罗伯特.勃朗宁诗22首
Me Yet
You'll love me yet!—and I can tarry
Your love's protracted growing:
June reared that bunch of flowers you carry,
From seeds of April's sowing.
I plant a heartful now: some seed
At least is sure to strike,
And yield—what you'll not pluck indeed,
Not love, but, may be, like.
You'll look at least on love's remains,
A grave's one violet:
Your look? —that pays a thousand pains.
What's death? You'll love me yet!
你总有一天将爱我
My Last Duchess
(Ferrara)
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess'cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
Over my lady's wrist too much,” or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart—how shall I say? —too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace—all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, —good! but thanked
Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech—(which I have not) —to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark"—and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
—E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
我的前公爵夫人
与任何人的赠品并列。谁愿意
屈尊去谴责这种轻浮举止？即使
你有口才（我却没有）能把你的意志
给这样的人儿充分说明：“你这点
或那点令我讨厌。这儿你差得远，
而那儿你超越了界限。”即使她肯听
你这样训诫她而毫不争论，
毫不为自己辩解，——我也觉得
这会有失身份；所以我选择
绝不屈尊。哦，先生，她总是在微笑，
每逢我走过；但是谁人走过得不到
同样慷慨的微笑？发展至此，
我下了令：于是一切微笑都从此制止。
她站在那儿，像活着一样。请你起身，
客人们在楼下等。我再重复一声：
你的主人——伯爵先生闻名的大方
足以充分保证：我对嫁妆
提出任何合理要求都不会遭拒绝；
当然，如我开头声明的，他美貌的小姐
才是我追求的目标。别客气，让咱们
一同下楼吧。但请看这海神尼普顿
在驯服海马，这是件珍贵的收藏，
是克劳斯为我特制的青铜铸像！
The Lost Mistress
All's over, then: does truth sound bitter
As one at first believes?
Hark, 'tis the sparrows'good-night twitter
About your cottage eaves!
And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,
I noticed that, to-day;
One day more bursts them open fully
—You know the red turns grey.
To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?
May I take your hand in mine?
Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merest
Keep much that I resign:
For each glance of the eye so bright and black,
Though I keep with heart's endeavour,—
Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,
Though it stay in my soul for ever!—
Yet I will but say what mere friends say,
Or only a thought stronger;
I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer!
失去的恋人
Home-Thoughts, from Abroad
Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
海外乡思
啊，但愿此刻身在英格兰，
趁这四月天，
一个早晨醒来，
谁都会突然发现；
榆树四周低矮的枝条和灌木丛中，
小小的嫩叶已显出一片葱茏，
听那苍头燕雀正在果园里唱歌，
在英格兰啊，在此刻！
四月过去，五月接踵来到，
燕子都在衔泥，白喉鸟在筑巢！
我园中倚向篱笆外的梨树
把如雨的花瓣和露珠
洒满了树枝之下的苜蓿田；
聪明的鸫鸟在那儿唱，把每支歌都唱两遍，
为了免得你猜想：它不可能重新捕捉
第一遍即兴唱出的美妙欢乐！
尽管露水笼罩得田野灰白暗淡，
到中午一切又将喜气盎然，
苏醒的毛茛花是孩子们的“嫁妆”，
这华而俗的甜瓜花哪儿比得上它灿烂明亮！
The Bishop Orders His Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church
Rome, 15—
Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!
Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?
Nephews—sons mine...ah God, I know not! Well—
She, men would have to be your mother once,
Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was!
What's done is done, and she is dead beside,
Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since,
And as she died so must we die ourselves,
And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream.
Life, how and what is it? As here I lie
In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,
Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask
"Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all.
Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace;
And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought
With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know:
—Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care;
Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South
He graced his carrion with, God curse the same!
Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence
One sees the pulpit o'the epistle-side,
And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats,
And up into the aery dome where live
The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk:
And I shall fill my slab of basalt there,
And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest,
With those nine columns round me, two and two,
The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands:
Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe
As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse.
—Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone,
Put me where I may look at him! True peach,
Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize!
Draw close: that conflagration of my church
—What then? So much was saved if aught were missed!
My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig
The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood,
Drop water gently till the surface sink,
And if ye find...Ah God, I know not, I!...
Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft,
And corded up in a tight olive-frail,
Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli ,
Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape,
Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast...
Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all,
That brave Frascati villa with its bath,
So, let the blue lump poise between my knees,
Like God the Father's globe on both his hands
Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay,
For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst!
Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years:
Man goeth to the grave, and where is he?
Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black—
'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else
Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath?
The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me,
Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance
Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so,
The Saviour at his sermon on the mount,
Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan
Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off,
And Moses with the tables...but I know
Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee,
Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope
To revel down my villas while I gasp
Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine
Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at!
Nay, boys, ye love me—all of jasper, then!
'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve
My bath must needs be left behind, alas!
One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut,
There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world—
And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray
Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts,
And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs?
—That's if ye carve my epitaph aright,
Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word,
No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line—
Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need!
And then how I shall lie through centuries,
And hear the blessed mutter of the mass,
And see God made and eaten all day long,
And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste
Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!
For as I lie here, hours of the dead night,
Dying in state and by such slow degrees,
I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook,
And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point,
And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop
Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work:
And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts
Grow, with a certain humming in my ears,
About the life before I lived this life,
And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests,
Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount,
Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes,
And new-found agate urns as fresh as day,
And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet,
—Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend?
No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best!
Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage.
All lapis , all, sons! Else I give the Pope
My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart?
Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick,
They glitter like your mother's for my soul,
Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze,
Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase
With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term ,
And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx
That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down,
To comfort me on my entablature
Whereon I am to lie till I must ask
"Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there!
For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude
To death—ye wish it—God, ye wish it! Stone—
Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat
As if the corpse they keep were oozing through—
And no more lapis to delight the world!
Well go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there,
But in a row: and, going, turn your backs
—Ay, like departing altar-ministrants,
And leave me in my church, the church for peace,
That I may watch at leisure if he leers—
Old Gandolf, at me, from his onion-stone,
As still he envied me, so fair she was!
圣普拉西德教堂的主教吩咐后事
（罗马，15__年）
虚空啊，传道者说，凡事皆虚空！
围到我床边来；安塞姆你躲什么？
外甥们，儿子们……上帝呀，我可不知情！
她呀，谁不想要她做你们的母亲，
甘道夫老家伙妒忌我，她是那样美！
事情早已定局，她呢，也死了，
死去很久了，从那时我就是主教。
我们像她一样，也终有一死，
你们也该悟到：浮生若梦啊！
人生是怎么回事？当我躺着，
在这华丽的卧室，奄奄待毙，
在一片死寂的漫漫长夜，我问：
“我是死，是活？”似乎一切宁静。
圣普拉西德教堂祈求的是宁静啊。
好了，说说我的坟地吧。为了它，
我曾连撕带咬地争夺，要知道
甘道夫老家伙骗了我，尽管我当心；
他占了南面，使他的臭尸增光，
愿上帝诅咒！——死了还伸一只手！
不过我的坟地也不算太窄，
从那儿可以望到教堂的讲坛，
也能看到些唱诗班的座位，
向上望，直到天使居住的穹顶，
准有一线阳光在悄悄移动；
我要在那儿睡进玄武石棺，
在我的华盖下得到安息，而周围
还要有九根石柱，两两成对，
第九根在脚后——安塞姆站的地方，——
全要用桃花大理石，名贵，红艳，
如同新斟的葡萄酒浓洌的酒浆。
——甘道夫老家伙的洋葱石 算老几？
让我能从坟里看到他！真桃花，
毫无裂缝的，我才配得此奖赏！
围拢点；我的教堂那次失火——
怎么样？虽有损失救出的可不少!
