W. B. Yeats - Wikipedia

William Blake - Wikipedia

The Song of the Happy Shepherd

The woods of Arcady are dead,
And over is their antique joy;
Of old the world on dreaming fed;
Grey Truth is now her painted toy;
Yet still she turns her restless head:
But O, sick children of the world,
Of all the many changing things
In dreary dancing past us whirled,
To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,
Words alone are certain good.
Where are now the warring kings,
Word be-mockers?—By the Rood,
Where are now the warring kings?
An idle word is now their glory,
By the stammering schoolboy said,
Reading some entangled story:
The kings of the old time are dead;
The wandering earth herself may be
Only a sudden flaming word,
In clanging space a moment heard,
Troubling the endless reverie.
Then nowise worship dusty deeds,
Nor seek, for this is also sooth,
To hunger fiercely after truth,
Lest all thy toiling only breeds

New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth
Saving in thine own heart. Seek, then,
No learning from the starry men,
Who follow with the optic glass
The whirling ways of stars that pass—
Seek, then, for this is also sooth,
No word of theirs—the cold star-bane
Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain,
And dead is all their human truth.
Go gather by the humming sea
Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell,
And to its lips thy story tell,
And they thy comforters will be,
Rewording in melodious guile
Thy fretful words a little while,
Till they shall singing fade in ruth
And die a pearly brotherhood;
For words alone are certain good:
Sing, then, for this is also sooth.

I must be gone: there is a grave
Where daffodil and lily wave,
And I would please the hapless faun,
Buried under the sleepy ground,
With mirthful songs before the dawn.
His shouting days with mirth were crowned;
And still I dream he treads the lawn,
Walking ghostly in the dew,
Pierced by my glad singing through,

My songs of old earth's dreamy youth:
But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou!
For fair are poppies on the brow:
Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.

快乐的牧人之歌

阿卡狄的丛林已经死去,
他们古老的欢乐也已过去;
世界靠梦想怀古不已,
灰色真理是她涂彩的玩具;
但她那不安的头仍在转动;
噢,世上有病的孩儿们,
所有一切变动的事物中,
按克罗诺斯的陈腔滥调
令人厌倦地旋舞而去,
唯有词章真正美丽。
黩武的君王如今安在,
他们嘲弄词章——老天爷,
黩武的君王如今安在?
儿童读纠缠不清的故事,
结结巴巴说出的一句废话,
就是那些君王的光荣,
旧时代的君王已经死了。
也许转悠的地球本身
不过是突然燃烧的字眼,
一瞬间听见克朗一声,
惊扰了无穷无尽的梦幻。

因此崇拜尘封的遗迹
并不聪明,这也是真的,
毋须去奋力追求真理,
你一切辛劳只会在梦上加梦。
只有你心中存在真理。
因此不必向占星家学习,
他们用天文镜追踪流星旋转的路——
因此这也是真的,不去听
他们的话——冰冷的星毒
已经劈开了、分裂了他们的心灵,
他们关于人的真理已经死尽。
到浅吟轻唱的海边
去捡些曲折的、暗藏着回音的贝壳,
将你的故事对着它的唇诉说,
他们会成为你的安慰者,
一瞬间把你烦恼的字句
重铸成优美的曲调,
直到他们哀伤地唱着消隐,
和珍珠兄弟死在一道。
因为唯有词章真正美丽,
唱吧,因为这也是真理。

我得走了!在一座坟上,
百合和黄水仙飘荡,
我将取悦于不幸的牧神,
用快乐的歌声迎接曙光,

他葬身于睡意浓浓的土下方;
我还梦见他行走草地,
在露水间幽魂般游荡,
浸透了我快乐的歌吟,
关于古老土地的多梦的青春。
啊,她不再做梦了,你做梦吧!
因为山崖上罂粟花开得美丽,
梦吧,梦吧,因为这也是真理。

Down by the Salley Gardens

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

柳园里

柳园里我和心爱者曾经相遇,
她雪白的小脚从柳园走过去。
她要我把爱情看淡些,像树上长绿叶;
但我年轻而愚蠢,却不肯同意。

我和心爱者站在河边草地上,
她把雪白的手往我前倾的肩头放。
她要我把人生看淡些,像坟上长绿草;
但我年轻而愚蠢,如今泪如潮。

To the Rose upon the Rood of Time

Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!
Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways:
Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide;
The Druid, grey, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed,
Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold;
And thine own sadness, whereof stars, grown old
In dancing silver-sandalled on the sea,
Sing in their high and lonely melody.
Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate,
I find under the boughs of love and hate,
In all poor foolish things that live a day,
Eternal beauty wandering on her way.

Come near, come near, come near—Ah, leave me still
A little space for the rose-breath to fill!
Lest I no more hear common things that crave;
The weak worm hiding down in its small cave,
The field-mouse running by me in the grass,
And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass;
But seek alone to hear the strange things said
By God to the bright hearts of those long dead,
And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know.
Come near; I would, before my time to go,
Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways:
Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days.

致时间十字架上的玫瑰

伴我终生的玫瑰,骄傲的玫瑰,悲哀的玫瑰!
当我歌唱古代的生活,请走近来:
和险恶的海浪战斗的库胡林勇士;
那头发灰白,眼神平静,丛林哺育的祭司,
他为弗格斯制造了梦和无穷之灾;
你自己的关于星群变老的悲哀,
穿着银色木屐在海上舞蹈,
唱他们高亢而孤独的曲调。
走近来,不要再为人类的命运迷误,
我发现在爱和恨的枝条下面,
在一切可怜的只活一天的蠢物之间,
永恒之美一路漫游向前。

走近来,走近来,走近来——啊,给我留一点
玫瑰气息充填的空间!
免得我听不到平凡事物渴求之声:
躲在小洞里衰弱的虫子,
从我身边草地上跑过的老鼠,
人类为之奋斗终成过去的沉重希望;
而只要求听到那些怪事情
上帝说给长逝者明亮的心灵谛听,
学会唱一支人们不知的曲调。
走近来,在我离开以前我想要
把古老的爱尔兰和古代故事唱一回:
伴我终生的红玫瑰,骄傲的玫瑰,悲哀的玫瑰。

To Ireland in the Coming Times

Know, that I would accounted be
True brother of a company
That sang, to sweeten Ireland's wrong,
Ballad and story, rann and song;
Nor be I any less of them,
Because the red-rose-bordered hem
Of her, whose history began
Before God made the angelic clan,
Trails all about the written page.
When Time began to rant and rage
The measure of her flying feet
Made Ireland's heart begin to beat;
And Time bade all his candles flare
To light a measure here and there;
And may the thoughts of Ireland brood
Upon a measured quietude.

Nor may I less be counted one
With Davis, Mangan, Ferguson,
Because, to him who ponders well,
My rhymes more than their rhyming tell
Of things discovered in the deep,
Where only body's laid asleep.
For the elemental creatures go
About my table to and fro,

That hurry from unmeasured mind
To rant and rage in flood and wind;
Yet he who treads in measured ways
May surely barter gaze for gaze.
Man ever journeys on with them
After the red-rose-bordered hem.
Ah, faeries, dancing under the moon,
A Druid land, a Druid tune!

While still I may, I write for you
The love I lived, the dream I knew.
From our birthday, until we die,
Is but the winking of an eye;
And we, our singing and our love,
What measurer Time has lit above,
And all benighted things that go
About my table to and fro,
Are passing on to where may be,
In truth's consuming ecstasy,
No place for love and dream at all;
For God goes by with white footfall.
I cast my heart into my rhymes,
That you, in the dim coming times,
May know how my heart went with them
After the red-rose-bordered hem.

致未来爱尔兰

要明白,我愿意被大家认同
是那一伙人的忠实弟兄,
他们唱着歌使爱尔兰伤痛减轻,
用民谣,故事,俚曲,歌行;
而且,我也不愿比哪一个逊色,
因为她那红玫瑰镶边的服饰,
在上帝创造这天使般的民族之前,
就把自己的历史写在书页之间;
因为在世界最初的开花年代,
她飞奔的双脚轻轻下坠,
使爱尔兰的心儿开始跳跃;
如今星光之烛仍在闪耀,
帮助她的脚轻轻地起落;
如今,爱尔兰之魂
仍在神圣的静谧中沉吟。

也不要把我这个人当成
不如台维斯,曼根,费格生,
因为对一个深思熟虑的人,
我的诗比他们讲得更鲜明。
那隐约的智慧,古老而深沉,
上帝把它只给睡中人。
四大元素引来的种种,
在我桌子旁来回走动,

化为水,火,土,风,
从未曾测知的人的头脑向外涌。
狂嘶暴吼的洪水巨风。
但肃步行进的人
准会遇到他们古老的眼神。
人类永远和他们一道前进,
追随那红玫瑰镶边的衣襟。
啊,仙女们,在月光下舞蹈,
巫师的故国,巫师的曲调!

只要我能够,我要为你歌诵
我经历的爱,我做过的梦。
从我们诞生一直到死亡
不过是一眨眼时光,
而我们,我们的歌唱和爱情,
能在时间洪流闪耀多久,
并且那引来的种种,
在我桌子旁来回走动,
这一切正走向该去的地点,
那真理之融化一切的极乐天,
那绝不是谈爱做梦之地,
上帝踩着雪白的脚走去。
我把心铸入了我的诗行,
使你们在隐约的未来时光,
会明白我的心与他们同往,
追随那红玫瑰镶边的衣裳。

The Song of Wandering Aengus

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

安格斯漫游歌

走出门到榛树林,
胸中憋着一窝火,
割削一根榛树棍,
悬上一线挂个果;
此时白蛾正四飞,
蛾般星群正闪耀,
我把果子掷下溪,
银色鳟鱼捉一条。

我把鳟鱼放地上,
吹得炉火旺又高,
什么东西地上响,
有人把我姓名叫;
光彩闪闪姑娘显,
一头秀发苹果颜,
边呼我名边奔前,
一片光亮不再见。

穿过低谷和高山,
垂垂老矣四方游,
我要找到这姑娘,
吻她唇来握她手。
长草驳杂我走过,
采摘月亮银苹果,
采摘太阳金苹果,
采到时间成虚无。

The arrow

I thought of your beauty, and this arrow,
Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow.
There's no man may look upon her, no man,
As when newly grown to be a woman,
Tall and noble but with face and bosom
Delicate in colour as apple blossom.
This beauty's kinder, yet for a reason
I could weep that the old is out of season.

我想到你的美,而这支箭
由狂想构成,落在我骨髓间。
没哪个男人敢看她,没有人,
当她刚成长为一个女人
颀长而崇高,脸和胸膛
色泽柔和如苹果花一样。
这种美更善良,但我有道理
哀哭那昔日之美的谢去。

O do not Love Too Long

Sweetheart, do not love too long:
I loved long and long,
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.

