well-beloved place
Where first we gazed upon the sky;
The roofs, that heard our earliest cry,
Will shelter one of stranger race.

We go, but ere we go from home,
As down the garden-walks I move,
Two spirits of a diverse love
Contend for loving masterdom.


One whispers, `Here thy boyhood sung
Long since its matin song, and heard
The low love-language of the bird
In native hazels tassel-hung.'


The other answers, `Yea, but here
Thy feet have stray'd in after hours
With thy lost friend among the bowers,
And this hath made them trebly dear.'


These two have striven half the day,
And each prefers his separate claim,
Poor rivals in a losing game,
That will not yield each other way.


I turn to go: my feet are set
To leave the pleasant fields and farms;
They mix in one another's arms
To one pure image of regret.

CIII

On that last night before we went
From out the doors where I was bred,
I dream'd a vision of the dead,
Which left my after-morn content.


Methought I dwelt within a hall,
And maidens with me: distant hills
From hidden summits fed with rills
A river sliding by the wall.


The hall with harp and carol rang.
They sang of what is wise and good
And graceful. In the centre stood
A statue veil'd, to which they sang;


And which, tho' veil'd, was known to me,
The shape of him I loved, and love
For ever: then flew in a dove
And brought a summons from the sea:


And when they learnt that I must go
They wept and wail'd, but led the way
To where a little shallop lay
At anchor in the flood below;


And on by many a level mead,
And shadowing bluff that made the banks,
We glided winding under ranks
Of iris, and the golden reed;


And still as vaster grew the shore
And roll'd the floods in grander space,
The maidens gather'd strength and grace
And presence, lordlier than before;


And I myself, who sat apart
And watch'd them, wax'd in every limb;
I felt the thews of Anakim,
The pulses of a Titan's heart;


As one would sing the death of war,
And one would chant the history
Of that great race, which is to be,
And one the shaping of a star;


Until the forward-creeping tides
Began to foam, and we to draw
From deep to deep, to where we saw
A great ship lift her shining sides.


The man we loved was there on deck,
But thrice as large as man he bent
To greet us. Up the side I went,
And fell in silence on his neck;


Whereat those maidens with one mind
Bewail'd their lot; I did them wrong:
`We served thee here,' they said, `so long,
And wilt thou leave us now behind?'


So rapt I was, they could not win
An answer from my lips, but he
Replying, `Enter likewise ye
And go with us:' they enter'd in.


And while the wind began to sweep
A music out of sheet and shroud,
We steer'd her toward a crimson cloud
That landlike slept along the deep.

CIV

The time draws near the birth of Christ;
    The moon is hid, the night is still;
    A single church below the hill
Is pealing, folded in the mist.


A single peal of bells below,
    That wakens at this hour of rest
    A single murmur in the breast,
That these are not the bells I know.


Like strangers' voices here they sound,
    In lands where not a memory strays,
    Nor landmark breathes of other days,
But all is new unhallow'd ground.


又快到了基督诞生之时；
　　夜晚静悄悄，月儿云后藏；
　　薄雾裹着山脚下的教堂，
只有它正在把钟儿敲起。

在这个万物休意的时分；
　　下面敲了一遍的那组钟
　　唤起我心中的一声咕哝：
这可不是我熟悉的钟声。

它们像陌生的声音在响；
　　这里，不会在回忆中浮现，
　　没一块界碑同往日相关，
只是并不圣洁的新地方。

CV

To-night ungather'd let us leave
This laurel, let this holly stand:
We live within the stranger's land,
And strangely falls our Christmas-eve.


Our father's dust is left alone
And silent under other snows:
There in due time the woodbine blows,
The violet comes, but we are gone.


No more shall wayward grief abuse
The genial hour with mask and mime,
For change of place, like growth of time,
Has broke the bond of dying use.


Let cares that petty shadows cast,
By which our lives are chiefly proved,
A little spare the night I loved,
And hold it solemn to the past.


But let no footstep beat the floor,
Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm;
For who would keep an ancient form
Thro' which the spirit breathes no more?


Be neither song, nor game, nor feast;
Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown;
No dance, no motion, save alone
What lightens in the lucid east

Of rising worlds by yonder wood.
Long sleeps the summer in the seed;
Run out your measured arcs, and lead
The closing cycle rich in good.