孩子们，你们不愿伤我的心吧？
去挖葡萄园里，榨油机旁，
轻轻洒点水把土浇透，如果
你们找到……上帝呀，我可不知情！
在松松的无花果烂叶堆里，
在装橄榄的篓子里，紧紧捆着
一大块（啊，上帝呀）天青琉璃石，
大得像犹太人头从颈部割断，
青得像圣母胸口淡青的脉管……
孩子们，我把遗产全给了你们，
漂亮的郊区别墅，还带有浴室，
所以，把那块青石放在我膝间，
就像你们在华丽的耶稣会教堂
所拜的上帝像手里捧的圆球，
让甘道夫看见把肺都气炸！
我们的岁月像梭子一样飞行，
人走向坟墓，如今他在何处？
我刚才说用玄武石棺吗，儿子们？
不！我的意思是黑大理石！否则
怎能与下面的花边相得而益彰？
浮雕用青铜的，你们答应过我，
要雕牧神和水仙女，你们晓得的，
穿插些祭司座、酒神杖、瓶瓮之属，
再雕出救主耶稣在山上传道，
圣普拉西德头戴光圈，一个牧神
正要扯光仙女最后的衣衫，
还有摩西和十诫 ……但我知道：
你们不听我！他们对你耳语什么，
我的心肝安塞姆？哦，你们打算
把我的别墅败个精光，而叫我
在埋乞丐的烂石灰堆下窒息，
让甘道夫从他的坟头窃笑？
不，孩子们，你们是爱我的，——那么，
全部用碧玉！你们要向我发誓，
免得我为留下了浴室而遗憾！
整块的、纯绿的，就像阿月浑子果 ，
世界上碧玉有的是，只要去找，——
圣普拉西德是听信我的，我求她
赐你们骏马、古老的希腊手稿、
和四肢如大理石般滑润的情妇！
——不过你们得把我的碑文刻对：
精选的拉丁文，西塞罗的风格，
不能像甘道夫的第二行那么俗，
古雅文风吗？他可不够资格！
那时节我将怡然地安卧千年，
听着做弥撒的神圣的嗡嗡
看见成天制出并分吃上帝，
感到烛火在燃烧，稳而不颤，
闻到浓烈的香烟，薰人昏眩！
如今当我躺在死寂的夜里，
盛装正寝，慢慢地奄奄待毙，
我交叠双手，仿佛握着权杖，
伸直双脚，仿佛一尊石像，
让我的被单像棺布般下垂，
形成雕塑作品的巨大褶皱，
当那边烛光渐熄，奇怪的念头
开始生长，耳朵里嗡嗡作声，
想起我这辈子以前的前生
和此生，教皇、红衣主教和神父，
还有圣普拉西德在山上传道，
想起你们苗条而苍白的母亲
和她那双会说话的眼睛，
新出土的鲜明的玛瑙古瓮
和大理石的古文，纯粹的拉丁，——
哈哈，那老兄刻着“名若泰斗”？
这岂是古雅？至多是二流的文品！
我的朝圣旅程不幸而短促。
全部琉璃玉，孩子！否则我把别墅
全送给教皇！你们别再啃我的心，
你们的眼睛像四脚蛇的那么尖，
却使我想起你母亲眼睛的闪光，
也许你们肯增添我寒酸的花边，
联结它贫瘠的花纹，在我的瓶中
装满葡萄，外加面具和胸像柱，
你们在祭司座上再拴只猞猁狲，
它蹦跳挣扎，把酒神杖摔倒——
这样的雕花才能使我满足。
我将躺在上面，直到我要问：
“我是死，是活？”算了，离开我，罢了！
你们的忘恩负义刺伤了我，
致我于死——上帝呀，你们巴不得！——
石料！碎砂石！湿漉漉地滴水，
仿佛是棺中的尸体冒出了液汁——
还说什么炫耀世界的琉璃玉！
走吧！求求你们。少点几支烛，
但要排成排：走时转过背，对，
就像助祭们离开祭坛那样，
把我独自留在我的教堂——
这祈求宁静的教堂，让我空闲时
瞧瞧甘道夫从他的洋葱石棺里
是不是斜眼瞅我——因为毕竟
老家伙仍然妒忌我，她是那样美！
The Confessional
(Spain)
I
It is a lie—their Priests, their Pope,
Their Saints, their...all they fear or hope
Are lies, and lies—there! through my door
And ceiling, there! and walls and floor,
There, lies, they lie—shall still be hurled
Till spite of them I reach the world!
II
You think Priests just and holy men!
Before they put me in this den
I was a human creature too,
With flesh and blood like one of you,
A girl that laughed in beauty's pride
Like lilies in your world outside.
III
I had a lover—shame avaunt!
This poor wrenched body, grim and gaunt,
Was kissed all over till it burned,
By lips the truest, love e'er turned
His heart's own tint: one night they kissed
My soul out in a burning mist.
IV
So, next day when the accustomed train
Of things grew round my sense again,
"That is a sin," I said: and slow
With downcast eyes to church I go,
And pass to the confession-chair,
And tell the old mild father there.
V
But when I falter Beltran's name,
"Ha?" quoth the father; "much I blame
The sin; yet wherefore idly grieve?
Despair not—strenuously retrieve!
Nay, I will turn this love of thine
To lawful love, almost divine;
VI
"For he is young, and led astray,
This Beltran, and he schemes, men say,
To change the laws of church and state;
So, thine shall be an angel's fate,
Who, ere the thunder breaks, should roll
Its cloud away and save his soul.
VII
"For, when he lies upon thy breast,
Thou mayst demand and be possessed
Of all his plans, and next day steal
To me, and all those plans reveal,
That I and every priest, to purge
His soul, may fast and use the scourge.”
VIII
That father's beard was long and white,
With love and truth his brow seemed bright;
I went back, all on fire with joy,
And, that same evening, bade the boy
Tell me, as lovers should, heart-free,
Something to prove his love of me.
IX
He told me what he would not tell
For hope of heaven or fear of hell;
And I lay listening in such pride!
And, soon as he had left my side,
Tripped to the church by morning-light
To save his soul in his despite.
X
I told the father all his schemes,
Who were his comrades, what their dreams;
"And now make haste," I said, "to pray
The one spot from his soul away;
To-night he comes, but not the same
Will look!" At night he never came.
XI
Nor next night: on the after-morn,
I went forth with a strength new-born.
The church was empty; something drew
My steps into the street; I knew
It led me to the market-place:
Where, lo, on high, the father's face!
XII
That horrible black scaffold dressed,
That stapled block...God sink the rest!
That head strapped back, that blinding vest,
Those knotted hands and naked breast,
Till near one busy hangman pressed,
And, on the neck these arms caressed…
XIII
No part in aught they hope or fear!
No heaven with them, no hell! —and here,
No earth, not so much space as pens
My body in their worst of dens
But shall bear God and man my cry,
Lies—lies, again—and still, they lie!
忏悔室
（西班牙）
1
这是欺骗——他们的神父和教皇，
他们的圣徒……他们的敬畏和希望，
全是欺骗，欺骗！尽管牢门重重，
四面是墙，上下没一道缝，
欺骗，他们欺骗！——我要高喊，
直到我的声音被全世界听见！
2
你们以为教士们圣洁公正！
是他们把我抓进这囚笼，
要知道以前我也是个人，
有血有肉，和你们相同，
是一个快活美丽的姑娘，
像你们外面的百合花一样。
3
我曾有过情人——不必为此害羞！
我可怜的身体，如今可怕而枯瘦，
曾在他纯真的吻下销熔，——
爱情把他的唇染上了心的鲜红，
一夜间他把我全身吻遍，吻醉，
我的灵魂啊，在燃烧的雾里飞。
4
第二天，周围的一切恢复常规，
把我的神智纳入了正轨，
我说：“我有罪，”垂下了眼光，
我慢慢移步走向教堂，
走向忏悔席，面向着神父——
一位慈祥的老者，把一切说出。
5
我支吾着说出贝尔特兰的姓名，
“哈？”神父说，“你的罪甚重，
但是又何必无谓地伤悲？
别绝望——还可以努力挽回！
不但如此，我能把你的爱情
化为合法，甚至几乎化为神圣。
6
“因为他还年轻，只是误入迷途，
这个贝尔特兰，据说他企图
把教会和国家的法律改变；
所以，天使的任务落在你的双肩
你应当在天雷轰响前把乌云
扫除，从而拯救他的灵魂。
7
“当他躺在你的胸脯上时，
你可以盘问他，设法得知
他的全部计划，第二天你悄悄
来找我，把这些计划向我报告，
以便我和教士们斋戒苦修，
涤静他的灵魂上的污垢。”
8
神父的胡须白又长，他额上
似乎闪耀着爱和真理之光；
我回去了，高兴得心里发热，
当天晚上，我就对情郎说：
对爱人应当把胸怀敞开，
告诉我一切，来证实你的爱。
9
即便为了进天堂，他也绝不会说，
可是他把一切都告诉了我；
我听着，心里充满了自豪！
等他离开了我身边，一清早，
我迈着轻快的步子走向教堂，
去拯救他的灵魂，不顾他的愿望。
10
我把他的计划都告诉了神父；
把他的同志和目标全盘说出；
我说：“拜托你们赶快祈祷，
把他灵魂中的一点瑕疵除掉；
今晚他来时会焕发新的光彩！”
天黑了，可是他整夜没有来。
11
第二夜也没有来，第三天早上
我鼓起新的力气走向教堂，
教堂里空空如也；有一种力
引着我的脚步向街上走去，
我知道，它把我引向市场——
在那儿，瞧，神父的脸高高在上！
12
黑魆魆的绞刑台钉上了滑车，
但愿上帝叫其余一切沉没！
眼被蒙住，头往后勒，
双手紧缚，胸脯赤裸，
绞刑吏上来，抓紧时刻，
一双手轻轻把脖子抚摸……
13
他们没有希望，没有敬畏和顾虑，
对他们，既没有天堂也没有地狱！
这里连地也没有，没有羊圈大的地，
我的身子在他们最坏的囚室里，
让上帝和人承受我的呼喊：
欺骗，欺骗——全是欺骗！
Meeting at Night
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i'the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, thro'its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
夜半相会
灰蒙蒙的海，一带黑色的陆，
大而黄的半个月亮低悬天边。
浪花儿朵朵从睡梦中惊跳，
化作小圈儿无数，磷火闪耀。
我驾小船驶入小小的海湾。
就在泥泞的海涂稳稳刹住。
在带海腥味的滩头走一哩路，
越过三块田，一座农庄出现。
窗玻璃上轻弹，嗤的一声摩擦，
擦燃的火柴喷出一朵蓝花。
又惊又喜的一声呼，但这呼唤
早被两颗心同跳的声音盖住！
Parting at Morning
Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,
And the sun looked over the mountain's rim:
And straight was a path of gold for him,
And the need of a world of men for me.