All through the years of our youth
Neither could have known
Their own thought from the other's,
We were so much at one.

But O, in a minute she changed—
O do not love too long,
Or you will grow out of fashion
Like an old song.

噢,别爱太久

亲爱的,可别爱太久;
我爱得又长又久,
就像一支老歌曲
人们不再记心头。

我们青春时代
谁也不能分辨
你的或我的思想,
我们是一致无间。

不过噢,一瞬间她就变——
噢,可别爱太久,
你会像一支老歌曲
人们不再记心头。

Brown Penny

I whispered, 'I am too young,'
And then, 'I am old enough';
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
'Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair.'
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.

O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.

铜便士

我悄悄说:“我还太年轻,”
接着又说,“我也不小了。”
我投出一个便士,
看看我可否谈爱了。
“去爱吧、去爱吧,年轻人,
如那姑娘又年轻又美丽。”
啊,便士,铜便士,铜便士,
我卷进了她卷发的圈里。

噢,爱情是狡猾的东西,
没有人有足够的聪明
去发现它全部的涵义,
因他会思念着爱情,
直到天上不见星星,
阴影把月亮吞掉。
啊,便士,铜便士,铜便士,
一个人不会爱得太早。

A Song

I thought no more was needed
Youth to prolong
Than dumb-bell and foil
To keep the body young.
O who could have foretold
That the heart grows old?

Though I have many words,
What woman's satisfied,
I am no longer faint
Because at her side?
O who could have foretold
That the heart grows old?

I have not lost desire
But the heart that I had;
I thought 'twould burn my body
Laid on the death-bed,
For who could have foretold
That the heart grows old?

我想再不用别的
来延长青春,
除了哑铃和钝剑
使身体健壮。
噢,哪个能预告
我那颗心已变老?

我虽有千言万语
使女人满心欢喜,
我躺在她身边
却不再目昏神迷,
噢,哪个能预告
我那颗心已变老?

我并未丧失欲望,
但我失去了我的心,
我以为陈尸床上,
它会炙燃我身。
噢,哪个能预告
我那颗心已变老?

The Scholars

Bald heads forgetful of their sins,
Old, learned, respectable bald heads
Edit and annotate the lines
That young men, tossing on their beds,
Rhymed out in love's despair
To flatter beauty's ignorant ear.

All shuffle there; all cough in ink;
All wear the carpet with their shoes;
All think what other people think;
All know the man their neighbour knows.
Lord, what would they say
Did their Catullus walk that way?

学 者

秃脑瓜忘却了自己的罪孽,
博学可敬的老脑瓜秃又光,
编辑呀,注释呀那些诗集,
青年人夜不寐,爱恋中绝望,
写下来,把诗句吟吟唱唱,
去奉承美人无知的耳囊。

全都蹒跚走,冲墨水咳嗽,
全都用鞋子把地毯磨损,
全想着别人转过的念头,
全认得邻居认识的人。
老天爷,他们有什么好讲,
难道伽图走路也这个样?

Sailing to Byzantium

I

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

II

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

III

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

IV

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

驶向拜占庭

1

那地方可不是老年人待的。青年人
互相拥抱着,树上的鸟类
——那些垂死的世代——在歌吟,
有鲑鱼的瀑布,有鲭鱼的大海,
鱼肉禽整个夏天都赞扬个不停
一切被养育、降生和死亡者。
他们都迷恋于种种肉感的音乐,
忽视了不朽的理性的杰作。

2

一个老年人不过是卑微的物品,
披在一根拐杖上的破衣裳,
除非他那颗心灵拍手来歌吟,
为人世衣衫的破烂而大唱;
世界上没什么音乐院校不诵吟
自己辉煌的里程碑作品,
因此我驶过汪洋和大海万顷,
来到了这一个圣城拜占庭。

3

啊,上帝圣火中站立的圣徒们,
如墙上金色的镶嵌砖所显示,
请走出圣火来,参加那旋锥体的运行,
成为教我灵魂歌唱的老师。
销毁掉我的心,它执迷于六欲七情,
捆绑在垂死的动物身上而不知
它自己的本性;请求你把我收进
那永恒不朽的手工艺精品。

4

一旦我超脱了自然,我再也不要
从任何自然物取得体形,
而是要古希腊时代金匠所铸造
镀金或锻金那样的体形,
使那个昏昏欲睡的皇帝清醒;
或把我放在那金枝上唱吟,
歌唱那过去和未来或者当今,
唱给拜占庭的老爷太太听。

The Tower

I
What shall I do with this absurdity—
O heart, O troubled heart—this caricature,
Decrepit age that has been tied to me
As to a dog's tail?
        Never had I more
Excited, passionate, fantastical
Imagination, nor an ear and eye
That more expected the impossible—
No, not in boyhood when with rod and fly,
Or the humbler worm, I climbed Ben Bulben's back
And had the livelong summer day to spend.
It seems that I must bid the Muse go pack,
Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend
Until imagination, ear and eye,
Can be content with argument and deal
In abstract things; or be derided by
A sort of battered kettle at the heel.

II

I pace upon the battlements and stare
On the foundations of a house, or where
Tree, like a sooty finger, starts from the earth;
And send imagination forth
Under the day's declining beam, and call
Images and memories
From ruin or from ancient trees,
For I would ask a question of them all.

Beyond that ridge lived Mrs. French, and once
When every silver candlestick or sconce
Lit up the dark mahogany and the wine,
A serving-man, that could divine
That most respected lady's every wish,
Ran and with the garden shears
Clipped an insolent farmer's ears
And brought them in a little covered dish.

Some few remembered still when I was young
A peasant girl commended by a song,
Who'd lived somewhere upon that rocky place,
And praised the colour of her face,
And had the greater joy in praising her,
Remembering that, if walked she there,
Farmers jostled at the fair
So great a glory did the song confer.

And certain men, being maddened by those rhymes,
Or else by toasting her a score of times,
Rose from the table and declared it right
To test their fancy by their sight;
But they mistook the brightness of the moon
For the prosaic light of day—
Music had driven their wits astray—
And one was drowned in the great bog of Cloone.

Strange, but the man who made the song was blind;
Yet, now I have considered it, I find
That nothing strange; the tragedy began
With Homer that was a blind man,
And Helen has all living hearts betrayed.
O may the moon and sunlight seem
One inextricable beam,
For if I triumph I must make men mad.

And I myself created Hanrahan
And drove him drunk or sober through the dawn
From somewhere in the neighbouring cottages.
Caught by an old man's juggleries
He stumbled, tumbled, fumbled to and fro
And had but broken knees for hire
And horrible splendour of desire;
I thought it all out twenty years ago:

Good fellows shuffled cards in an old bawn;
And when that ancient ruffian's turn was on
He so bewitched the cards under his thumb
That all but the one card became
A pack of hounds and not a pack of cards,
And that he changed into a hare.
Hanrahan rose in frenzy there
And followed up those baying creatures towards—

O towards I have forgotten what-enough!
I must recall a man that neither love
Nor music nor an enemy's clipped ear
Could, he was so harried, cheer;
A figure that has grown so fabulous
There's not a neighbour left to say
When he finished his dog's day:
An ancient bankrupt master of this house.

Before that ruin came, for centuries,
Rough men-at-arms, cross-gartered to the knees
Or shod in iron, climbed the narrow stairs,
And certain men-at-arms there were
Whose images, in the Great Memory stored,
Come with loud cry and panting breast
To break upon a sleeper's rest
While their great wooden dice beat on the board.

As I would question all, come all who can;
Come old, necessitous, half-mounted man;
And bring beauty's blind rambling celebrant;
The red man the juggler sent
Through God-forsaken meadows; Mrs. French,
Gifted with so fine an ear;
The man drowned in a bog's mire,
When mocking Muses chose the country wench.

Did all old men and women, rich and poor,
Who trod upon these rocks or passed this door,
Whether in public or in secret rage
As I do now against old age?
But I have found an answer in those eyes
That are impatient to be gone;
Go therefore; but leave Hanrahan,
For I need all his mighty memories.

Old lecher with a love on every wind,
Bring up out of that deep considering mind
All that you have discovered in the grave,
For it is certain that you have
Reckoned up every unforeknown, unseeing
Plunge, lured by a softening eye,
Or by a touch or a sigh,
Into the labyrinth of another's being;

Does the imagination dwell the most
Upon a woman won or woman lost?
If on the lost, admit you turned aside
From a great labyrinth out of pride,
Cowardice, some silly over-subtle thought
Or anything called conscience once;
And that if memory recur, the sun's
Under eclipse and the day blotted out.

III

It is time that I wrote my will;
I choose upstanding men
That climb the streams until
The fountain leap, and at dawn
Drop their cast at the side
Of dripping stone; I declare
They shall inherit my pride,
The pride of people that were
Bound neither to Cause nor to State,
Neither to slaves that were spat on,
Nor to the tyrants that spat,
The people of Burke and of Grattan
That gave, though free to refuse—
Pride, like that of the morn,
When the headlong light is loose,
Or that of the fabulous horn,
Or that of the sudden shower
When all streams are dry,
Or that of the hour
When the swan must fix his eye
Upon a fading gleam,
Float out upon a long
Last reach of glittering stream

And there sing his last song.
And I declare my faith:
I mock Plotinus' thought
And cry in Plato's teeth,
Death and life were not
Till man made up the whole,
Made lock, stock and barrel
Out of his bitter soul,
Aye, sun and moon and star, all,
And further add to that
That, being dead, we rise,
Dream and so create
Translunar paradise.
I have prepared my peace
With learned Italian things
And the proud stones of Greece,
Poet's imaginings
And memories of love,
Memories of the words of women
All those things whereof
Man makes a superhuman
Mirror-resembling dream.

As at the loophole there
The daws chatter and scream,
And drop twigs layer upon layer.
When they have mounted up,
The mother bird will rest

On their hollow top,
And so warm her wild nest.
I leave both faith and pride
To young upstanding men
Climbing the mountain-side,
That under bursting dawn
They may drop a fly;
Being of that metal made
Till it was broken by
This sedentary trade.

Now shall I make my soul,
Compelling it to study
In a learned school
Till the wreck of body,
Slow decay of blood,
Testy delirium
Or dull decrepitude,
Or what worse evil come—
The death of friends, or death
Of every brilliant eye
That made a catch in the breath—
Seem but the clouds of the sky
When the horizon fades;
Or a bird's sleepy cry
Among the deepening shades. 