CVI

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
    The flying cloud, the frosty light:
    The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.


Ring out the old, ring in the new,
    Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
    The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.


Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
    For those that here we see no more;
    Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.


Ring out a slowly dying cause,
    And ancient forms of party strife;
    Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.


Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
    The faithless coldness of the times;
    Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.


Ring out false pride in place and blood,
    The civic slander and the spite;
    Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.


Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
    Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
    Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.



Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

敲吧，急骤的钟，向着骤雪，
　　向着乱云和霜天的霞光；
　　旧岁正在这在色中消亡，
敲吧，急骤的钟，让其殒灭。

被吧，敲走旧的，敲来新的，
　　让欢乐的钟声穿霜度零；
　　旧岁在离去，就让它离去，
鼓吧，敲走假的，敲来真的。

敲吧，为作古的一切致哀，
　　敲走使心灵滴血的悲痛；
　　敲走贫富问的新伙旧恨，
把补救为全体人类敲来。

敲吧，敲走渐渐死的宗旨
　　和古来的种种党同伐异；
　　敲来完美的法律和风习，
敲来较高尚的生活方式。

敲走那匮乏、焦虑和罪恶，
　　敲走旧时代的冷酷不义；
　　敲呀，敲走我的哀诗悲词，
但要敲来较完整的歌者。

敲走对权位、血统的虚荣，
　市井的恶意中伤和奸狯；
　　敲来对真理和正义的爱，
敲来普天下对善的尊奉。

敲走旧日的恶疾与弊病，
　　敲走对黄金的一意追求；
　　敲走往昔的千百次战斗，
敲来一千年的人间和平。

敲来勇敢而豪爽的人物，
　　他们的心怀博大手亲切，
　　敲走大地上的沉沉夜色，
敲来将重临世界的基督。

CVII

It is the day when he was born,
A bitter day that early sank
Behind a purple-frosty bank
Of vapour, leaving night forlorn.


The time admits not flowers or leaves
To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies
The blast of North and East, and ice
Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves,


And bristles all the brakes and thorns
To yon hard crescent, as she hangs
Above the wood which grides and clangs
Its leafless ribs and iron horns


Together, in the drifts that pass
To darken on the rolling brine
That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine,
Arrange the board and brim the glass;


Bring in great logs and let them lie,
To make a solid core of heat;
Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat
Of all things ev'n as he were by;


We keep the day. With festal cheer,
With books and music, surely we
Will drink to him, whate'er he be,
And sing the songs he loved to hear.

CVIII

I will not shut me from my kind,
And, lest I stiffen into stone,
I will not eat my heart alone,
Nor feed with sighs a passing wind:


What profit lies in barren faith,
And vacant yearning, tho' with might
To scale the heaven's highest height,
Or dive below the wells of Death?


What find I in the highest place,
But mine own phantom chanting hymns?
And on the depths of death there swims
The reflex of a human face.


I'll rather take what fruit may be
Of sorrow under human skies:
'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise,
Whatever wisdom sleep with thee.

CIX

Heart-affluence in discursive talk
From household fountains never dry;
The critic clearness of an eye,
That saw thro' all the Muses' walk;


Seraphic intellect and force
To seize and throw the doubts of man;
Impassion'd logic, which outran
The hearer in its fiery course;


High nature amorous of the good,
But touch'd with no ascetic gloom;
And passion pure in snowy bloom
Thro' all the years of April blood;


A love of freedom rarely felt,
Of freedom in her regal seat
Of England; not the schoolboy heat,
The blind hysterics of the Celt;


And manhood fused with female grace
In such a sort, the child would twine
A trustful hand, unask'd, in thine,
And find his comfort in thy face;

All these have been, and thee mine eyes
Have look'd on: if they look'd in vain,
My shame is greater who remain,
Nor let thy wisdom make me wise.

CX

Thy converse drew us with delight,
The men of rathe and riper years:
The feeble soul, a haunt of fears,
Forgot his weakness in thy sight.


On thee the loyal-hearted hung,
The proud was half disarm'd of pride,
Nor cared the serpent at thy side
To flicker with his double tongue.