清晨离别
绕过海岬大海扑面而来，
太阳在山边缘刚刚露脸：
一条笔直的金路在他面前，
而我需要一个男性的世界。
A Woman's Last Word
I
Let's contend no more, Love,
Strive nor weep:
All be as before, Love,
—Only sleep!
II
What so wild as words are?
I and thou
In debate, as birds are,
Hawk on bough!
III
See the creature stalking
While we speak!
Hush and hide the talking,
Cheek on cheek!
IV
What so false as truth is,
False to thee?
Where the serpent's tooth is
Shun the tree—
V
Where the apple reddens
Never pry—
Lest we lose our Edens,
Eve and I.
VI
Be a god and hold me
With a charm!
Be a man and fold me
With thine arm!
VII
Teach me, only teach, Love!
As I ought
I will speak thy speech, Love,
Think thy thought—
VIII
Meet, if thou require it,
Both demands,
Laying flesh and spirit
In thy hands.
IX
That shall be to-morrow
Not to night:
I must bury sorrow
Out of sight:
X
—Must a little weep, Love,
(Foolish me!)
And so fall asleep, Love,
Loved by thee.
一个女人的最后的话
1
爱人，咱们别再吵了，
忍住眼泪，
让一切还像以前好了，
安心地睡。
2
出口的言词控制不了，
难免伤人，
我们吵起来像两只鸟，
枝头鹰隼！
3
瞧！蛇趁我们说话间
悄悄爬近！
小声！脸贴着我的脸，
小声，当心！
4
有什么能比真实更假，
对你而言？
那棵树，有蛇的毒牙，
得躲远点，
5
那树上苹果红得诱人——
永不窥探；
否则我将步夏娃后尘，
失去乐园。
6
像天神似的抱着我吧，
展现魅力！
像男子汉般搂紧我吧，
以你的臂力！
7
教我吧，爱人，教会我，
我该这样：
我要学会说你所说，
想你所想，
8
你所有要求，我都满足，
全无保留，
把肉体和心灵——全部
交在你手，
9
都给你——但不是今宵，
而是明天，
我必须先把悲伤埋掉，
不让人见，
10
我必须哭一会，爱人，
（我多傻气！）
然后才能入睡，爱人，
在你的爱里。
A Toccata of Galuppi's
I
Oh Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find!
I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind;
But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind!
II
Here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings.
What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were the kings
Where Saint Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings?
III
Ay, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis arched by...what you call
...Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival:
I was never out of England—it's as if I saw it all.
IV
Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May?
Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day,
When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?
V
Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red,—
On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed,
O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head?
VI
Well, and it was graceful of them—they'd break talk off and afford
—She, to bite her mask's black velvet—he, to finger on his sword,
While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord?
VII
What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh,
Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions—"Must we die?
Those commiserating sevenths—"Life might last! we can but try!”
VIII
"Were you happy?"—"Yes."—"And are you still as happy?"—"Yes. And yo
—"Then, more kisses!"—"Did I stop them, when a million seemed so fe
Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to!
IX
So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say!
"Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay!
I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play!"
X
Then they left you for their pleasure: till in due time, one by one,
Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone,
Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the sun.
XI
But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve,
While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve,
In you come with your cold music till I creep thro'every nerve.
XII
Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned:
"Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned.
The soul, doubtless, is immortal—where a soul can be discerned.
XIII
"Yours for instance: you know physics, something of geology,
Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree;
Butterflies may dread extinction, —you'll not die, it cannot be!
XIV
"As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop,
Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop:
What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
XV
"Dust and ashes!" So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold.
Dear dead women, with such hair, too—what's become of all the gold
Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.
加卢皮 的托卡塔曲
1
啊，巴达萨雷·加卢皮，发现这点真令人悲痛！
我不大可能误解你，我既不瞎，也不聋，
但我了解了你的意思，心情是多么沉重！
2
你来了，你带来了古老的音乐，使人身历其境。
原来，商人为王的威尼斯，生活是这等情景？
在圣马可教堂 边，总统每年投指环与海结婚 ？
3
原来，海就是那儿的街，街上有拱门跨越——
盖有屋顶的夏洛克桥 ，人们在那儿过狂欢节：
我从未离开过英国，但我仿佛看见了一切。
4
你是说：当五月海暖，青年人把春光尽情享受，
化装舞会半夜开始，狂欢直到正午方休，
然后又把明朝的新鲜玩艺筹谋，——是否，是否？
5
当时的仕女，是否圆圆的面颊、红红的樱唇，
她颈上的小脸，像花坛上的风铃草一样欢欣？
她的胸脯那么娇好丰满，会给谁人作枕？
6
是啊，他们是懂风雅的，当你坐在古钢琴前，
庄严地弹起托卡塔曲，他们是否会暂停交谈，——
她，咬着黑天鹅绒的假面具；他，抚摸着他的剑？
7
什么？小三度音 如泣如诉，减六度音 叹息不止，
他们懂吗？那些悬留音及其解决——“我们必须死？”
那些安慰性的七度音——“生命能持续！姑且一试！”
8
“你刚才幸福吗？”“幸福。”“现在幸福吗？”“幸福。你呢？”
“那么，再吻吻我！”“我何曾停过？千万次也不嫌多！”
听啊，“属音”执拗地持续着，直到你非回答不可！
9
终于，一个八度音敲出了回答。他们哪能不赞赏？
“好样的加卢皮！这才叫音乐！慢板庄重，快板欢畅！
当我听大师演奏时，我能做到一句话都不讲！”
10
然后他们离开你，去寻欢作乐，直到时辰结束，
有的一生虚度，有的徒劳一阵，也于事无补，
死神默默到来，把他们带到永远不见天日之处。
11
而我呢，正当我坐下来推理，想从此矢志不移，
正当我胜利地从自然的封锁中挤出他的奥秘，
你进来了，带来冰冷的音乐，使我的神经战栗。
12
是的，你，像幽灵般的蟋蟀，鸣叫在废墟之间：
“尘与灰，死亡与终结，威尼斯花去威尼斯所赚。
灵魂无疑是不朽的——只要你有灵魂能被发现。
13
“譬如说你的灵魂吧，你懂物理，地质也不外行，
而数学是你的消遣。灵魂达到的高度不一样，
蝴蝶们恐惧绝灭，——而你呢，你却不可能死亡！
14
“至于威尼斯及其居民，注定要繁荣和没落，
‘欢乐’和‘愚蠢’是他们在这块土地上的收获。
待到亲吻不得不结束时，灵魂中还留下什么？
15
“尘与灰！”——你这样唧唧吟唱，而我却不忍心责备。
死去的美女多么可爱，披满酥胸的金发多么美，
而如今都已安在？我不禁感到了年岁的寒威。
Love in a Life
Room after room,
I hunt the house through
We inhabit together.
Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her—
Next time, herself!—not the trouble behind her
Left in the curtain, the couch's perfume!
As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew:
Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather.
Yet the day wears,
And door succeeds door;
I try the fresh fortune—
Range the wide house from the wing to the centre.
Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter.
Spend my whole day in the quest,—who cares?
But 'tis twilight, you see,—with such suites to explore,
Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune!
一生中的爱
一间又一间，
我把我俩同住的住宅
里外全搜遍。
心哪，不要怕，心，你马上会找到她，
找到她自己！而不是她刚走后
留给帘子的扰动，留给躺椅的香气！
经她刷过，帘顶的花边重又华丽鲜艳，
经她羽毛拂过，穿衣镜光洁耀眼。
一天又将尽，
一扇门又一扇门；
我再试试新运气——
巡视这深宅大院，从外向里。
结果仍是这么不凑巧——总是她出我进。
我整天都花在求索中，有谁过问？
看天色已晚，还有那么些套房要查探，
还有那么些密室和小间要搜寻！
Life in a Love
Escape me?
Never—
Beloved!
While I am I, and you are you,
So long as the world contains us both,
Me the loving and you the loth,
While the one eludes, must the other pursue.
My life is a fault at last, I fear:
It seems too much like a fate, indeed!
Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed.
But what if I fail of my purpose here?
It is but to keep the nerves at strain,
To dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall,
And, baffled, get up and begin again,—
So the chace takes up one's life, that's all.
While, look but once from your farthest bound
At me so deep in the dust and dark,
No sooner the old hope goes to ground
Than a new one, straight to the self-same mark,
I shape me—
Ever
Removed!
爱中的一生
逃避我吗？
不成。
我的爱人！
只要我是我，你是你，
只要世界包容着你我，
我一往情深而你却要躲，
我就必然要追寻不已。
我怕我的一生全是个错，
它看来简直太像命运，
哪怕我竭尽全力也难成。
但达不到目的也不算什么！
只不过是保持紧张的神经，
受了挫折，也就一笑置之，
摔了一跤，爬起来重新开始，
就让这追求占去我的一生。
只要你从远方回顾
望一眼黑暗中的我，
每当旧的希望失落，
新的希望立即把它填补，
但我注定
永远
难以接近！
The Last Ride Together
I
I said—Then, dearest, since 'tis so,
Since now at length my fate I know,
Since nothing all my love avails,
Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails,
Since this was written and needs must be—
My whole heart rises up to bless
Your name in pride and thankfulness!
Take back the hope you gave,—I claim
Only a memory of the same,
—And this beside, if you will not blame,
Your leave for one more last ride with me.
II
My mistress bent that brow of hers;
Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs
When pity would be softening through,
Fixed me a breathing-while or two
With life or death in the balance: right!
The blood replenished me again;
My last thought was at least not vain:
I and my mistress, side by side
Shall be together, breathe and ride,
So, one day more am I deified.
Who knows but the world may end to-night?
III
Hush! if you saw some western cloud
All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed
By many benedictions—sun's
And moon's and evening-star's at once—
And so, you, looking and loving best,
Conscious grew, your passion drew
Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,
Down on you, near and yet more near,
Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!—
Thus leant she and lingered—joy and fear!
Thus lay she a moment on my breast.
IV
Then we began to ride. My soul
Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll
Freshening and fluttering in the wind.
Past hopes already lay behind.
What need to strive with a life awry?
Had I said that, had I done this,
So might I gain, so might I miss.
Might she have loved me? just as well
She might have hated, who can tell!
Where had I been now if the worst befell?
And here we are riding, she and I.
V
Fail I alone, in words and deeds?
Why, all men strive and who succeeds?
We rode; it seemed my spirit flew,
Saw other regions, cities new,
As the world rushed by on either side.
I thought, —All labour, yet no less
Bear up beneath their unsuccess.
Look at the end of work, contrast
The petty done, the undone vast,
This present of theirs with the hopeful past!
I hoped she would love me; here we ride.
VI
What hand and brain went ever paired?
What heart alike conceived and dared?
What act proved all its thought had been?
What will but felt the fleshly screen?
We ride and I see her bosom heave.
There's many a crown for who can reach.
Ten lines, a statesman's life in each!
The flag stuck on a heap of bones,
A soldier's doing! what atones?
They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.
My riding is better, by their leave.
VII
What does it all mean, poet? Well,
Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell
What we felt only; you expressed
You hold things beautiful the best,
And pace them in rhyme so, side by side.
'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then,
Have you yourself what's best for men?
Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time—
Nearer one whit your own sublime
Than we who never have turned a rhyme?
Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.
VIII
And you, great sculptor—so, you gave
A score of years to Art, her slave,
And that's your Venus, whence we turn
To yonder girl that fords the burn!
You acquiesce, and shall I repine?
What, man of music, you grown gray
With notes and nothing else to say,
Is this your sole praise from a friend,
"Greatly his opera's strains intend,
But in music we know how fashions end!"
I gave my youth: but we ride, in fine.
IX
Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate
Proposed bliss here should sublimate
My being—had I signed the bond—
Still one must lead some life beyond,
Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried.
This foot once planted on the goal,
This glory-garland round my soul,
Could I descry such? Try and test!
I sink back shuddering from the quest.
Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?
Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.
X
And yet—she has not spoke so long!
What if heaven be that, fair and strong
At life's best, with our eyes upturned
Whither life's flower is first discerned,
We, fixed so, ever should so abide?
What if we still ride on, we two
With life for ever old yet new,
Changed not in kind but in degree,
The instant made eternity,—
And heaven just prove that I and she
Ride, ride together, for ever ride?
最后一次同乘
1
我说：那么，亲爱的，既然如此，
既然终于知道了我的命运，
既然我的全部爱情无济于事，
我视作生之意义的，已经落空，
既然无可挽回，一切注定——
我就集中全部心志，骄傲地
祝福和感谢你的芳名！
收回你给予我的希望吧，
我只要你保留同等的记忆，
再加上——如果你不见怪——
请同意与我最后一次同乘。
2
但见我的恋人皱着眉头，
深而黑的眼睛盯了我一歇。
生死双方在天平上争斗，
直到怜悯终于软化而妥协。
冲破了骄傲的迟疑不决，
我最后的念头毕竟没有落空，
我身上又重新充满热血：
我和我的恋人，肩并肩，
将一同骑行，一同呼吸，
这样，我面对挑战又一天。
谁保证世界今夜不会终结？
3
嘘！如果你看见一朵西方的云
胸怀浪涛滚滚，身负重荷——
满载着太阳月亮的祝福，
外加再载上黄昏的星辰——
只要你凝视它而且爱得深，
就会觉得你的一腔情热
吸引着云和星、日没与月升，
一齐向你降落，越来越近，
直到凡躯消失，天堂降临！——
她就这样俯身向我，在我胸口上
迟疑了一瞬——喜和惊的一瞬！
4
于是我们开始骑行。我的心——
痉挛的一卷心——把自己舒开，
抚平，迎着凉爽的清风飘拂，
过去的希冀都已留在背后，
何必竭力去强扭生活？
假设我说了那，假设我做了这，
我可能有所得，也可能有所失。
当初能使她爱我么？弄巧成拙，
她或许还会恨我，谁敢说！
弄到最糟时我岂能有今日？
而今日我们同乘——她与我。
5
唯独我失败吗，我的言和行？
可是大家奋斗，又有谁成功？
乘行中我的精神仿佛在飞翔，
看见陌生的地区、新的城，
世界在两侧飞速驶行。
我想：大家奋斗，但与我一样
也在不成功的重压下咬牙坚持。
看看工作的结果吧，比较一下
微小的成就与巨大的未成，
他们的现实与满怀希望的昔日！
我曾希望同心；而如今却同乘。
6
什么手和脑能完全匹配？
什么心能构思也敢于作为？
什么行动证实过全部预想？
什么心志不曾遇到身的屏障？
乘行中我见她胸口起伏微微。
有各种金冠供人们摘取。
十个政治家足有十种运道！
胜利的旗帜插于白骨一堆——
士兵的功绩！有何酬劳？
寺院墓园里姓名刻碑。
我的乘行要胜一筹，恕我冒昧。
7
诗人哪，这一切有何意义？不错，
你的头脑按节奏跳动，你说出
我们仅能隐隐感到的事情；
你表现你把美看作至善，
还把它全押上韵，极工整。
这真是本领，大本领！但是
你自己可曾享有人们的福气？
你自己——贫病交困，未老先衰，
比起我们从未做过诗的人
可有一丝更接近你的峰顶？
唱同乘之乐吧！所以，我乘行。
8
而你，雕塑大师，你为艺术
做奴仆，数十年如一日，
我们却情愿离开你的维纳斯，
回头看那边涉溪的村姑！
你已默认，我又何必抱怨？
咳，音乐家，你鬓发已灰白，
除了音符，你别无其他语言，
这是你朋友唯一的赞词么？——
“他的歌剧有宏大的抱负，
但我们知道，音乐的时尚常变！”
我付出青春；但我乘行，趁晴天。
9
谁知道什么是我们的福？假如
命中有现世的福使我的存在
升华，——假如我签过契约——
人终究要过来世生活，临死时
远远望见那极乐世界。
这脚，曾立足于实在的目标，
这花冠，曾在我灵魂上戴，
我能望见这些么？费疑猜！
我畏缩着后退，我不信赖。
地上这样美，天堂岂能超越？
现在，天堂和她都在乘行之外。
10
可是，她这么久都不发一言！
假如天堂就是：在生命之巅，
美而强，把我们的目光投向
初次发现生命之花的地方，
并让我们固定在这一瞬间？
假如就让我俩继续乘行，
让生命永远既老又新，
只有量变啊，没有质变，
让这一瞬间化作永恒，——
证明天堂就是我和她
永远同乘，同乘，同乘到永远？
Memorabilia
I
Ah, did you once see Shelley plain,
And did he stop and speak to you?