塔 楼

1

我要这荒谬之物做什么——
心呵,苦恼的心呵——这幅漫画
衰老之年挂在我身上
如同挂在一只狗的尾巴上?
我从未有过
更为兴奋、激情、奇异的想象,
也没有耳目
更企盼着不可能的事物——
不,就在少年时也不,那时我带着钓竿和苍蝇
或更卑微的虫子,我上本布尔本后山
去度过悠悠长日的夏天。
看来,我必须让缪思打点行装了,
选择柏拉图和普洛提诺斯为友,
直到想象力、耳朵和眼睛
满足于论证和处理
抽象观念,或被脚后
一个损坏了的水壶所嘲弄。

2

我在雉堞上漫步,注视
房子的地基,或是一棵树,
像熏黑的指头从地面崛起;
我派出想象
在白昼渐暗的光线下,
从废墟或古老的树丛
召回记忆和意象,
因为我要问他们全体一个问题。

在那个山脊的后面住着个法兰契太太,
有一次当所有银烛台或灯台
照亮黑黝黝的红木桌或酒,
一个侍者他能测知
那位最被尊敬的夫人的任何愿望,
他跑出去,用修枝剪刀
剪下一个傲慢农民的双耳,
装在一个盖好了的小碟里送来。

有些人还记得我年轻时,
有支歌称道一个农家姑娘,
她住在那多石头的地方,
称赞她鲜艳的脸庞,
我越赞美,越是高兴,
记得起,她一来到,
赶集的农民就你挤我推,
那支歌给了她那么大荣耀。

有些人听这歌发了疯,
或再三再四地为她干杯,
从桌旁站起,直接宣称
要亲眼证明这个幻想;
但他们把月色的光辉
误作白昼无味的光亮,
音乐迷了他们的心神——
有一个在克罗恒的大沼泽里丧命。

奇怪,作这歌的是个盲人;
但现在,我考虑了一番,觉得
没什么奇怪,悲剧一开始,
荷马就是个瞎子,
海伦背叛了所有活人的心。
噢,但愿月亮和太阳光
看来是不可分拆的光,
如我成功了,必使人们发狂。

我自己创造了罕拉汉,
黎明中把他,醉或醒
从临近的某处村庄中赶过。
为一个老者的魔法着了迷,
他跌倒,翻滚,摸索着来去,
只剩下破膝头可以出工
和欲望的可怕的壮丽,
二十年前我构想出这一切:

好朋友们在旧场院里玩牌;
轮到那古代的老无赖发牌,
他指头下的牌做得这么怪,
所有的牌除了一张以外,
变成了一群猎犬,而不是一束牌,
他自己变成了野兔子。
罕拉汉一生气站起来,
就去追赶那些呼叫而去的狗子到——

噢,到我忘了的什么地方——够了!
我必须回想起一个人,
他是这样困厄,爱情、音乐
或剪下敌人的耳朵都不能使他快乐;
这样一个传奇式的人物
没留下一个邻居来说,
何时他过完他的狗日子;
他是这房子破产的老主人。

在它成为废墟以前,多少世纪,
带枪的粗人,绑腿齐膝,
脚穿铁靴,爬上狭小的楼梯,
那里有些持枪者来了,
他们的意象保存于大记忆,
大声叫着,胸部喘息,
用大木棒子敲打桌子,
打破睡眠者的安息。

我想问问大家,能来的都来吧;
来吧,贫困的,登上一半楼梯的人,
带来歌颂美人的盲目的闲游者,
被魔术家赶出,上帝遗弃的
草原的红种人,获得如此
优美耳朵的法兰契太太,
那个在沼泽地淹死的人,
他嘲弄缪思,选择了村姑。

所有这些男人女人,穷人富人,
他们踏过这些山石或经过这座门,
不管在公众面前或内心,
都像我现在那样怒斥老龄?
但我从那些急于离去的人们
眼里得到了一个回答:
那么,去吧,但留下罕拉汉,
因我需要他全部强大的记忆。

四面八方都有爱人的老色鬼,
从深思熟虑的心中倒出来
你在坟墓中的全部发现,
因为你肯定已计量过每一个
对别个生命迷宫的投入,
它们不可预知,不可见,
为一个温柔的目光,
一个抚摸或叹息所迷惑。

想象最执着于
一个赢得的女人或失去的女人?
如是失去的,承认你离开了
一个伟大的迷宫,出于骄傲,
怯懦、愚蠢的过分精明的思想;
或者人们一度所谓的良心;
如果记忆复归,太阳
就会消失,白昼就会泯灭。

3

这是立遗嘱的时候了,
我喜欢正直的人们,
他们逆流勇进一直到
急流喷涌,黎明时分
在滴水崖旁投下钓饵;
我宣告,他们将继承我的豪气:
不受事业或国的管束,
不做啐人的暴君的奴隶,
也不向被啐的奴隶屈服;
我们是勃克、格拉丹的子民,
有权拒绝,却还是施舍
豪迈如朝阳初醒,
光芒劈头盖脑而来;
豪迈如神奇的丰饶角一般,
或突如其来的阵雨,
当大河小溪全枯干;
或如天鹅它必须
眼盯着隐退的光芒,
在最后一长段溪水上,
那溪流还在闪光,

它浮游,把终曲歌唱。
我把信仰宣告:
我蔑视普洛提诺斯,
我针对柏拉图狂叫,
人生无所谓生与死,
除非人成为整体,
从人的痛苦心灵
把种种连在一起,
对,还有日月星辰。
还得加上一点,
死后我们腾身向上,
做梦,并且创建
横穿月球的天堂。
我心安理得,
有讲究的意大利工艺,
有珍贵的希腊雕刻,
有诗人的幻想梦呓,
有爱情的种种回忆,
有女人们话语的回音,
依靠这一切东西,
人成为一个超人,
镜子般真实的梦境。

就像在透光孔旁,
穴鸟唧唧喳喳叫,
把枝叶层层投放,
等枝条铺得高高,
母鸟就飞到树端,
栖息于高悬的空巢
使它的野窝温暖。
我把信心和自豪
留给正直的年轻人,
他们攀登山腰
在黎明破晓时分
放下蝇饵钓鱼;
既是那钢材所造,
他们将坚持下去
直到这不动的行业
最终使它破灭。

如今我把灵魂铸造,
强迫它去学习,
进一个渊博的学校
直到体力衰竭,
筋血慢慢衰退,
变得疯狂或暴躁,
或老朽痴呆,
或最坏的坏事来到——
朋友亡故,所有
俊眼丽目消失,
它们曾使我屏息——
都不过像天上流云
随着地平线隐去,
或像暗下去的阴影,
小鸟的一声倦啼。

Among School Children

I

I walk through the long schoolroom questioning;
A kind old nun in a white hood replies;
The children learn to cipher and to sing,
To study reading-books and histories,
To cut and sew, be neat in everything
In the best modern way—the children's eyes
In momentary wonder stare upon
A sixty-year-old smiling public man.

II

I dream of a Ledaean body, bent
Above a sinking fire. a tale that she
Told of a harsh reproof, or trivial event
That changed some childish day to tragedy—
Told, and it seemed that our two natures blent
Into a sphere from youthful sympathy,
Or else, to alter Plato's parable,
Into the yolk and white of the one shell.

III

And thinking of that fit of grief or rage
I look upon one child or t'other there
And wonder if she stood so at that age—
For even daughters of the swan can share
Something of every paddler's heritage—
And had that colour upon cheek or hair,
And thereupon my heart is driven wild:
She stands before me as a living child.

IV

Her present image floats into the mind—
Did Quattrocento finger fashion it
Hollow of cheek as though it drank the wind
And took a mess of shadows for its meat?
And I though never of Ledaean kind
Had pretty plumage once—enough of that,
Better to smile on all that smile, and show
There is a comfortable kind of old scarecrow.

V

What youthful mother, a shape upon her lap
Honey of generation had betrayed,
And that must sleep, shriek, struggle to escape
As recollection or the drug decide,
Would think her son, did she but see that shape
With sixty or more winters on its head,
A compensation for the pang of his birth,
Or the uncertainty of his setting forth?

VI

Plato thought nature but a spume that plays
Upon a ghostly paradigm of things;
Solider Aristotle played the taws
Upon the bottom of a king of kings;
World-famous golden-thighed Pythagoras
Fingered upon a fiddle-stick or strings
What a star sang and careless Muses heard:
Old clothes upon old sticks to scare a bird.

VII

Both nuns and mothers worship images,
But those the candles light are not as those
That animate a mother's reveries,
But keep a marble or a bronze repose.
And yet they too break hearts—O Presences
That passion, piety or affection knows,
And that all heavenly glory symbolise—
O self-born mockers of man's enterprise;

VIII

Labour is blossoming or dancing where
The body is not bruised to pleasure soul,
Nor beauty born out of its own despair,
Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil.
O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?

在学童中间

1

我走过漫长的教室,问东问西,
戴白头巾的好心老修女来答问:
儿童要学习唱歌和书写的技艺,
还要学历史和各种的读本,
要学习剪裁和缝纫,一切要整齐,
最摩登的样式——孩子们的眼神
出于那一时的好奇,目不转睛
注视这六十岁微笑的名人。

2

我梦见有一个丽达那样的身子,
俯伏在快要熄灭的炉子上,
让一个挨臭骂或者无聊的故事,
使童年的一天变成了忧伤——
仿佛为年轻人那种同情所驱使,
我们的两颗心交融成一颗,
或者改一下柏拉图的那一个比方,
化成了蛋壳中的蛋白和蛋黄。

3

想起了那一阵我们的悲伤和气愤,
我瞧瞧这孩子,望望那儿童,
猜想她当年可也是那一副神情,
有那种颜色的头发和脸容——
因为即使是天鹅的女儿也有份,
每一个摇摆而行者的习性。
这时刻我的心灵狂乱地跳动:
她就在我眼前,一个活儿童。

4

她目前的形象飘进了我的心中,
是十五世纪艺术家的造型,
她两颊深陷好似吸着一股风,
把一堆阴影当作了食品?
虽说我从不是丽达那样的品种,
也有过美丽的羽毛——算了吧,
还不如对所有微笑的人们微笑,
显示出老稻草人也过得很好。

5

哪一个年轻的母亲膝上抱个人,
他就是生殖之蜜的产品,
他必须睡呀,叫呀,挣扎着求存,
按照那记忆或药物的决定;
她要是看到堆积在那人的头顶,
六十个或更多个冬天的白雪,
会不会感到她儿子如今已报偿
生他的痛苦和前途的渺茫?