The stern were mild when thou wert by,
The flippant put himself to school
And heard thee, and the brazen fool
Was soften'd, and he knew not why;


While I, thy nearest, sat apart,
And felt thy triumph was as mine;
And loved them more, that they were thine,
The graceful tact, the Christian art;

Nor mine the sweetness or the skill,
But mine the love that will not tire,
And, born of love, the vague desire
That spurs an imitative will.

CXI

The churl in spirit, up or down
Along the scale of ranks, thro' all,
To him who grasps a golden ball,
By blood a king, at heart a clown;

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil
His want in forms for fashion's sake,
Will let his coltish nature break
At seasons thro' the gilded pale:


For who can always act? but he,
To whom a thousand memories call,
Not being less but more than all
The gentleness he seem'd to be,


Best seem'd the thing he was, and join'd
Each office of the social hour
To noble manners, as the flower
And native growth of noble mind;


Nor ever narrowness or spite,
Or villain fancy fleeting by,
Drew in the expression of an eye,
Where God and Nature met in light;

And thus he bore without abuse
The grand old name of gentleman,
Defamed by every charlatan,
And soil'd with all ignoble use.

CXII

High wisdom holds my wisdom less,
That I, who gaze with temperate eyes
On glorious insufficiencies,
Set light by narrower perfectness.

But thou, that fillest all the room
Of all my love, art reason why
I seem to cast a careless eye
On souls, the lesser lords of doom.


For what wert thou? some novel power
Sprang up for ever at a touch,
And hope could never hope too much,
In watching thee from hour to hour,

Large elements in order brought,
And tracts of calm from tempest made,
And world-wide fluctuation sway'd
In vassal tides that follow'd thought.

CXIII

'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise;
Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee
Which not alone had guided me,
But served the seasons that may rise;


For can I doubt, who knew thee keen
In intellect, with force and skill
To strive, to fashion, to fulfil—
I doubt not what thou wouldst have been:


A life in civic action warm,
A soul on highest mission sent,
A potent voice of Parliament,
A pillar steadfast in the storm,


Should licensed boldness gather force,
Becoming, when the time has birth,
A lever to uplift the earth
And roll it in another course,


With thousand shocks that come and go,
With agonies, with energies,
With overthrowings, and with cries
And undulations to and fro.

CXIV

Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail
Against her beauty? May she mix
With men and prosper! Who shall fix
Her pillars? Let her work prevail.


But on her forehead sits a fire:
She sets her forward countenance
And leaps into the future chance,
Submitting all things to desire.


Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain—
She cannot fight the fear of death.
What is she, cut from love and faith,
But some wild Pallas from the brain


Of Demons? fiery-hot to burst
All barriers in her onward race
For power. Let her know her place;
She is the second, not the first.


A higher hand must make her mild,
If all be not in vain; and guide
Her footsteps, moving side by side
With wisdom, like the younger child:


For she is earthly of the mind,
But Wisdom heavenly of the soul.
O, friend, who camest to thy goal
So early, leaving me behind,


I would the great world grew like thee,
Who grewest not alone in power
And knowledge, but by year and hour
In reverence and in charity.

CXV

Now fades the last long streak of snow,
    Now burgeons every maze of quick
    About the flowering squares, and thick
By ashen roots the violets blow.


Now rings the woodland loud and long,
    The distance takes a lovelier hue,
    And drown'd in yonder living blue
The lark becomes a sightless song.


Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,
    The flocks are whiter down the vale,
    And milkier every milky sail
On winding stream or distant sea;


Where now the seamew pipes, or dives
    In yonder greening gleam, and fly
    The happy birds, that change their sky
To build and brood; that live their lives


From land to land; and in my breast
    Spring wakens too; and my regret
    Becomes an April violet,
And buds and blossoms like the rest.