And did you speak to him again?
How strange it seems and new!
II
But you were living before that,
And also you are living after;
And the memory I started at—
My starting moves your laughter.
III
I crossed a moor, with a name of its own
And a certain use in the world no doubt,
Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone
'Mid the blank miles round about:
IV
For there I picked up on the heather
And there I put inside my breast
A moulted feather, an eagle-feather!
Well, I forget the rest.
难忘的记忆
Andrea del Sarto
(Called "The Faultless Painter")
But do not let us quarrel any more,
No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once:
Sit down and all shall happen as you wish.
You turn your face, but does it bring your heart?
I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear,
Treat his own subject after his own way,
Fix his own time, accept too his own price,
And shut the money into this small hand
When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly?
Oh, I'll content him, —but to-morrow, Love!
I often am much wearier than you think,
This evening more than usual, and it seems
As if—forgive now—should you let me sit
Here by the window with your hand in mine
And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole,
Both of one mind, as married people use,
Quietly, quietly the evening through,
I might get up to-morrow to my work
Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try.
To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this!
Your soft hand is a woman of itself,
And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside.
Don't count the time lost, neither; you must serve
For each of the five pictures we require:
It saves a model. So! keep looking so—
My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds!
—How could you ever prick those perfect ears,
Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet—
My face, my moon, my everybody's moon,
Which everybody looks on and calls his,
And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn,
While she looks—no one's: very dear, no less.
You smile? why, there's my picture ready made,
There's what we painters call our harmony!
A common greyness silvers everything,—
All in a twilight, you and I alike
—You, at the point of your first pride in me
(That's gone you know),—but I, at every point;
My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down
To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole.
There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top;
That length of convent-wall across the way
Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside;
The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease,
And autumn grows, autumn in everything.
Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape
As if I saw alike my work and self
And all that I was born to be and do,
A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand.
How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead;
So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!
I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie!
This chamber for example—turn your head—
All that's behind us! You don't understand
Nor care to understand about my art,
But you can hear at least when people speak:
And that cartoon, the second from the door
—It is the thing, Love! so such things should be—
Behold Madonna!—I am bold to say.
I can do with my pencil what I know,
What I see, what at bottom of my heart
I wish for, if I ever wish so deep—
Do easily, too—when I say, perfectly,
I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge,
Who listened to the Legate's talk last week,
And just as much they used to say in France.
At any rate 'tis easy, all of it!
No sketches first, no studies, that's long past:
I do what many dream of, all their lives,
—Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do,
And fail in doing. I could count twenty such
On twice your fingers, and not leave this town,
Who strive—you don't know how the others strive
To paint a little thing like that you smeared
Carelessly passing with your robes afloat,—
Yet do much less, so much less, Someone says,
(I know his name, no matter)—so much less!
Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged.
There burns a truer light of God in them,
In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain,
Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt
This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine.
Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know,
Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me,
Enter and take their place there sure enough,
Though they come back and cannot tell the world.
My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here.
The sudden blood of these men! at a word—
Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too.
I, painting from myself and to myself,
Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame
Or their praise either. Somebody remarks
Morello's outline there is wrongly traced,
His hue mistaken; what of that? or else,
Rightly traced and well ordered; what of that?
Speak as they please, what does the mountain care?
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what's a heaven for? All is silver-grey,
Placid and perfect with my art: the worse!
I know both what I want and what might gain,
And yet how profitless to know, to sigh
"Had I been two, another and myself,
Our head would have o'erlooked the world!" No doubt.
Yonder's a work now, of that famous youth
The Urbinate who died five years ago.
('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.)
Well, I can fancy how he did it all,
Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see,
Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him,
Above and through his art—for it gives way;
That arm is wrongly put—and there again—
A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines,
Its body, so to speak: its soul is right,
He means right—that, a child may understand.
Still, what an arm! and I could alter it:
But all the play, the insight and the stretch—
(Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out?
Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul,
We might have risen to Rafael, I and you!
Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think—
More than I merit, yes, by many times.
But had you—oh, with the same perfect brow,
And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth,
And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird
The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare—
Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind!
Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged
"God and the glory! never care for gain.
The present by the future, what is that?
Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo!
Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!”
I might have done it for you. So it seems:
Perhaps not. All is as God over-rules.
Beside, incentives come from the soul's self;
The rest avail not. Why do I need you?
What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo?
In this world, who can do a thing, will not;
And who would do it, cannot, I perceive:
Yet the will's somewhat—somewhat, too, the power—
And thus we half-men struggle. At the end,
God, I conclude, compensates, punishes.
'Tis safer for me, if the award be strict,
That I am something underrated here,
Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth.
I dared not, do you know, leave home all day,
For fear of chancing on the Paris lords.
The best is when they pass and look aside;
But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all.
Well may they speak! That Francis, that first time,
And that long festal year at Fontainebleau!
I surely then could sometimes leave the ground,
Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear,
In that humane great monarch's golden look,—
One finger in his beard or twisted curl
Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile,
One arm about my shoulder, round my neck,
The jingle of his gold chain in my ear,
I painting proudly with his breath on me,
All his court round him, seeing with his eyes,
Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls
Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts,—
And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond,
This in the background, waiting on my work,
To crown the issue with a last reward!
A good time, was it not, my kingly days?
And had you not grown restless...but I know—
'Tis done and past; 'twas right, my instinct said;
Too live the life grew, golden and not grey,
And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt
Out of the grange whose four walls make his world.
How could it end in any other way?
You called me, and I came home to your heart.
The triumph was—to reach and stay there; since
I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost?
Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold,
You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine!
"Rafael did this, Andrea painted that;
The Roman's is the better when you pray,
But still the other's Virgin was his wife—”
Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge
Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows
My better fortune, I resolve to think.
For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives,
Said one day Agnolo, his very self,
To Rafael...I have known it all these years...
(When the young man was flaming out his thoughts
Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see,
Too lifted up in heart because of it)
"Friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub
Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how,
Who, were he set to plan and execute
As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings,
Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!”
To Rafael's!—And indeed the arm is wrong.
I hardly dare...yet, only you to see,
Give the chalk here—quick, thus, the line should go!
Ay, but the soul! he's Rafael! rub it out!
Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth,
(What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo?
Do you forget already words like those?)
If really there was such a chance, so lost,—
Is, whether you're—not grateful—but more pleased.
Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed!
This hour has been an hour! Another smile?
If you would sit thus by me every night
I should work better, do you comprehend?
I mean that I should earn more, give you more.
See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star;
Morello's gone, the watch-lights show the wall,
The cue-owls speak the name we call them by.
Come from the window, love,—come in, at last,
Inside the melancholy little house
We built to be so gay with. God is just.
King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights
When I look up from painting, eyes tired out,
The walls become illumined, brick from brick
Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold,
That gold of his I did cement them with!
Let us but love each other. Must you go?
That Cousin here again? he waits outside?
Must see you—you, and not with me? Those loans?