6

柏拉图认为自然不过是泡沫,
在事物的幽灵般的变幻图中嬉戏,
亚里士多德更实际,拿起了鞭子,
抽打那王者之王的下体,
全球闻名的长着金股骨的毕达哥拉斯,
用手指拉动提琴弓、弦乐器,
奏出星之歌,被无心的诗神听到:
老拐杖披着破衣裳吓唬小鸟。

7

修女们,母亲们,她们都崇拜形象,
但烛光照亮的形象并不能
激发起一个母亲的奇思和狂想,
而只使大理石像或铜像安生。
但它们也叫人心碎——种种形象,
为爱情、虔诚和母爱所熟知。
还有为一切至上的光荣所象征——
啊,对人类自身的嘲弄。

8

劳作也就是开花或者舞蹈,
躯体不为讨好灵魂而受害,
美丽也不是自我绝望所制造,
夜读不产生两眼模糊的智慧。
栗树啊,树根粗壮的花朵开放着,
你就是叶子,花朵,或树身?
随乐曲晃动的躯体,明亮的眼神,
怎叫人把舞者和舞蹈分清?

A Man Young and Old

I

First Love
Though nurtured like the sailing moon
In beauty's murderous brood,
She walked awhile and blushed awhile
And on my pathway stood
Until I thought her body bore
A heart of flesh and blood.

But since I laid a hand thereon
And found a heart of stone
I have attempted many things
And not a thing is done,
For every hand is lunatic
That travels on the moon.

She smiled and that transfigured me
And left me but a lout,
Maundering here, and maundering there,
Emptier of thought
Than the heavenly circuit of its stars
When the moon sails out.

II

Human Dignity
Like the moon her kindness is,
If kindness I may call
What has no comprehension in't,
But is the same for all
As though my sorrow were a scene
Upon a painted wall.

So like a bit of stone I lie
Under a broken tree.
I could recover if I shrieked
My heart's agony
To passing bird, but I am dumb
From human dignity.

III

The Mermaid 
A mermaid found a swimming lad,
Picked him for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown.

IV

The Death of the Hare
I have pointed out the yelling pack,
The hare leap to the wood,
And when I pass a compliment
Rejoice as lover should
At the drooping of an eye,
At the mantling of the blood.

Then suddenly my heart is wrung
By her distracted air
And I remember wildness lost
And after, swept from there,
Am set down standing in the wood
At the death of the hare.

V

The Empty Cup
A crazy man that found a cup,
When all but dead of thirst,
Hardly dared to wet his mouth
Imagining, moon-accursed,
That another mouthful
And his beating heart would burst.
October last I found it too
But found it dry as bone,
And for that reason am I crazed
And my sleep is gone.

VI

His Memories
We should be hidden from their eyes,
Being but holy shows
And bodies broken like a thorn
Whereon the bleak north blows,
To think of buried Hector
And that none living knows.

The women take so little stock
In what I do or say
They'd sooner leave their cosseting
To hear a jackass bray;
My arms are like the twisted thorn
And yet there beauty lay;

The first of all the tribe lay there
And did such pleasure take—
She who had brought great Hector down
And put all Troy to wreck—
That she cried into this ear,
'Strike me if I shriek.'

VII

The Friends of his Youth
Laughter not time destroyed my voice
And put that crack in it,
And when the moon's pot-bellied
I get a laughing fit,
For that old Madge comes down the lane,
A stone upon her breast,
And a cloak wrapped about the stone,
And she can get no rest
With singing hush and hush-a-bye;
She that has been wild
And barren as a breaking wave
Thinks that the stone's a child.

And Peter that had great affairs
And was a pushing man
Shrieks, 'I am King of the Peacocks,'
And perches on a stone;
And then I laugh till tears run down
And the heart thumps at my side,
Remembering that her shriek was love
And that he shrieks from pride.

VIII

Summer and Spring 
We sat under an old thorn-tree
And talked away the night,
Told all that had been said or done
Since first we saw the light,
And when we talked of growing up
Knew that we'd halved a soul
And fell the one in t'other's arms
That we might make it whole;
Then Peter had a murdering look,
For it seemed that he and she
Had spoken of their childish days
Under that very tree.
O what a bursting out there was,
And what a blossoming,
When we had all the summer-time
And she had all the spring!

IX

The Secrets of the Old
I have old women's secrets now
That had those of the young;
Madge tells me what I dared not think
When my blood was strong,
And what had drowned a lover once
Sounds like an old song.

Though Margery is stricken dumb
If thrown in Madge's way,
We three make up a solitude;
For none alive to-day
Can know the stories that we know
Or say the things we say:

How such a man pleased women most
Of all that are gone,
How such a pair loved many years
And such a pair but one,
Stories of the bed of straw
Or the bed of down.

X

His Wildness
O bid me mount and sail up there
Amid the cloudy wrack,
For Peg and Meg and Paris' love
That had so straight a back,
Are gone away, and some that stay
Have changed their silk for sack.

Were I but there and none to hear
I'd have a peacock cry,
For that is natural to a man
That lives in memory,
Being all alone I'd nurse a stone
And sing it lullaby.

一个男人:青年和老年

初恋
虽然像飘行的月亮
她受美之残酷的孕育,
她一会儿走路,一会儿脸红,
在我小路上站着,
直到我以为她的身上
长着一颗心,有血有肉。

自从我把手往上一放,
发现一副铁石心肠,
我试图做许多事情,
没有一件成功,
因为在月亮上摸索,
每只手都会发疯。

她一笑使我起了变化,
只成为一个蠢人,
这里晃晃,那里荡荡,
与月亮逝去后的群星
在天上的运转相比,
我的思想更空虚。

人的自尊
她的善良如月亮
如果我可以把没内容的
东西叫做善良,
它对谁都一个样,
好像我的痛苦如一幅画
挂上了粉刷过的墙。

因此我像一小块石头
躺在断树下面,
我能复原如我
对飞过的鸟叫鸣
我心中的苦恼,但我哑了,
出于人的自尊。

美人鱼
美人鱼找到了游水的少年,
把他当作自己的东西,
用她身子紧紧抱他,
笑着,直往水中跳去,
在残忍的快乐中忘了
即使情人也会溺毙。

野兔之死
我向吼叫的人群指出,
一只野兔跳入丛林,
我说了句奉承话,
一个情人就会高兴,
看到眼睛低垂,
看到血液上升。

突然我的心紧缩,
由于她失神的模样,
我想起失去的狂野,
然后匆匆离开那地方,
在树林中安心站定,
寻思那野兔的死亡。

空杯
几乎干渴得要死,
一个疯子找到了杯子,
却不敢让嘴唇沾湿,
想象着,受月亮诅咒,
再喝一大口,
他跳着的心会破裂。
去年十月我也找到一个,
发现它干涸如骨头,
为此我发了疯,
再也睡不成。

他的记忆
我们该藏起来,不让他们见,
不过是神圣的展现
像被凄厉的北风吹打
断裂的荆棘的枝干,
去思念被埋葬的赫克托尔
和活人谁也不知的事件。

女人们并不看重
我做的或说的事情,
她们宁可丢下宠物,
去听一只公驴嘶鸣,
我的胳臂如弯曲的荆棘,
但美人就在那里安寝。

全部落第一美人在那儿安寝,
如此大的欢乐她得到——
她打倒了伟大的赫克托尔,
把整个特洛伊城毁掉—
“如我尖叫,你就打我!”
她向我这只耳朵喊道。

他青年时代的朋友
是欢笑而非时间毁了我的嗓子,
使它带着嘶哑之声,
当月亮鼓起肚子,
我就会大笑不停,
因为老梅琪从巷子下来,
胸前抱着一块石头,
一件外衣裹着石头,
她唱着宝宝睡呀睡,
唱个无止无休;
她曾经狂而不育,
像散裂的波浪,
以为石头就是儿郎。

彼得有过惊人的艳遇,
他敢打敢闯,
他叫道:“我乃孔雀之王,”
然后栖身石上;
那时我笑得眼泪直流,
胸膛的心儿直跳,
想到她叫是为了爱情,
他叫是为了骄傲。

夏和春
用谈话将夜晚消磨,
我们坐在老荆棘树下,
讲到自我们诞生以来,
做过的事,说过的话;
我们讲到长大成人
知道已把灵魂对分,
两双臂互相拥抱,
以求整合为一个心灵;
接着彼得脸有难色,
因为看来他和她
谈到了他们的幼年,
曾在那一棵树下,
呵,那时节多欢畅奔放,
多么繁花如妍,
当我们拥有全部盛夏,
她拥有整个春天。

老年人的秘密
如今我懂得老妇人的秘密,
我曾知道年轻人的勾当,
梅琪告诉我不敢想的事。
当我还年轻血气旺,
我淹死过一个情人,
这听来像一支老歌在唱。

玛吉莱要是碰上了梅琪,
她会吓得一口哑,
我们三个沉寂无话;
今天活着的没有谁
能知道我们知道的故事,
或讲我们讲过的话。

在所有过去的人中,
这样的男人怎样最使女人欢畅,
这样的一对怎样相爱多少年,
也就这么一双;
稻草垫床的故事,
或用羽毛垫床。

他的狂劲儿
呵,让我跳上或飘升
到散乱的云层,
因为伯格、麦格或帕里斯的情人
腰板直挺挺,
他们都已逝去,
留下的把丝绸换了麻巾。

要是我在场,无人听见,
我会让孔雀嘶鸣,
对一个生活在记忆中的人,
这是自然的事情,
孤独中,我会养育一块石头,
唱安眠曲给它听。

Spilt Milk

We that have done and thought,
That have thought and done,
Must ramble, and thin out
Like milk spilt on a stone.

撒了的奶

我们有所为、有所思的人,
我们有所思、有所为的人,
必须慢慢走,越来越稀罕,
就像一碗奶,抛撒岩石间。

Coole Park and Ballylee, 1931

Under my window-ledge the waters race,
Otters below and moor-hens on the top,
Run for a mile undimmed in Heaven's face
Then darkening through 'dark' Raftery's 'cellar' drop,
Run underground, rise in a rocky place
In Coole demesne, and there to finish up
Spread to a lake and drop into a hole.
What's water but the generated soul?

Upon the border of that lake's a wood
Now all dry sticks under a wintry sun,
And in a copse of beeches there I stood,
For Nature's pulled her tragic buskin on
And all the rant's a mirror of my mood:
At sudden thunder of the mounting swan
I turned about and looked where branches break
The glittering reaches of the flooded lake.

Another emblem there! That stormy white
But seems a concentration of the sky;
And, like the soul, it sails into the sight
And in the morning's gone, no man knows why;
And is so lovely that it sets to right
What knowledge or its lack had set awry,
So arrogantly pure, a child might think
It can be murdered with a spot of ink.

Sound of a stick upon the floor, a sound
From somebody that toils from chair to chair;
Beloved books that famous hands have bound,
Old marble heads, old pictures everywhere;
Great rooms where travelled men and children found
Content or joy; a last inheritor
Where none has reigned that lacked a name and fame
Or out of folly into folly came.