如今最后的积雪巳融化，
　一道道山植树篱像幽径
　　傍着田野爆嫩芽，紫香堇
在榇树的根边密密开花。

如今树林的喧声响又长，
　　远景添上了秀美的色泽，
　　云雀在盈盈的蓝天隐没，
变成视界外的一曲歌唱。

如今阳光欢舞在牧草上，
　　山谷里羊群更显得洁白，
　　每张帆更白得像是牛奶——
扬在蜿蜒的江河、远海上；

如今那里的海鸥在尖叫，
　　在绿闪闪的波光中扎下，
　　还有鸟幸福地四处为家，
正飞往另一方天下筑巢

和繁衍；于是我的心坎上
　　春天也苏醒，而我的抱恨
　　就变成一株四月紫香堇，
同万物一样在爆芽、开放。

CXVI

Is it, then, regret for buried time
That keenlier in sweet April wakes,
And meets the year, and gives and takes
The colours of the crescent prime?


Not all: the songs, the stirring air,
The life re-orient out of dust
Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust
In that which made the world so fair.


Not all regret: the face will shine
Upon me, while I muse alone;
And that dear voice, I once have known,
Still speak to me of me and mine:

Yet less of sorrow lives in me
For days of happy commune dead;
Less yearning for the friendship fled,
Than some strong bond which is to be.

CXVII

O days and hours, your work is this
To hold me from my proper place,
A little while from his embrace,
For fuller gain of after bliss:


That out of distance might ensue
Desire of nearness doubly sweet;
And unto meeting when we meet,
Delight a hundredfold accrue,

For every grain of sand that runs,
And every span of shade that steals,
And every kiss of toothed wheels,
And all the courses of the suns.

CXVIII

Contemplate all this work of Time,
The giant labouring in his youth;
Nor dream of human love and truth,
As dying Nature's earth and lime;


But trust that those we call the dead
Are breathers of an ampler day
For ever nobler ends. They say,
The solid earth whereon we tread


In tracts of fluent heat began,
And grew to seeming-random forms,
The seeming prey of cyclic storms,
Till at the last arose the man;


Who throve and branch'd from clime to clime,
The herald of a higher race,
And of himself in higher place,
If so he type this work of time


Within himself, from more to more;
Or, crown'd with attributes of woe
Like glories, move his course, and show
That life is not as idle ore,


But iron dug from central gloom,
And heated hot with burning fears,
And dipt in baths of hissing tears,
And batter'd with the shocks of doom


To shape and use. Arise and fly
The reeling Faun, the sensual feast;
Move upward, working out the beast,
And let the ape and tiger die.

请审视时间的一切工作，
这是在青春中劳动的巨人；
切不要把人类的爱和真
看作垂死世界的泥土和白垩。

请相信：我们称为死者的
是更为丰富的日子的生者
追求着更高的目的。据说
我们脚下坚实的土地

起源于茫茫流动的热气，
长成了仿佛任意的形状，
经历了周期的摧残震荡，
直到最终，人昂然立起；

他一处一处兴起，分支，
预报着更高级的后裔，
并预言人将占更高的位置，——
只要他能在自己身上显示

大自然的工作：不断发展成长；
或是戴着象征苦难的冠冕
作为光荣，而奋力向前，
证明生命并不是无用的矿，

而是铁，掘自黑暗的地底，
并被燃烧的恐惧加热，
在嘶嘶作响的泪中淬火
再受到命运之锤的重击，

直至成形成材。快起来超越
那醉舞的牧神、那声色之乐，
向上运动，从“兽”中超脱，
而让那猿性与虎性死灭。

CXIX

Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, not as one that weeps
I come once more; the city sleeps;
I smell the meadow in the street;


I hear a chirp of birds; I see
Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawn
A light-blue lane of early dawn,
And think of early days and thee,

And bless thee, for thy lips are bland,
And bright the friendship of thine eye;
And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh
I take the pressure of thine hand.

CXX

I trust I have not wasted breath:
I think we are not wholly brain,
Magnetic mockeries; not in vain,
Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death;


Not only cunning casts in clay:
Let Science prove we are, and then
What matters Science unto men,
At least to me? I would not stay.

Let him, the wiser man who springs
Hereafter, up from childhood shape
His action like the greater ape,
But I was born to other things.

CXXI

Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun
And ready, thou, to die with him,
Thou watchest all things ever dim
And dimmer, and a glory done:

The team is loosen'd from the wain,
The boat is drawn upon the shore;
Thou listenest to the closing door,
And life is darken'd in the brain.


Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night,
By thee the world's great work is heard
Beginning, and the wakeful bird;
Behind thee comes the greater light:


The market boat is on the stream,
And voices hail it from the brink;
Thou hear'st the village hammer clink,
And see'st the moving of the team.


Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name
For what is one, the first, the last,
Thou, like my present and my past,
Thy place is changed; thou art the same.

CXXII

Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then,
While I rose up against my doom,
And yearn'd to burst the folded gloom,
To bare the eternal Heavens again,


To feel once more, in placid awe,
The strong imagination roll
A sphere of stars about my soul,
In all her motion one with law;


If thou wert with me, and the grave
Divide us not, be with me now,
And enter in at breast and brow,
Till all my blood, a fuller wave,


Be quicken'd with a livelier breath,
And like an inconsiderate boy,
As in the former flash of joy,
I slip the thoughts of life and death;

And all the breeze of Fancy blows,
And every dew-drop paints a bow,
The wizard lightnings deeply glow,
And every thought breaks out a rose.

CXXIII

There rolls the deep where grew the tree.
O earth, what changes hast thou seen!
There where the long street roars, hath been
The stillness of the central sea.


The hills are shadows, and they flow
From form to form, and nothing stands;
They melt like mist, the solid lands,
Like clouds they shape themselves and go.


But in my spirit will I dwell,
And dream my dream, and hold it true;
For tho' my lips may breathe adieu,
I cannot think the thing farewell.

昔日绿树成荫，而今海涛滚滚。
大地呀，阅历了多少变迁、生灭！
看，这闹嚷嚷的十里长街
曾经是寂然无声的海心。

山峰像是影子，流动不止，
变幻不止，无物能保持永恒；
坚实的陆地像雾一般消溶，
像云一般变形而随风消逝。

但在我精神中我将留驻，
做我的梦，并确信非虚；
哪怕我唇中吐出告辞之语，
我不能想象永别之路。

CXXIV

That which we dare invoke to bless;
Our dearest faith; our ghastliest doubt;
He, They, One, All; within, without;
The Power in darkness whom we guess;


I found Him not in world or sun,
Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye;
Nor thro' the questions men may try,
The petty cobwebs we have spun:


If e'er when faith had fall'n asleep,
I heard a voice `believe no more'
And heard an ever-breaking shore
That tumbled in the Godless deep;


A warmth within the breast would melt
The freezing reason's colder part,
And like a man in wrath the heart
Stood up and answer'd `I have felt.'


No, like a child in doubt and fear:
But that blind clamour made me wise;
Then was I as a child that cries,
But, crying, knows his father near;

And what I am beheld again
What is, and no man understands;
And out of darkness came the hands
That reach thro' nature, moulding men.

CXXV

Whatever I have said or sung,
Some bitter notes my harp would give,
Yea, tho' there often seem'd to live
A contradiction on the tongue,


Yet Hope had never lost her youth;
She did but look through dimmer eyes;
Or Love but play'd with gracious lies,
Because he felt so fix'd in truth:


And if the song were full of care,
He breathed the spirit of the song;
And if the words were sweet and strong
He set his royal signet there;

Abiding with me till I sail
To seek thee on the mystic deeps,
And this electric force, that keeps
A thousand pulses dancing, fail.

CXXVI

Love is and was my Lord and King,
And in his presence I attend
To hear the tidings of my friend,
Which every hour his couriers bring.


Love is and was my King and Lord,
And will be, tho' as yet I keep
Within his court on earth, and sleep
Encompass'd by his faithful guard,

And hear at times a sentinel
Who moves about from place to place,
And whispers to the worlds of space,
In the deep night, that all is well.

CXXVII

And all is well, tho' faith and form
    Be sunder'd in the night of fear;
    Well roars the storm to those that hear
A deeper voice across the storm,

Proclaiming social truth shall spread,
    And justice, ev'n tho' thrice again
    The red fool-fury of the Seine
Should pile her barricades with dead.


