W. B. Yeats - 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.

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?

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

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。

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。

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。

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. 

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。

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。

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

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。

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。

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。

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。

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？

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。

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。

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？