A spot whereon the founders lived and died
Seemed once more dear than life; ancestral trees,
Or gardens rich in memory glorified
Marriages, alliances and families,
And every bride's ambition satisfied.
Where fashion or mere fantasy decrees
We shift about—all that great glory spent—
Like some poor Arab tribesman and his tent.

We were the last romantics—chose for theme
Traditional sanctity and loveliness;
Whatever's written in what poets name
The book of the people; whatever most can bless
The mind of man or elevate a rhyme;
But all is changed, that high horse riderless,
Though mounted in that saddle Homer rode

Where the swan drifts upon a darkening flood.

柯尔庄园和贝列里,1931年

我窗架之下河水奔流,
下面有水獭,上面有红松鸡,
在苍天面前明亮地流了一里地,
然后暗下来流经雷夫第雷“黑”地窖,
流过地下,在山岩间升上来
进入柯尔界内结束,
扩展为湖,流入一个洞穴,
这河水不就是繁殖而生的灵魂?

那湖的丛林的边上,
冬日下如今成了一堆干枝,
我站在山毛榉的小林中,
大自然已在扮演悲剧,
一切狂叫都反映我的心情:
飞升的天鹅一阵突兀的轰鸣,
我转过身,望着树枝断裂
泛滥湖水的闪烁的波纹。

那是又一个表征!那一片凶猛的白色
看来不过像一片天空的凝集,
像灵魂,它驶入视界,
无人知晓,一到早晨消失;
如此可爱,它校正了
知识有无造成的偏执,
如此高傲地纯洁,一个孩子会想
用一滴墨水把它消灭。

地面上一根手杖的声音,那声音
来自从椅子到椅子劳作不息的人;
著名的手工装订的可爱书籍,
到处是古老的大理石头像,古老的画;
豪华的房间,在其中游人和孩子们
得到满足和快乐,一位最后继承人,
那里的统治者无不有英名和荣名,
或者是走出愚昧又进入愚昧的人。

这建设者生活或死亡的地方
一度被看作比生命更宝贵;祖先的树,
或富有纪念意义的园庭
使婚姻、联盟和家族荣耀,
满足了每个新娘的野心。
而时尚或仅仅幻想促使我们
东奔西走——失去了所有的巨大光荣——
就像可怜的阿拉伯部族和帐篷。

我们是最后的浪漫派了——选择
传统的圣洁和优美为主题,
写诗人称为人民之书的一切作品,
做最有益于人类心智的事物
或改进一个脚韵;
但一切都改变了,而高马已无骑手,
虽然登上了荷马坐过的马鞍,

当天鹅在越来越暗的波涛中漂流。

Vacillation

I

Between extremities
Man runs his course;
A brand, or flaming breath,
Comes to destroy
All those antinomies
Of day and night;
The body calls it death,
The heart remorse.
But if these be right
What is joy?

II

A tree there is that from its topmost bough
Is half all glittering flame and half all green
Abounding foliage moistened with the dew;
And half is half and yet is all the scene;
And half and half consume what they renew,
And he that Attis' image hangs between
That staring fury and the blind lush leaf

May know not what he knows, but knows not grief.

III

Get all the gold and silver that you can,
Satisfy ambition, animate
The trivial days and ram them with the sun,
And yet upon these maxims meditate:
All women dote upon an idle man
Although their children need a rich estate;
No man has ever lived that had enough
Of children's gratitude or woman's love.

No longer in Lethean foliage caught
Begin the preparation for your death
And from the fortieth winter by that thought
Test every work of intellect or faith,
And everything that your own hands have wrought,
And call those works extravagance of breath
That are not suited for such men as come
Proud, open-eyed and laughing to the tomb.

IV

My fiftieth year had come and gone,
I sat, a solitary man,
In a crowded London shop,
An open book and empty cup
On the marble table-top.

While on the shop and street I gazed
My body of a sudden blazed;
And twenty minutes more or less
It seemed, so great my happiness,
That I was blessèd and could bless.

V

Although the summer sunlight gild
Cloudy leafage of the sky,
Or wintry moonlight sink the field
In storm-scattered intricacy,
I cannot look thereon,
Responsibility so weighs me down.

Things said or done long years ago,
Or things I did not do or say
But thought that I might say or do,
Weigh me down, and not a day
But something is recalled,

My conscience or my vanity appalled.

VI

A rivery field spread out below,
An odour of the new-mown hay
In his nostrils, the great lord of Chou
Cried, casting off the mountain snow,

'Let all things pass away.'

Wheels by milk-white asses drawn

Where Babylon or Nineveh
Rose; some conqueror or drew rein
And cried to battle-weary men,
'Let all things pass away.'

From man's blood-sodden heart are sprung
Those branches of the night and day
Where the gaudy moon is hung.
What's the meaning of all song?
'Let all things pass away.'

VII

The Soul. Seek out reality, leave things that seem.
The Heart. What, be a singer born and lack a theme?
The Soul. Isaiah's coal, what more can man desire?
The Heart. Struck dumb in the simplicity of fire!
The Soul. Look on that fire, salvation walks within.
The Heart. What theme had Homer but original sin?

VIII
Must we part, Von Hügel, though much alike, for we
Accept the miracles of the saints and honour sanctity?
The body of Saint Teresa lies undecayed in tomb,
Bathed in miraculous oil, sweet odours from it come,
Healing from its lettered slab.  Those self-same hands 
 perchance
Eternalised the body of a modern saint that once
Had scooped out Pharaoh's mummy.  I—though heart 
  might find relief
Did I become a Christian man and choose for my belief
What seems most welcome in the tomb—play a predestined 
  part.
Homer is my example and his unchristened heart.
The lion and the honeycomb, what has Scripture said?
So get you gone, Von Hügel, though with blessings on your 
  head.

1932

摇 摆

1

一个人走他的路
在许多极端之间,
一个火炬,或灼燃的气息
把这些黑夜和白天
所有的对立物消灭;
肉体称之为死亡,
心灵称之为懊丧,
如果这些都正确,
什么才是欢乐?

2

一棵树从它最高的顶梢起,
一半是闪烁的火焰,一半是绿荫,
丰盛的树叶被露水沾湿,
一半是一半,但又是全景,
一半和一半把再生的耗尽,
那个人把阿提斯形象挂在
瞪着眼的愤怒和盲目的绿荫当中,
他可能不知其所知,但不知道忧心。

3

尽你所能去获得全部金银,
满足野心,使无聊的日子生气勃勃,
使它们充满阳光,
但要把这些格言思索:
所有女人都宠爱懒散的男人,
虽然她们的子女需要丰裕的产业,
没有一个生活过的男人享有过
足够的女人的爱和子女的感激。

开始准备你死亡的来临,
从第四十个冬天起用那个思想
考验智能和信仰的每一件作品,
以及你亲手制造的一切东西,
把这些作品看作浪费生命,
对那些骄傲地,睁着眼,
大笑着来到坟地的人不适应。

4

我的第五十个年头来了又去了,
我坐着,一个孤独的人,
在一个拥挤的伦敦铺子里,
一本打开的书,一只空杯子
放在玛瑙石的桌面上。

当我凝视着店铺和街道,
我的身体突然燃烧;
有二十分钟,或多或少
我感到极大的快乐,
似乎得了福,也可为别人祝福。

5

虽然夏天的阳光
为天空多云的枝叶镀了金,
或者冬天的月光
把大地陷入风暴造成的复杂图形,
我不能注视他们,
重重压抑我的是责任心。

多年前说过或做过的事情,
或者我没有做过或说过的
却以为可能说或做的事情
压抑着我,没有一天
不回想起某些事情

使我的良心或虚荣心吃惊。

6

河流纵横的原野在下面展开,
鼻孔里有一股新割的草香味飘来,
伟大的周公,抖去山雪,唱道:

“让一切逝去。”

巴比伦或尼尼微兴起之处,

奶白色的驴子拉着车轮前行,
有个征服者勒紧缰绳,
向疲于打仗的士兵喊道:
“让一切逝去。”

这些白天黑夜的枝叶
从人的浸透了血的心中长出,
那里挂着光华的月亮。
所有歌曲又有什么意义?
“让一切逝去。”

7

灵魂:找出真实,留下表面的东西。
心:什么,生为歌手而缺乏主题?
灵魂:以赛亚的煤,人还能有更多的希盼?
心:在火的简朴里哑然无言。
灵魂:注意那火,救星在里面走动。
心:除了原罪,荷马还有什么主题可用?

8

我们必须分手吗?冯·许戈尔【天主教哲学家】,虽然很相近,
我们都接受圣徒的神迹,尊重神圣的品性?
没有腐败的圣忒瑞莎的躯体,躺在坟墓里,
浸在神奇的油中发出芬芳的香气。
那刻字的棺板使它不败,
那曾经挖制法老木乃伊的同一双手
也许使一位现代圣徒的躯体不朽,
我——虽然心里会感到轻松,若我变成一个基督徒,
选择坟墓中最受欢迎的教义作信仰——扮演命定的角色。
荷马和他未受洗的心是我的楷模。
那狮子和蜂窝,《圣经》上怎么说?
那么你走吧,冯·许戈尔,虽然我为你祝福。

Words for Music Perhaps

I

Crazy Jane and the Bishop
Bring me to the blasted oak
That I, midnight upon the stroke,
(All find safety in the tomb.)
May call down curses on his head
Because of my dear Jack that's dead.
Coxcomb was the least he said:
The solid man and the coxcomb.

Nor was he Bishop when his ban
Banished Jack the Journeyman,
(All find safety in the tomb.)
Nor so much as parish priest,
Yet he, an old book in his fist,
Cried that we lived like beast and beast:
The solid man and the coxcomb.

The Bishop has a skin, God knows,
Wrinkled like the foot of a goose,
(All find safety in the tomb.)
Nor can he hide in holy black
The heron's hunch upon his back,
But a birch-tree stood my Jack:
The solid man and the coxcomb.
Jack had my virginity,
And bids me to the oak, for he
(All find safety in the tomb.)
Wanders out into the night
And there is shelter under it,
But should that other come, I spit:
The solid man and the coxcomb.

II

Crazy Jane Reproved
I Care not what the sailors say:
All those dreadful thunder-stones,
All that storm that blots the day
Can but show that Heaven yawns;
Great Europa played the fool
That changed a lover for a bull.
Fol de rol, fol de rol.

To round that shell's elaborate whorl,
Adorning every secret track
With the delicate mother-of-pearl,
Made the joints of Heaven crack:
So never hang your heart upon

A roaring, ranting journeyman.
Fol de rol, fol de rol.

III

Crazy Jane on the Day of Judgment
'Love is all
Unsatisfied
That cannot take the whole
Body and soul';
And that is what Jane said.

'Take the sour
If you take me,
I can scoff and lour
And scold for an hour.'
'That's certainly the case,' said he.