But ill for him that wears a crown,
    And him, the lazar, in his rags:
    They tremble, the sustaining crags;
The spires of ice are toppled down,


And molten up, and roar in flood;
    The fortress crashes from on high,
    The brute earth lightens to the sky,
And the great Æon sinks in blood,

And compass'd by the fires of Hell;
    While thou, dear spirit, happy star,
    O'erlook'st the tumult from afar,
And smilest, knowing all is well.

一切安好，虽然信仰和形式
    在黑夜的恐怖中被割成了碎片；
    暴风雨对听者咆哮出
穿过它而来的低沉之声，

对社会真理的宣扬将传播开来，
    正义甚至会再三降临
    塞纳河红色的怨愤
会用拥堵尸体的墙垛设置她的街垒。

这对戴皇冠的人来说不是什么好事，
    还让贫病交加、衣衫褴褛的劳苦大众
    越发摇晃、战栗，如危崖绝壁一般；
崩落的冰顶，

融化殆尽，在洪水中怒吼；
    城堡从高处倾圮
    野蛮的地球照亮天空，
伟大的漫长世代在血液中沉沦，

被地狱之火包围；
    而你，亲爱的灵魂，快乐的星，
    从远处俯视这场暴乱。
面带笑意，认为一切安好。

CXXVIII

The love that rose on stronger wings,
Unpalsied when he met with Death,
Is comrade of the lesser faith
That sees the course of human things.


No doubt vast eddies in the flood
Of onward time shall yet be made,
And throned races may degrade;
Yet, O ye mysteries of good,


Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear,
If all your office had to do
With old results that look like new;
If this were all your mission here,

To draw, to sheathe a useless sword,
To fool the crowd with glorious lies,
To cleave a creed in sects and cries,
To change the bearing of a word,


To shift an arbitrary power,
To cramp the student at his desk,
To make old bareness picturesque
And tuft with grass a feudal tower;

Why then my scorn might well descend
On you and yours. I see in part
That all, as in some piece of art,
Is toil cöoperant to an end.

CXXIX

Dear friend, far off, my lost desire,
So far, so near in woe and weal;
O loved the most, when most I feel
There is a lower and a higher;


Known and unknown; human, divine;
Sweet human hand and lips and eye;
Dear heavenly friend that canst not die,
Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine;

Strange friend, past, present, and to be;
Loved deeplier, darklier understood;
Behold, I dream a dream of good,
And mingle all the world with thee.

CXXX

Thy voice is on the rolling air;
I hear thee where the waters run;
Thou standest in the rising sun,
And in the setting thou art fair.


What art thou then? I cannot guess;
But tho' I seem in star and flower
To feel thee some diffusive power,
I do not therefore love thee less:


My love involves the love before;
My love is vaster passion now;
Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou,
I seem to love thee more and more.

Far off thou art, but ever nigh;
I have thee still, and I rejoice;
I prosper, circled with thy voice;
I shall not lose thee tho' I die.

你的嗓音在滚滚空气中，
    在流水声里我也听到你；
    你在升起的太阳中屹立，
落日里有你美好的姿容。

如今你是什么我猜不到；
    我虽仿佛在花和星星上
    感到你散播的某种力量，
对你的爱不因此而减少。

我的爱包含了往日之恋，
    如今更变成博大的深情；
    你虽同上帝和自然相混，
我对你的爱像有增无减。

你虽远去却同我在一起；
    仍能拥有你让我很高兴，
    又因你话音缭绕而昌盛，
即便死去再不会失去你。

CXXXI

O living will that shalt endure
When all that seems shall suffer shock,
Rise in the spiritual rock,
Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure,


That we may lift from out of dust
A voice as unto him that hears,
A cry above the conquer'd years
To one that with us works, and trust,


With faith that comes of self-control,
The truths that never can be proved
Until we close with all we loved,
And all we flow from, soul in soul.





[Epilogue]
O true and tried, so well and long,
Demand not thou a marriage lay;
In that it is thy marriage day
Is music more than any song.


Nor have I felt so much of bliss
Since first he told me that he loved
A daughter of our house; nor proved
Since that dark day a day like this;


Tho' I since then have number'd o'er
Some thrice three years: they went and came,
Remade the blood and changed the frame,
And yet is love not less, but more;


No longer caring to embalm
In dying songs a dead regret,
But like a statue solid-set,
And moulded in colossal calm.