More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that?
Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend?
While hand and eye and something of a heart
Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth?
I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit
The grey remainder of the evening out,
Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly
How I could paint, were I but back in France,
One picture, just one more—the Virgin's face,
Not yours this time! I want you at my side
To hear them—that is, Michel Agnolo—
Judge all I do and tell you of its worth.
Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend.
I take the subjects for his corridor,
Finish the portrait out of hand—there, there,
And throw him in another thing or two
If he demurs; the whole should prove enough
To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside,
What's better and what's all I care about,
Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff!
Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he,
The Cousin! what does he to please you more?
I am grown peaceful as old age to-night.
I regret little, I would change still less.
Since there my past life lies, why alter it?
The very wrong to Francis! —it is true
I took his coin, was tempted and complied,
And built this house and sinned, and all is said.
My father and my mother died of want.
Well, had I riches of my own? you see
How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot.
They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died:
And I have laboured somewhat in my time
And not been paid profusely. Some good son
Paint my two hundred pictures—let him try!
No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes,
You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night.
This must suffice me here. What would one have?
In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance—
Four great walls in the New Jerusalem,
Meted on each side by the angel's reed,
For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me
To cover—the three first without a wife,
While I have mine! So—still they overcome
Because there's still Lucrezia, —as I choose.
Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.
安德烈，裁缝之子
（他被称为“完美无瑕的画家” ）
不过让咱俩别再吵嘴了吧，
我的露克蕾吉亚 ，这一次请你容忍，
坐下吧，一切都会使你如愿的。
你转过脸来了，心是否转过来呢？
我将为你的朋友的朋友工作，别担心，
就依他的题目，依他的方式，
依他的期限，也依他的价钱，
等你下次握住我的手时（温柔些？）
我一定把钱放进你的手心。
哦，我会满足他，——等明天，我的爱！
我常常比你想象的更加疲倦,
特别是今天晚上，看起来似乎——
请你原谅——只要你能让我
握住你的手坐在这扇窗口，
遥望菲索勒 半个小时之久，
像伉俪们通常那样心心相印，
静静地、静静地度过整个黄昏，
那么我明天又会生气蓬勃，
起来做我的工作。让我们试试。
明天你准会为此而感到高兴！
你柔软的小手本身是个女人，
而我的手是男子赤裸的胸膛，——
就让她这样蜷伏在我的手心。
别以为这是浪费时间，你必须
为我们所需的五幅画服务，
这就可省掉模特儿。对，就保持
这模样，我的盘旋缠绕的蛇美人！
——你怎么能扎穿如此美好的耳朵，
哪怕是为了戴珍珠？啊，这么甜美——
我的明月——我的人人与共的明月，
人人观赏并称之为自己的，
但我猜想是大家轮流观赏的，
瞧她顾盼四方，不属于谁，
却并不疏远，仍是那么亲切！
你笑了？这真是我现成的画幅，
这就是我们画家所说的和谐！
一片浅灰把万物化成了银色，
一切都沉入了黄昏，你我都一样，——
在你，是你最初为我感到的骄傲
（如今已经消逝）；在我，则是一切——
我的青春、希望和艺术，全部
溶入了远方菲索勒柔和的暗色。
礼拜堂的钟楼上晚钟丁当，
路对面修道院的一段围墙
紧围着树木，最后一个修道士
离开了庭园；白昼日渐缩短
而秋露渐浓，秋意浸透了万物。
不是吗？一切都似乎陷入了朦胧，
就像我眼中我的工作和自身，
就像我注定的一生事业和生命，——
一幅黄昏图！爱人啊，我们在上帝掌中。
他叫我们过的生活多奇怪呀！
我们貌似自由，实则镣铐紧锁！
我感到他锁住我。就让他锁吧！
比如说这房间——请转回头来
看看后面的一切！你不懂得
而且也不愿懂得我的艺术，
但是你起码能听到人们的评论，
看那幅壁画草图，门口第二幅，
——那真是杰作呢，亲爱的！瞧这圣母，
我敢大胆地说：就该这样画！
我能用笔画出我所知道的，
我所看见的，我在心底追求的，
（只要我能有这样深远的追求！）
而且画得轻易，甚至可说是完美，
这大概不算夸口，你自己能判断，——
你上周听过教皇特使的评语，
在法国，我也受过同样的赞誉。
无论如何，这一切都很轻易，
我不必画习作，也不必打草稿，——
我所做的是许多人毕生的梦想，
岂止梦想？他们痛苦挣扎，追求，
而终于失败！掰你的手指数两遍，
我能数出二十个这样的人，
而且不出这个城！他们在奋斗——
你想象不出别人在如何苦斗，
力求画出一件小小的作品，
就像你刚才不经心地走过时
飘拂的长袍擦糊的那一幅一样，——
而他们追求的目标比这还低，
有人说（我知道他的名字，不必提），
低得多啊！可是，露克蕾吉亚，
低就是高，我躲不掉评判。
在他们焦急的搏动的充塞的脑中、
心中、到处，有一种更真挚的
神的灵光在燃烧，胜过了激发我
这只脉搏低微的巧匠的手。
他们的作品落地，可他们自己呢，
我知道他们已有好多次达到了
一个对我关闭的天国，确确实实，
他们进了门，找到了位置，
尽管回来时不能对这世界说。
我的画更接近天，我却坐在此地。
这些人的血气盛，或褒或贬，
一个字就足以使他们热血沸腾。
而我却从自己出发，归到自己，
画我自己的，对人们的褒贬
我一概无动于衷。有人觉得
莫雷洛山 的轮廓似乎勾错了，
色彩也弄错了，那又怎么的？
或者说它准确匀称，那又怎样？
随人怎么说，山根本不予理会！
可是人的“企及”要超过他的“把握”，
否则何必要天国？一切都是银灰，
我的画宁静而完美，——这却不妙！
我知道我的缺陷和我的潜力，
可是我只能发出无谓的叹息：
“只要我是两人——自我和另一人，
那我们一定能俯视全世界！”一定！
那边有幅画，是乌尔比诺地方
著名的青年 画的，他五年前死了。
（这幅画是瓦萨里 送给我的临摹品。）
我能想象他如何画成此画，
国王们、教皇们看着他，他倾注灵魂，
他企及高处，他为天让路，让天
超过和通过他的艺术予以补足。
那条臂膀画错了，还有些错处，
线条上有些可以原谅的瑕疵，
形体有缺陷，而灵魂却正确，
连孩童都明白，他有正确的立意。
不过那臂膀真糟糕，而我能修正它，
可是我的全部活力、眼力和魄力
离开了我，离开了我！为什么？
如果你命我达到这一切，赋予我灵魂，
咱俩本来能升到拉斐尔的水平。
不错，我所要求的你都给了我，
我想，比我应得的还多得多。
可是除了你完美无瑕的眉，
完美的眼，比完美更完美的嘴，
以及我灵魂听到的柔和的声音
（像小鸟听到捕鸟人的笛音
并随之走进陷阱），除了这一切，
你能不能再增添一样——心灵？
有些女性能！只要你怂恿一声：
“追求上帝与光荣，别追求金钱！
用未来衡量现在，金钱值什么？
为名誉而生吧，与米开朗琪罗并肩！
拉斐尔等着呢：三人一同升向上帝！”
我本可以做到的，只要是为了你！
但也许，上帝的安排无法改变，
况且，动因来自灵魂本身，
其他都无补于事。我为何需要你？
拉斐尔、米开朗琪罗哪有妻室？
我明白，在此人世间总是如此——
能者不愿，而愿者不能；尽管
意志和能力各自平分秋色，
我们——“半人”们就这样挣扎不息。
我估计上帝最终会补偿，会惩罚，
如果他裁决严明，对我倒更保险，
因为我在这儿总有点受人轻视，
说实话，这些年来都遭到贬斥。
你可知道，我不敢离家太久，
怕的是遇见那些巴黎贵族。
他们走过时扭转头去倒好，
但有时我只得忍受他们的挖苦。
他们自有话说！那法王的盛情，
那枫丹白露长年的歌舞宴饮！
当年，我有时的确能飞离地面，
穿一身荣光——拉斐尔的日常服装，
在亲切而伟大的君王御前，——
陛下嘴边露出优雅的笑容，
一个手指放在捻起的胡髭中，
一只手搭着我的肩，围着我的颈，
他的金链就在我耳畔丁当，
我就在他的呼吸下骄傲地作画，
他的全部朝臣簇拥着他，
用他的眼睛看——那些真挚的
法国眼睛，那慷慨的灵魂之火，
紧挨着那些心，我的手辛劳不休；
但最好的是这张脸，这张脸哪，
在远处，在背后伴随我的工作，
给我的成果以最后、最高的报酬！
那真是好时光，君王般的日子！
要不是你越来越焦躁不安……
但我知道，这都已成为过去，
我的直觉告诉我：这样是对的。
生活太鲜艳了，金色代替了灰色，
而我却是只蝙蝠，视力微弱，
谷仓的四壁构成了它的世界，
太阳岂能诱它飞出仓外？
事情不可能有别的结局，——
你呼唤我，我就回到你的心边。
在这儿找到归宿就是凯旋，
那么，我在凯旋前到达这儿，
又有何损失可言？让我用双手
把你的脸镶在鬈发的黄金中间，
你是我的！美丽的露克蕾吉亚！
人们会原谅我的：“拉斐尔画了这，
安德烈画了那。在做祷告的时候
拉斐尔的圣母更好；可是要知道，
另一位画的圣母是他的妻子呀！”
我高兴当你面评论这两幅作品，
我确信，我的运气占了上风。
因为，你可知道，露克蕾吉亚，
千真万确：有一天米开朗琪罗
确曾亲口对拉斐尔说过
（当时这年轻人正把思想之火
喷在宫墙上，给整个罗马欣赏，
心情正为这幅画过分飞扬），
我早就知道他说过这样的话：
“老弟，有一个可怜的小伙计
在我们佛罗伦萨游荡，无人注意。
如果把他放在你的位置上，
受教皇和国王鞭策，而大展宏图，
他准会使你汗颜！”——使拉斐尔汗颜！
真的，那条臂膀画得不对，
我不大敢……不过，只改给你看，
给我粉笔——快！线条该这样走！
唉，但是灵魂呢？他是拉斐尔呀！
把这擦掉！——如果他说的是实，
（哪个他？就是米开朗琪罗呀，
我刚说的，你就忘记了吗？）
如果我当真错失了这样的机会，
我关心的也仅仅是：你是否
更加高兴，——尽管你不会感激。
就让我这样想吧。你真的微笑了!