'Naked I lay,
The grass my bed;
Naked and hidden away,
That black day';
And that is what Jane said.

'What can be shown?
What true love be?
All could be known or shown
If Time were but gone.'

'That's certainly the case,' said he.

V

Crazy Jane on God
That lover of a night
Came when he would,
Went in the dawning light
Whether I would or no;
Men come, men go;
All things remain in God.

Banners choke the sky;
Men-at-arms tread;
Armoured horses neigh
Where the great battle was
In the narrow pass:
All things remain in God.

Before their eyes a house
That from childhood stood
Uninhabited, ruinous,
Suddenly lit up
From door to top:
All things remain in God.

I had wild Jack for a lover;
Though like a road
That men pass over
My body makes no moan
But sings on:
All things remain in God.

VI

Crazy Jane Talks with the Bishop
I met the Bishop on the road
And much said he and I.
'Those breasts are flat and fallen now,
Those veins must soon be dry;
Live in a heavenly mansion,
Not in some foul sty.'

'Fair and foul are near of kin,
And fair needs foul,' I cried.
'My friends are gone, but that's a truth
Nor grave nor bed denied,
Learned in bodily lowliness
And in the heart's pride.

'A woman can be proud and stiff
When on love intent;
But Love has pitched his mansion in
The place of excrement;

For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.'

X

Her Anxiety
Earth in beauty dressed
Awaits returning spring.
All true love must die,
Alter at the best
Into some lesser thing.
Prove that I lie.

Such body lovers have,
Such exacting breath,
That they touch or sigh.
Every touch they give,
Love is nearer death.
Prove that I lie.

XI

His Confidence
Undying love to buy

I wrote upon
The corners of this eye
All wrongs done.
What payment were enough
For undying love?

I broke my heart in two
So hard I struck.
What matter? for I know
That out of rock,
Out of a desolate source,
Love leaps upon its course.

XV

Three Things
'O Cruel Death, give three things back,'
Sang a bone upon the shore;
'A child found all a child can lack,
Whether of pleasure or of rest,
Upon the abundance of my breast':
A bone wave-whitened and dried in the wind.
'Three dear things that women know,'
Sang a bone upon the shore;
'A man if I but held him so

When my body was alive
Found all the pleasure that life gave':
A bone wave-whitened and dried in the wind.

'The third thing that I think of yet,'
Sang a bone upon the shore,
'Is that morning when I met
Face to face my rightful man
And did after stretch and yawn':
A bone wave-whitened and dried in the wind.

XVI

Lullaby
Beloved, may your sleep be sound
That have found it where you fed.
What were all the world's alarms
To mighty Paris when he found
Sleep upon a golden bed
That first dawn in Helen's arms?

Sleep, beloved, such a sleep
As did that wild Tristram know
When, the potion's work being done,
Roe could run or doe could leap
Under oak and beechen bough,
Roe could leap or doe could run;
Such a sleep and sound as fell
Upon Eurotas' grassy bank
When the holy bird, that there
Accomplished his predestined will,
From the limbs of Leda sank
But not from her protecting care.

XVII

After Long Silence
Speech after long silence; it is right,
All other lovers being estranged or dead,
Unfriendly lamplight hid under its shade,
The curtains drawn upon unfriendly night,
That we descant and yet again descant
Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song:
Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young
We loved each other and were ignorant.

XVIII

Mad as the Mist and Snow
Bolt and bar the shutter,
For the foul winds blow:
Our minds are at their best this night,
And I seem to know

That everything outside us is
Mad as the mist and snow.

Horace there by Homer stands,
Plato stands below,
And here is Tully's open page.
How many years ago
Were you and I unlettered lads
Mad as the mist and snow?

You ask what makes me sigh, old friend,
What makes me shudder so?
I shudder and I sigh to think
That even Cicero
And many-minded Homer were
Mad as the mist and snow.

XIX

Those Dancing Days are Gone
Come, let me sing into your ear;
Those dancing days are gone,
All that silk and satin gear;
Crouch upon a stone,
Wrapping that foul body up
In as foul a rag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
The moon in a silver bag.

Curse as you may I sing it through;
What matter if the knave
That the most could pleasure you,
The children that he gave,
Are somewhere sleeping like a top
Under a marble flag?
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
The moon in a silver bag.

I thought it out this very day,
Noon upon the clock,
A man may put pretence away
Who leans upon a stick,
May sing, and sing until he drop,
Whether to maid or hag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
The moon in a silver bag.

XX

'I am of Ireland'
I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
'Come out of charity,
Come dance with me in Ireland.'

One man, one man alone
In that outlandish gear,
One solitary man
Of all that rambled there
Had turned his stately head.
'That is a long way off,
And time runs on,' he said,
'And the night grows rough.'

'I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
'Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.'
'The fiddlers are all thumbs,
Or the fiddle-string accursed,
The drums and the kettledrums
And the trumpets all are burst,
And the trombone,' cried he,
'The trumpet and trombone,'

And cocked a malicious eye,
'But time runs on, runs on.'

'I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
'Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.'

August 19, 1931

也许可谱曲的歌词(选段)

I

疯简和主教
带我到断裂的橡树那里,
使我,当午夜的钟声敲起,
(谁都在坟墓里找到安全),
能祈求灾祸降临他头上,
为了我亲爱的杰克他已死亡,
花花公子最不足道,他说,

当他的禁令把杰克赶掉,
那时他还不是主教,
(谁都在坟墓里找到安全)
甚至还不是教区牧师,
但他一本古书在手,
就斥我们活得像狗,像狗,
那壮汉和那花花公子。

主教有一张皮,天知道,
就像鹅蹼又皱又老
(谁都在坟墓里找到安全),
他的黑法衣也不能遮盖
他身上鹭鸶似的驼背,
我的杰克却如白桦树挺立,
那壮汉和那花花公子。
杰克占有了我的童贞,
叫我到橡树那里藏身,
(谁都在坟墓里找到安全),
自己向黑夜里游荡,
那树下有地方躲藏,
要是另一个来了,我唾骂;
那壮汉和那花花公子。

被责骂的疯简
我不管水手们说些什么,
所有那些可怕的响雷闪电,
所有那些蔽日遮空的风暴
都只能显示老天打呵欠;
伟大的欧罗巴当了蠢人,
她用一头公牛换了个情人。
呼尔得乐尔,呼尔得乐尔。

用那灵巧的珍珠母螺
磨圆那贝壳精细的螺纹,
装饰每一条秘密的途径
终使天穹的接合处开裂,
所以绝不要把你的心挂在

一个又叫又嚷的雇工身上。
呼尔得乐尔,呼尔得乐尔。

疯简论末日裁判
“爱情不会
满足
如它不包括
整个灵和肉。”
简这么说。

“你要了我,
你就触霉头,
我会嘲弄、皱眉
咒骂你个把钟头。”
“准是那样。”他说。

“我赤身躺下,
把草地当床,
在那个黑天
赤身隐藏。”
简这么说。

“什么能呈现?
什么是真爱?
一切都可知可见,
只要没有了时间。”
“准是那样。”他说。

疯简论上帝
那个晚上的情人,
如他愿意他会来。
不管我是否愿意,
天一亮他就走开,
人去,人来,
万物与上帝同在。

旗帜掩蔽了天空,
持枪者在行进;
武装的马群嘶鸣
伟大的战争
在狭窄的关隘进行;
万物与上帝同在。

眼前有一所房子,
没人住的废墟
自幼年直到如今;
它突然亮了起来,
从门户到屋顶,
万物与上帝同在。

我有野杰克做情人,
虽说像一条路径,
人们来来往往,
我身躯从不哀伤,
而是不断歌唱:
万物与上帝同在。

疯简和主教谈话
我在路上遇到了主教,
他和我谈了又谈。
“这对乳房已松弛下陷,
那血管很快会枯干;
到天堂的高院大宅去住,
别去那肮脏的猪栏。”

“美与丑本来是一对近亲,
美需要丑,”我大声叫道,
“朋友们散了,这个真理,
坟墓床榻否定不了,
懂得它,要靠肉体下贱,
也要靠心灵高傲。”

“妇人会变得骄傲顽强
当她对谁动了情,
爱情却筑起她的殿堂,
在排污泄浊之境,
啥也不会独立或完整,
除非已开缝裂纹。”

她的焦虑
大地艳妆相待
等候春天再来,
一切真爱必死亡,
最好的也会变为
某些次等货色,
请证明我在说谎。

情人们有这等肉体,
这等苛刻的气息,
他们抚摸或叹气,
他们每抚摸一次,
爱情就更靠拢死亡,
请证明我在说谎。

他的信心
为卖不死的爱情
在我这只眼角
写上
所有的委屈之心。
不死的爱情
要多少报酬才付得清?

我把心粉碎为二
我打得太凶狠,
又怎样?因为我知道
从石头中间
从孤寂的源头,
爱情跳上大道。

XV

三样东西
“残酷的死啊,还我三样东西,”
海滩上一根骨头在歌唱。
“一个婴儿得到他需要的乐趣。
或缺少的休息
在我丰满的胸上。”
浪漂白了、风吹干了的骨头在歌唱。

“妇人能有的三样好东西,”
海滩上一根骨头在歌唱。
“男人得到人生的大乐趣,
要是我身子健壮,
把他这样紧紧抱上。”
浪漂白了、风吹干了的骨头在歌唱。

“我想到还有第三样东西,”
海滩上一根骨头在歌唱。
“早晨我和丈夫相遇,
打过呵欠,伸过懒腰,
两个人面面相觑。
浪漂白了、风吹干了的骨头在歌唱。

XVI

摇篮曲
亲爱的,愿你睡得香,
在你发现吸奶的地方,
对强大的帕里斯来说,
第一个黎明,睡在金床上,
枕在海伦的臂挽里,
他又愁什么全世界的惊慌?