Regret is dead, but love is more
Than in the summers that are flown,
For I myself with these have grown
To something greater than before;


Which makes appear the songs I made
As echoes out of weaker times,
As half but idle brawling rhymes,
The sport of random sun and shade.


But where is she, the bridal flower,
That must be made a wife ere noon?
She enters, glowing like the moon
Of Eden on its bridal bower:


On me she bends her blissful eyes
And then on thee; they meet thy look
And brighten like the star that shook
Betwixt the palms of paradise.


O when her life was yet in bud,
He too foretold the perfect rose.
For thee she grew, for thee she grows
For ever, and as fair as good.


And thou art worthy; full of power;
As gentle; liberal-minded, great,
Consistent; wearing all that weight
Of learning lightly like a flower.


But now set out: the noon is near,
And I must give away the bride;
She fears not, or with thee beside
And me behind her, will not fear.


For I that danced her on my knee,
That watch'd her on her nurse's arm,
That shielded all her life from harm
At last must part with her to thee;


Now waiting to be made a wife,
Her feet, my darling, on the dead
Their pensive tablets round her head,
And the most living words of life


Breathed in her ear. The ring is on,
The `wilt thou' answer'd, and again
The `wilt thou' ask'd, till out of twain
Her sweet `I will' has made you one.


Now sign your names, which shall be read,
Mute symbols of a joyful morn,
By village eyes as yet unborn;
The names are sign'd, and overhead


Begins the clash and clang that tells
The joy to every wandering breeze;
The blind wall rocks, and on the trees
The dead leaf trembles to the bells.


O happy hour, and happier hours
Await them. Many a merry face
Salutes them—maidens of the place,
That pelt us in the porch with flowers.


O happy hour, behold the bride
With him to whom her hand I gave.
They leave the porch, they pass the grave
That has to-day its sunny side.


To-day the grave is bright for me,
For them the light of life increased,
Who stay to share the morning feast,
Who rest to-night beside the sea.


Let all my genial spirits advance
To meet and greet a whiter sun;
My drooping memory will not shun
The foaming grape of eastern France.


It circles round, and fancy plays,
And hearts are warm'd and faces bloom,
As drinking health to bride and groom
We wish them store of happy days.


Nor count me all to blame if I
Conjecture of a stiller guest,
Perchance, perchance, among the rest,
And, tho' in silence, wishing joy.


But they must go, the time draws on,
And those white-favour'd horses wait;
They rise, but linger; it is late;
Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone.


A shade falls on us like the dark
From little cloudlets on the grass,
But sweeps away as out we pass
To range the woods, to roam the park,


Discussing how their courtship grew,
And talk of others that are wed,
And how she look'd, and what he said,
And back we come at fall of dew.


Again the feast, the speech, the glee,
The shade of passing thought, the wealth
Of words and wit, the double health,
The crowning cup, the three-times-three,


And last the dance;—till I retire:
Dumb is that tower which spake so loud,
And high in heaven the streaming cloud,
And on the downs a rising fire:


And rise, O moon, from yonder down,
Till over down and over dale
All night the shining vapour sail
And pass the silent-lighted town,


The white-faced halls, the glancing rills,
And catch at every mountain head,
And o'er the friths that branch and spread
Their sleeping silver thro' the hills;


And touch with shade the bridal doors,
With tender gloom the roof, the wall;
And breaking let the splendour fall
To spangle all the happy shores


By which they rest, and ocean sounds,
And, star and system rolling past,
A soul shall draw from out the vast
And strike his being into bounds,


And, moved thro' life of lower phase,
Result in man, be born and think,
And act and love, a closer link
Betwixt us and the crowning race


Of those that, eye to eye, shall look
On knowledge, under whose command
Is Earth and Earth's, and in their hand
Is Nature like an open book;



No longer half-akin to brute,
For all we thought and loved and did,
And hoped, and suffer'd, is but seed
Of what in them is flower and fruit;


Whereof the man, that with me trod
This planet, was a noble type
Appearing ere the times were ripe,
That friend of mine who lives in God,



That God, which ever lives and loves,
One God, one law, one element,
And one far-off divine event,
To which the whole creation moves.