睡吧,亲爱的,睡那么一觉,
如那狂野的特里斯坦所知道,
在迷药的作用生了效
雄鹿会奔跑,雌鹿会蹦跳,
在橡树、榉树的枝条下,
雄鹿会蹦跳,雌鹿会奔跑。
这样的香甜,这样的一晚,
就像在欧罗塔斯萋萋河边拥有,
当那神圣之鸟在那里
完成了生前注定的希求,
从丽达的四肢下沉
而不放弃她的保佑。

XVII

长期缄默后
长期缄默后开口:这很好,
别的情人们已疏远或死亡,
窗帘把不友好的夜挡外面,
无情的灯光在灯罩下隐藏;
艺术和诗歌的崇拜题材,
我们讨论过一次又一次,
年轻时相爱,无识无知,
如今肉体衰老智慧开。

XVIII

像雾像雪一般狂
恶风刮了起来,
关上、拴好百叶窗;
今晚咱心灵最清澈,
似乎看得清爽,

咱身外的万事万物
像雾像雪一般狂。

贺拉斯站在荷马旁
柏拉图站在下方,
特莱书打开在眼前
度过了长长的时光,
你和我还是无知少年,
像雾像雪一般狂。

老朋友,你问我何所叹?
为什么发颤心慌?
我发颤叹息,我想到
即使西塞罗加上
聪明智慧的荷马,
像雾像雪一般狂。

XIX

舞蹈的日子已尽
来,让我唱给你听;
舞蹈的日子已尽,
不再有那些丝衣绸裳;
蹲伏在一块石头上
用一块破烂布
裹起你那臭皮囊。
我用金杯装太阳,
我用银袋装月亮。

尽管你咒骂,我把歌唱完;
那个无赖有什么要紧?
他给了你最大的快乐,
他给的孩子如今
在大理石旗下,
陀螺般睡得深沉;
我用金杯装太阳,
我用银袋装月亮。

就在今天我明白了,
钟上正是午时,
一个人靠拐杖走路,
就不必再装腔作势;
他可以唱呀唱到他跌下,
不管是唱给姑娘或老妇;
我用金杯装太阳,
我用银袋装月亮。

XX

“我属于爱尔兰”
“我属于爱尔兰,
那神圣的国土爱尔兰,
时间在前进,”她喊。
“行个好,
跟我在爱尔兰舞蹈。”

一个人,只有一个人
穿着外地人服装,
只有一个人孤伶伶
来自漫步的一大群,
转过他高贵的头来,
“这是很久前的事了,
时光在前进,”他说道,
“而且夜晚有风暴。”

“我属于爱尔兰,
那神圣的国土爱尔兰,
时间在前进,”她喊。
“行个好,
跟我在爱尔兰舞蹈。”

“演奏者手指僵又硬,
琴弦哑然沉寂,
手鼓和定音鼓不再响,
小号也都已破裂,
还有长号!”他喊道,
“小号和长号没声音,”

他恶意地斜眼瞅人,
“而时间在前进,前进。”
“我属于爱尔兰,
那神圣的国土爱尔兰,
时间在前进,”她喊,
“行个好,
跟我在爱尔兰舞蹈。”

A Woman Young and Old

II

Before the World was Made
If I make the lashes dark
And the eyes more bright
And the lips more scarlet,
Or ask if all be right
From mirror after mirror,
No vanity's displayed:
I'm looking for the face I had
Before the world was made.

What if I look upon a man
As though on my beloved,
And my blood be cold the while
And my heart unmoved?
Why should he think me cruel
Or that he is betrayed?
I'd have him love the thing that was
Before the world was made.

III

A First Confession
I admit the briar
Entangled in my hair
Did not injure me;
My blenching and trembling,
Nothing but dissembling,
Nothing but coquetry.

I long for truth, and yet
I cannot stay from that
My better self disowns,
For a man's attention
Brings such satisfaction
To the craving in my bones.

Brightness that I pull back
From the Zodiac,
Why those questioning eyes
That are fixed upon me?
What can they do but shun me
If empty night replies?

V

Consolation
O but there is wisdom
In what the sages said;
But stretch that body for a while
And lay down that head
Till I have told the sages
Where man is comforted.

How could passion run so deep
Had I never thought
That the crime of being born
Blackens all our lot?
But where the crime's committed
The crime can be forgot.

IX

A Last Confession
What lively lad most pleasured me
Of all that with me lay?
I answer that I gave my soul
And loved in misery,
But had great pleasure with a lad
That I loved bodily.

Flinging from his arms I laughed
To think his passion such
He fancied that I gave a soul
Did but our bodies touch,
And laughed upon his breast to think
Beast gave beast as much.

I gave what other women gave
That stepped out of their clothes,
But when this soul, its body off,
Naked to naked goes,
He it has found shall find therein
What none other knows,

And give his own and take his own
And rule in his own right;
And though it loved in misery
Close and cling so tight,
There's not a bird of day that dare
Extinguish that delight.

一个女人:青年和老年(选段)

创世以前
如我把睫毛抹黑,
把眼睛弄得更亮,
把嘴唇抹得更红,
或与一面面镜子商量
这样是否合适,
那不是卖弄虚荣,
我是在寻找
创世前我的面容。

如我注视一个人
仿佛他是我情郎,
而我的血冰冷,
并不动心,又怎样?
他为什么要认为我残忍,
或者他遭到了遗弃?
我是要他爱
创世前的东西。

第一次自白
我承认纠结,
我头发的荆棘
并没把我伤害;
我脸发白身颤摇
不过是装腔作势,
不过是卖俏撒娇。

我渴求真理,
但我不能离开
我良知否认的东西:
一个男人的情爱
带来的满足
深入我的骨髓。

我从黄道宫
拉回来的亮光,
那些怀疑的眼睛
为什么集中我身上?
除了他们回避我还能做什么,
如空空的夜晚来答复?

慰藉
噢,圣人说的话里
确实有智慧;
把身子松一会,
把头低下来,
我会告一诉圣人
男人在哪里得安慰。

激情怎能这样深入,
难道我从未想到
给予生命的罪恶
把我们的命运抹黑了?
但犯下罪恶的地方,
罪恶也可以被忘掉。

最后的表白
跟我睡过的男人中
哪个活泼的少年最讨我欢喜?
我答道我给了他我的心
而且爱得很苦凄,
但我以肉体相爱的少年,

给了我最大的乐趣。
从他怀中跳出来,我大笑
想到他热情洋溢,
他以为我给了我的心,
其实咱俩个只是肉体相接,
在他怀里我大笑,

牲畜对牲畜也能给这些。
我给了他别个妇人能给的,
当她们把衣服脱去。
但当这灵魂,没有了肉体,
赤裸向赤裸走去,

他找到了它,会看到
别个谁也不知道的东西。
他给了他的,也得了他的,
自有权当家作主;
虽说它爱得很苦,
那么紧紧地贴身相抱,
没有哪一只白天的鸟,
敢把那乐趣打消。

The Gyres

The gyres! the gyres! Old Rocky Face, look forth;
Things thought too long can be no longer thought,
For beauty dies of beauty, worth of worth,
And ancient lineaments are blotted out.
Irrational streams of blood are staining earth;
Empedocles has thrown all things about;
Hector is dead and there's a light in Troy;
We that look on but laugh in tragic joy.

What matter though numb nightmare ride on top,
And blood and mire the sensitive body stain?
What matter? Heave no sigh, let no tear drop,
A greater, a more gracious time has gone;
For painted forms or boxes of make-up
In ancient tombs I sighed, but not again;
What matter? Out of cavern comes a voice,
And all it knows is that one word 'Rejoice!'
Conduct and work grow coarse, and coarse the soul,
What matter? Those that Rocky Face holds dear,
Lovers of horses and of women, shall,
From marble of a broken sepulchre,
Or dark betwixt the polecat and the owl,
Or any rich, dark nothing disinter
The workman, noble and saint, and all things run
On that unfashionable gyre again.

旋锥体

旋锥体!旋锥体!古老的山岩脸,向前瞧;
事情想得太久了不能再去想,
美陨于美,价值为价值抵消,
古老的面貌已被抹掉。
无理性的血玷污了大地,
恩皮多克勒斯把事物抛撒一地,
赫克托尔死了,特洛伊有光相照;
我们观望着,只为悲剧的欢乐而笑。

又怎样?麻木的梦魇在头上横行,
血和泥弄脏了敏感的身躯;
又怎样?不要掉泪,不要叹气,
一个更伟大、更优雅的时代已成过去;
我曾为墓中的画和成箱的化妆品
而叹息,现在不再这样干了;
那又怎样?从洞穴传来个声音,
它所知只有一个词“欢欣”!
行为和工作变得粗厉,心灵也粗俗,
又怎样?山岩脸喜爱的种种一切,
骏马和女人的钟爱者,
将从破墓的大理石间,
或鸡貂和猫头鹰之间的黑暗中,
或任何丰富的黑暗的乌有中
发掘出工匠、贵族和圣人,
一切又将在那过时的旋锥体上运行。

Why should not Old Men be Mad?

Why should not old men be mad?
Some have known a likely lad
That had a sound fly-fisher's wrist
Turn to a drunken journalist;
A girl that knew all Dante once
Live to bear children to a dunce;
A Helen of social welfare dream,
Climb on a wagonette to scream.
Some think it a matter of course that chance
Should starve good men and bad advance,
That if their neighbours figured plain,
As though upon a lighted screen,
No single story would they find
Of an unbroken happy mind,
A finish worthy of the start.
Young men know nothing of this sort,
Observant old men know it well;
And when they know what old books tell,
And that no better can be had,
Know why an old man should be mad.

为什么老年人不该癫狂?

为什么老年人不该癫狂?
有人知道一个好样的少年郎,
他有好手腕善于捕蝇,
变成了一个酗酒的暴人;
一个读过但丁全集的姑娘,
活下来为一个笨伯把儿女养;
海伦怀着社会福利的梦想,
爬上一个小篷车尖声叫嚷。
有人认为这是理所当然,
机会使好人饿死,坏人升迁,
如果他们邻居们扮相平常,
就像在一个明亮的幕布上,
他们会发现一个完整快乐的心
并没有什么故事可听,
它的结局与开场相称。
年轻人不了解这些事情,
留心世事的老年人却很熟谙;
当他们知道古籍讲的道理,
没有更好的下场,
就明白老年人为何该癫狂。

Under Ben Bulben

I

Swear by what the sages spoke
Round the Mareotic Lake
That the Witch of Atlas knew,
Spoke and set the cocks a-crow.

Swear by those horsemen, by those women
Complexion and form prove superhuman,
That pale, long-visaged company
That air in immortality
Completeness of their passions won;
Now they ride the wintry dawn
Where Ben Bulben sets the scene.

Here's the gist of what they mean.

II

Many times man lives and dies
Between his two eternities,
That of race and that of soul,
And ancient Ireland knew it all.
Whether man die in his bed
Or the rifle knocks him dead,
A brief parting from those dear
Is the worst man has to fear.
Though grave-diggers' toil is long,
Sharp their spades, their muscles strong,
They but thrust their buried men
Back in the human mind again.

III

You that Mitchel's prayer have heard,
'Send war in our time, O Lord!'
Know that when all words are said
And a man is fighting mad,
Something drops from eyes long blind,
He completes his partial mind,
For an instant stands at ease,
Laughs aloud, his heart at peace.
Even the wisest man grows tense
With some sort of violence
Before he can accomplish fate,
Know his work or choose his mate.

IV

Poet and sculptor, do the work,
Nor let the modish painter shirk
What his great forefathers did,
Bring the soul of man to God,
Make him fill the cradles right.

Measurement began our might:
Forms a stark Egyptian thought,
Forms that gentler Phidias wrought.
Michael Angelo left a proof
On the Sistine Chapel roof,
Where but half-awakened Adam
Can disturb globe-trotting Madam
Till her bowels are in heat,
Proof that there's a purpose set
Before the secret working mind:
Profane perfection of mankind.

Quattrocento put in paint
On backgrounds for a God or Saint
Gardens where a soul's at ease;
Where everything that meets the eye,
Flowers and grass and cloudless sky,
Resemble forms that are or seem
When sleepers wake and yet still dream,
And when it's vanished still declare,
With only bed and bedstead there,
That heavens had opened.
            Gyres run on;
When that greater dream had gone
Calvert and Wilson, Blake and Claude,
Prepared a rest for the people of God,
Palmer's phrase, but after that
Confusion fell upon our thought.

V

Irish poets, learn your trade,
Sing whatever is well made,
Scorn the sort now growing up
All out of shape from toe to top,
Their unremembering hearts and heads
Base-born products of base beds.
Sing the peasantry, and then
Hard-riding country gentlemen,
The holiness of monks, and after
Porter-drinkers' randy laughter;
Sing the lords and ladies gay
That were beaten into the clay
Through seven heroic centuries;
Cast your mind on other days
That we in coming days may be
Still the indomitable Irishry.

VI

Under bare Ben Bulben's head
In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.
An ancestor was rector there
Long years ago, a church stands near,
By the road an ancient cross.
No marble, no conventional phrase;
On limestone quarried near the spot
By his command these words are cut:
       Cast a cold eye
       On life, on death.
       Horseman, pass by!
       
September 4, 1938

本·布尔本山下

1

凭下面这些起誓吧:
麦罗铁克湖周围圣人的话,
阿特拉斯女巫的见闻,
他们的话使公鸡啼鸣。

凭这些骑士,这些女人起誓,
他们有超人的形体和神姿,
那一群有苍白长脸的人们,
那种永垂不朽的神情,
那种赢得的完美的激情;
如今他们在冬天的黎明,
骑马驰过本·布尔本山景。

下面是他们讲话的要领。

2 一个人活着、死去许多回,
在两种永恒之间变去又变来,
一头是种族,一头是灵魂,
古代爱尔兰对这一切很熟谙。
一个人不管死在床笫,
或是被枪弹击毙,
一瞬间离开亲人
是他最害怕的事情,
虽然掘坟者长时间工作,
磨利铁锨,强壮肌肉,
他们不过是把埋葬的人,
又一次送回人类的心灵。

3

你们听说过密契尔祝寿的话:
“老天爷!就让我们的时代开仗吧”,
就明白,当一个人无话可讲,
当他拼死拼活打仗,
久已失明的眼睛会发出光来,
他残缺的心灵会变得完美,
刹那间他变得自由自在,
大声笑着,心头宽慰。
当他要完成自己的命运,
了解自己的工作,或选择爱人,
最明智的人也会
紧张,猛一下激动起来。

4 诗人、雕塑家,做你的工作,
不要让赶时髦的画匠逃脱
他伟大先辈的事业,
使人的灵魂皈依上帝
使他与摇篮相称。

我们的威力在于均衡,
形式是埃及人的严肃思想,
更温和的斐德阿斯的造像
在西斯廷教堂的屋顶,
米开朗基罗留下了证明;
那半睡半醒的亚当
居然惊动了环球旅行的婆娘,
使她肠内发热心痒痒,
证明秘密中工作的心灵
确立了一个目标:
世俗地把完美的人创造。

十五世纪意大利的艺术品,
以上帝或圣徒做背景,
画出灵魂安息的乐园;
眼睛所见的种种
花和草,无云的天空,
就像睡眠者半醒半梦
所见或恍惚见到的景状,
眼前只有床架和床,
一切已消失却还在宣告
已打开了天堂。
旋锥体继续转,
那场伟大的梦已经消亡,
卡尔佛、威尔逊、布莱克和克洛德
为上帝的子民备好了休息的地方,
帕尔默的话,这以后的时光
我们的思想混乱而迷茫。

5

爱尔兰诗人们要学好本领,
只把制作精美的歌唱吟,
蔑视正在涌现的那种
从头到脚不成样子的作品,
他们数典忘祖的头脑心灵
是卑劣床榻的卑劣产品。
歌咏农民和拼命
骑马奔驰的乡村士绅,
歌咏神圣的僧人
和饮酒者的狂笑豪情;
把欢乐的老爷太太歌咏,
他们已被埋入土中
长达七个英雄的世纪;
用过去的模子来铸造自己
使未来时代的我们这些人
依然是不可征服的爱尔兰人。

6

在本·布尔本秃山下面,
叶芝在鼓崖坟地安眠。
许多年前,他的祖先
曾经是牧师,教堂在近边,
路旁还有古老十字架;
不要大理石,不用俗套话,
在当地采来的石碑上方,
他嘱咐把这些话刻上:
  冷眼看待
  生与死
  骑士们,前进!

When You Are Old

When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
And bending down beside the glowing barsMurmur, 
a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

当你年老时

当你年老,鬓斑,睡意昏沉,
在炉旁打盹时,取下这本书,
慢慢诵读,梦忆从前你双眸
神色柔和,眼波中倒影深深;

多少人爱你风韵妩媚的时光,
爱你的美丽出自假意或真情,
但唯有一人爱你灵魂的至诚,
爱你渐衰的脸上愁苦的风霜;

弯下身子,在炽红的壁炉边,
忧伤地低诉,爱神如何逃走,
在头顶上的群山巅漫步闲游,
把他的面孔隐没在繁星中间,

The Fisherman

Although I can see him still,
The freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies,
It’s long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.
All day I’d looked in the face
What I had hoped ‘twould be
To write for my own race
And the reality;
The living men that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved,
And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer,
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch-cries of the clown,
The beating down of the wise
And great Art beaten down.
        Maybe a twelvemonth since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man
And his sun-freckled face,
And grey Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark under froth,
And the down turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream:
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, ‘Before I am old
I shall have written him one
Poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.’

渔夫

虽然我仍能够看见他,
那身穿灰色的康呐玛拉服装
前往一座山上的灰暗之处
在黎明时分抛出他的钓饵的
生有雀斑的男人,
但那已很久了,自从
我开始留心观察
这位智慧而单纯的人。
我曾整天盯着那张脸
凝思我所希望为
自己的民族和现实
可写的东西:
我所憎恨的活着的人们,
我所爱的那已死的人,
占据高位的怯懦的人,
不受责怪的无礼的人,
而写进书里的绝没有
赢得醉醺醺喝彩的无赖,
对最平庸的耳朵
说笑话的才子,
象小丑一样哗众
取宠的聪明人物,
智慧哲人的遭受摧残
和被摧残的伟大艺术。

也许已有十二月之久,自从
我突然开始
在对这样的读众的鄙视中
想和像他一被个太人阳,晒出雀斑的脸,
还有灰色的康呐玛拉服装,
爬上一个水沫冲刷着
暗黑的岩石的地方,
以及钓饵坠入溪流时
他的手腕的向下转动;
一个并不存在的人,
一个只是一场梦的人;
并大喊:“在我衰老之前,
我将会为他写出一首
也许象黎明一般
寒冷而热情的诗。”

The Black Tower

SAY that the men of the old black tower,
Though they but feed as the goatherd feeds,
Their money spent, their wine gone sour,
Lack nothing that a soldier needs,
That all are oath-bound men:
Those banners come not in.
There in the tomb stand the dead upright,
But winds come up from the shore:
They shake when the winds roar,
Old bones upon the mountain shake.
Those banners come to bribe or threaten,
Or whisper that a man’s a fool
Who, when his own right king’s forgotten,
Cares what king sets up his rule.
If he died long ago
Why do yopu dread us so?
There in the tomb drops the faint moonlight,
But wind comes up from the shore:
They shake when the winds roar,
Old bones upon the mountain shake.
The tower’s old cook that must climb and clamber
Catching small birds in the dew of the morn
When we hale men lie stretched in slumber
Swears that he hears the king’s great horn.
But he’s a lying hound:
Stand we on guard oath-bound!
There in the tomb the dark grows blacker,
But wind comes up from the shore:
They shake when the winds roar,
Old bones upon the mountain shake. 

黑塔

假定说那古老黑塔中的人们——
虽然他们只是象牧羊人一样吃喝,
他们的钱花光,他们的酒变酸——
不缺乏一个士兵所需的一切,
假定说他们都是立誓盟约的人物;
那些旗帜就不会进入。
在坟墓中那里死者直立,
但是大风起自海岸;
大风咆哮时它们摇颤,
老骨头在山上颤栗。
那些旗帜前来行贿或威胁
或悄声说一个在他自己的君王
被遗忘之后还关心什么样的君王
建立统治的人是个傻子。
如果他很久以前就已死去,
你为什么还这么惧怕我们?
在坟墓中那里淡淡月光滴沥,
但是大风起自海岸。
大风咆哮时它们摇颤,
老骨头在山上颤栗。
当我们拖拽横卧沉睡的人们之时,
塔中那必定在晨露中
攀上爬下捉小鸟儿的老厨子
发誓说他听见了那伟大君王的号角声。
可是他是个爱撒谎的家伙;
我们立正警戒谨守誓约!
在坟墓中那里黑暗变得更黑,
但是大风起自海岸。
大风咆哮时它们摇颤,
老骨头在山上颤栗。

Death

NOR dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his endDreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again.
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath;
He knows death to the bone — 
Man has created death. 

垂死的野兽不知
恐惧或希望;
临终的人却满怀
希冀和恐慌;
多少次他死去,
多少次又复活。
一个伟大的人物
壮年面对杀人者,
把轻蔑投向
呼吸的交替;
他深知死亡
人类创造了死。

Statistics

‘THOSE Platonists are a curse,’ he said,
‘God’s fire upon the wane,
A diagram hung there instead,
More women born than men.’

统计表

“那些柏拉图主义者是祸根,”他说道,
“上帝的火日趋衰落,
取而代之的是那里悬挂的一张图表,
出生的女人比男人多。”

The Choice

The intellect of man is forced to choose
perfection of the life, or of the work,
And if it take the second must refuse
A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.
When all that story’s finished, what’s the news?
In luck or out the toil has left its mark:
That old perplexity an empty purse,
Or the day’s vanity, the night’s remorse. 

选择

人的理智被迫要选择
生活,或工作的完美,
如果选取后者它就得弃绝
天堂般的住宅,在黑暗中愤激。
故事全部结束后,消息又如何?
在运气里或外辛苦留下了印记:
那古老的困惑是个空空的钱袋,
或白昼的虚荣,黑夜的痛悔。