这一个小时真值得！再笑一回吧？
如果你肯这样每夜坐在我身边，
我准会画得更好，你理解么？
我的意思是我会赚更多的钱给你。
瞧，暮色已经苍茫，亮了一颗星，
山梁已不见，更灯照出了墙影，
枭鸟发出了“叽呜叽呜”的啸鸣。
离开这窗边吧，爱人，请你终于
进入这所咱俩为欢乐而建的
忧郁的小屋吧。上帝是公正的。
请弗朗索瓦王原谅！——每当夜间
我作画过度疲劳而抬眼凝望，
四壁都会发光，所有的砖缝里
不见灰泥，只见我砌这房子
花掉的法王的黄金光芒夺目！
只要我们能相爱……你一定得走吗？
那个表哥又来了？他在外面等？
非见不可——见你不见我？债务？
又添了赌债？你刚才微笑是为这？
好吧，一笑千金哪！你还能再给吗？
当我还有手，有眼，和一点儿心，
工作是我的商品，但能值几文？
我将为我的幻想付钱，只要让我
坐完这个傍晚的灰色的残余，
如你所说偷点儿闲，并且沉思：
要是我回到法国，我将怎样
画一幅画——只画一幅圣母像，
这次画的不是你！我要在你身边
听听他们——我是说听米开朗琪罗
评价我的作品，告诉你它的价值。
你愿吗？明天我满足你的朋友。
就画他走廊里所需要的题材，
肖像画马上完成，——好了，好了，
如果他嫌少，再给他加一两件
作为添头，加起来我看足够
为这表哥的赌瘾还债。此外，
更好的是，我所关心的也只是：
为你赚十三块银币买一个花皱领！
我爱，这使你高兴吗？可是他——这表哥！
——他做了什么事使你更高兴呢？
我今夜进入了暮年似的平静。
我很少遗憾，更缺少改变的意愿。
既往如是，又何必把它改变？
我对不起弗朗索瓦！——这是事实，
我挪用他的钱，受诱惑听从了你，
盖这房子是我之罪，事已至此。
我父亲和我母亲都死于穷困。
但我发了财吗？如你所看到的，
人哪里能发财！让各人承担命运吧。
他们生来穷，活得穷，也死得穷，
我在我的时辰里没少干活，
也没得丰厚的报酬。哪个孝顺儿子
想画我这两百幅画——叫他试试！
无疑的，有种力量在维持着平衡。
看来，今夜你爱我爱得够多了。
在人间，我该满足了。人能得到什么？
在天上，也许还能得到新机会——
再一次机会：天堂有四面巨墙，
天使用天尺量出，分布四方，
让达·芬奇、拉斐尔、米开朗琪罗与我
画上壁画。——前三人都没有妻室，
唯独我有！所以他们仍将获胜，
因为即便到了天堂，仍将有
露克蕾吉亚——这是我的选择。
表哥又吹口哨了！去吧，我的爱。
Two in the Campagna
I
I wonder do you feel to-day
As I have felt since, hand in hand,
We sat down on the grass, to stray
In spirit better through the land,
This morn of Rome and May?
II
For me, I touched a thought, I know,
Has tantalized me many times,
(Like turns of thread the spiders throw
Mocking across our path) for rhymes
To catch at and let go.
III
Help me to hold it! First it left
The yellowing fennel, run to seed
There, branching from the brickwork's cleft,
Some old tomb's ruin: yonder weed
Took up the floating weft,
IV
Where one small orange cup amassed
Five beetles,—blind and green they grope
Among the honey-meal: and last,
Everywhere on the grassy slope
I traced it. Hold it fast!
V
The champaign with its endless fleece
Of feathery grasses everywhere!
Silence and passion, joy and peace,
An everlasting wash of air—
Rome's ghost since her decease.
VI
Such life here, through such lengths of hours,
Such miracles performed in play,
Such primal naked forms of flowers,
Such letting nature have her way
While heaven looks from its towers!
VII
How say you? Let us, O my dove,
Let us be unashamed of soul,
As earth lies bare to heaven above!
How is it under our control
To love or not to love?
VIII
I would that you were all to me,
You that are just so much, no more.
Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free!
Where does the fault lie? What the core
O'the wound, since wound must be?
IX
I would I could adopt your will,
See with your eyes, and set my heart
Beating by yours, and drink my fill
At your soul's springs,—your part my part
In life, for good and ill.
X
No. I yearn upward, touch you close,
Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,
Catch your soul's warmth,—I pluck the rose
And love it more than tongue can speak—
Then the good minute goes.
XI
Already how am I so far
Our of that minute? Must I go
Still like the thistle-ball, no bar,
Onward, whenever light winds blow,
Fixed by no friendly star?
XII
Just when I seemed about to learn!
Where is the thread now? Off again!
The old trick! Only I discern—
Infinite passion, and the pain
Of finite hearts that yearn.
荒郊情侣
1
不知你今天是否也感到
我所感到的心情，——当我们
在此罗马的五月的清早
携手同坐在春草碧茵，
神游这辽阔的荒郊 ？
2
而我呢，我触及了一缕游思，
它老是让我徒劳地追求，
（就像蜘蛛抛出的游丝
横在路上把我们挑逗，）
诗刚捉到它，转瞬又丢失！
3
帮我捕捉它吧！起初它
从长在古墓砖缝里的
那株发黄结籽的茴香出发，
而对面那丛杂草蒺藜
接过了飘浮的柔网轻纱，——
4
那儿有朵小小的橙子花杯，
招惹来五只盲目的绿色甲虫
在花蜜的美餐中陶醉；
末了，我又在草坡上把它追踪，
抓住它吧，别让它飞！
5
毛茸茸的草毯茂密如云，
铺遍荒野，不见尽头。
静寂与激情，欢乐与安宁，
还有永远不停的空气之流——
啊，古罗马死后的幽灵！
6
这儿，生命是如此悠久辽阔，
上演着如此神奇的活剧，
花儿的形象如此原始而赤裸，
大自然是如此随心之所欲，
而上天只在高塔上看着！
7
你呢，你怎么说，我的爱人？
让我们别为灵魂而害羞，
正如大地赤裸着面向天空！
难道说，决定爱与否，
全在我们的掌握之中？
8
我但愿你就是我的一切，
而你却只是你，毫不更多。
既非奴隶又非自由者，
既不属于你又不属于我！
错在哪里？何处是缺陷的症结？
9
我但愿能接受你的意愿，
用你的眼睛看，让我的心
永远跳动在你的心边，
愿在你的心泉尽情地饮，
把命运融合为一，不管是苦是甜。
10
不。我仰慕、我紧密地接触你，
然后就让开。我吻你的脸，
捕捉你心灵的热气，我摘取
玫瑰花，爱它胜过一切语言，
于是美好的一分钟已逝去。
11
为什么我离那一分钟
已这样远？难道我不得不
被一阵阵轻风吹送，
像蓟花绒球般飘扬四处，
没有一颗友爱的星可以依从？
12
看来我似乎马上就要领悟！
可是，丝在何处？它又已飞去！
老是捉弄人！只是我已辨出——
无限的情，与一颗渴求着的
有限的心的痛苦。
A Grammarian's Funeral
Shortly after the Revival of learning in Europe
Let us begin and carry up this corpse,
Singing together.
Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes
Each in its tether
Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain,
Cared-for till cock-crow:
Look out if yonder be not day again
Rimming the rock-row!
That's the appropriate country; there, man's thought,
Rarer, intenser,
Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought,
Chafes in the censer.
Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop;
Seek we sepulture
On a tall mountain, citied to the top,
Crowded with culture!
All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels;
Clouds overcome it;
No! yonder sparkle is the citadel's
Circling its summit.
Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights:
Wait ye the warning?
Our low life was the level's and the night's;
He's for the morning.
Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head,
'Ware the beholders!
This is our master, famous calm and dead,
Borne on our shoulders.
Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft,
Safe from the weather!
He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft,
Singing together,
He was a man born with thy face and throat,
Lyric Apollo!
Long he lived nameless: how should spring take note
Winter would follow?
Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone!
Cramped and diminished,
Moaned he, "New measures, other feet anon!
My dance is finished?"
No, that's the world's way: (keep the mountain-side,
Make for the city!)
He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride
Over men's pity;
Left play for work, and grappled with the world
Bent on escaping:
"What's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keepst furled?
Show me their shaping,
Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage,—
Give!" —So, he gowned him,
Straight got by heart that book to its last page:
Learned, we found him.
Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead,
Accents uncertain:
"Time to taste life," another would have said,
"Up with the curtain!"
This man said rather, "Actual life comes next?
Patience a moment!
Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text,
Still there's the comment.
Let me know all! Prate not of most or least,
Painful or easy!
Even to the crumbs I'd fain eat up the feast,
Ay, nor feel queasy."
Oh, such a life as he resolved to live,
When he had learned it,
When he had gathered all books had to give!
Sooner, he spurned it.
Image the whole, then execute the parts—
Fancy the fabric
Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz,
Ere mortar dab brick!
(Here's the town-gate reached: there's the market-place
Gaping before us.)
Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace
(Hearten our chorus!)
That before living he'd learn how to live—
No end to learning:
Earn the means first—God surely will contrive
Use for our earning.
Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes:
Live now or never!”
He said, "What's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes!
Man has Forever.”
Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head:
Calculus racked him:
Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead:
Tussis attacked him.
"Now, master, take a little rest!"—not he!
(Caution redoubled,
Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!)
Not a whit troubled
Back to his studies, fresher than at first,
Fierce as a dragon
He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst)
Sucked at the flagon.
Oh, if we draw a circle premature,
Heedless of far gain,
Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure
Bad is our bargain!
Was it not great? did not he throw on God,
(He loves the burthen)—
God's task to make the heavenly period
Perfect the earthen?
Did not he magnify the mind, show clear
Just what it all meant?
He would not discount life, as fools do here,
Paid by instalment.
He ventured neck or nothing—heaven's success
Found, or earth's failure:
"Wilt thou trust death or not?" He answered "Yes:
Hence with life's pale lure!"
That low man seeks a little thing to do,
Sees it and does it:
This high man, with a great thing to pursue,
Dies ere he knows it.
That low man goes on adding one to one,
His hundred's soon hit:
This high man, aiming at a million,
Misses an unit.
That, has the world here—should he need the next,
Let the world mind him!
This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed
Seeking shall find him.
So, with the throttling hands of death at strife,
Ground he at grammar;
Still, thro'the rattle, parts of speech were rife:
While he could stammer
He settled Hoti's business—let it be!—
Properly based Oun —
Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De ,
Dead from the waist down.
Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place:
Hail to your purlieus,
All ye highfliers of the feathered race,
Swallows and curlews!
Here's the top-peak; the multitude below
Live, for they can, there:
This man decided not to Live but Know—
Bury this man there?
Here—here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form,
Lightnings are loosened,
Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm,
Peace let the dew send!
Lofty designs must close in like effects:
Loftily lying,
Leave him—still loftier than the world suspects,
Living and dying.
语法学家的葬礼
欧洲学术复兴开始后不久
让我们齐唱一曲送葬的号子，
抬起他的遗体，
离开这些粗俗的、篱笆围困的
村庄和园子地，——
雄鸡未打鸣，在平原怀抱中
村庄正睡得安心；
注意望远方的昼光，是否已经
给石山山脊镀金！
那儿是合适之乡，那儿人的思想
更奇妙也更浓，
像在香炉里翻腾，积蓄着力量，
准备爆发迸涌。
让我们把牲畜和庄稼留给这片
没文化的平原，
在山巅找墓地！那是文化之城——
高处文化烂漫。
群峰耸立，而一峰在群峰之上，
云霞为其冠冕；
呵，不！这是那城堡发出霞光，
围绕它的峰巅。
我们走向那儿，盘绕层层山岳，
起步了，伙伴们！
我们的低级生活属于平地和黑夜，
而他追求着早晨。
当心那些旁观者！昂起头，挺起胸，
步子要迈整齐！
我们抬的是导师，他天下闻名，
而如今他已安息。
牲畜和庄稼，村庄和园子，睡吧，
不愁风雨天气。
而他，我们齐声合唱护送的他——
（送往他的墓地）
他是一个人，容貌和嗓音堪比
阿波罗——诗之神！
可他多年默默无闻，没注意
冬天取代了春！
轻轻一触，而青春已经逝去，
换来老态龙钟，
他长叹道：“难道就此换了旋律？
我的舞已告终？”
不！那只是常规世道，（沿山边绕，
向那座城前进！）
而他察觉衰老，却更傲然前行，
越过人们的怜悯；
放弃休闲，埋头苦学，拼全力对付
逃逸而去的世界；
“你的卷轴里藏着什么？让我读读
大手笔的描写，
把知人最深的吟游诗人和圣贤
都给我！”他说。
待到他整卷谙熟于心，我们发现：
他已成了学者。
但同时他也已秃顶，目光如铅，
吐字已不清爽。
换了别人就会说：“该享受生活了，
赶紧推开寒窗！”
这位却说：“轮到现实生活了么？
耐心再稍等片时！
纵然我已把艰涩难辨的本文掌握，
但是还剩下注释。
让我知道一切！无须谈多少、得失、
轻松或是痛苦！
我愿吃完这筵席，直到每粒残屑，
而不感到餍足。”
呵！他决定：在开始生活前必须
把一切先学过！
先汇集书本的一切精华！这等于
决心弃绝生活。
先要把握全盘，才能把局部实行；
未完成设计之前，
岂能用钢凿敲出石英的火星？
岂能用砂浆砌砖？
（我们已到城门，敞开在面前的
是集市的市场。）
是的，这正是他为人的独特魅力：
（听我们的合唱！）
在生活之前，先要学习如何生活，——
而学习永不止步；
先获得手段，有什么用？上帝自会
安排它的用途！
别人才不信这套呢：“今宵永不再！
要明白岁月无情！”
他答道：“让狗们猿们抓住现在！
人却拥有永恒。”
说完又回到书堆里埋头工作。
结石把他折磨，
他眼睛变成了熔铅的浮渣色，
外加阵阵寒咳。
“稍微歇会儿吧，老师！”他不睬！
（伙伴，再次起步！
俩人一排，走齐了步，山路很窄！）
他可毫不在乎，
他重返研究，以更充沛的精力，
一如生龙活虎，
他的灵魂在神圣的饥渴中吮吸
满满的知识之壶。
假如画个近视的圈，把远期利益
都排除在圈外，
而只贪求眼前实利，那么显然，
这是赔钱买卖！
不伟大吗？他把其余交给上帝去做
（他自甘承担重负）：
以“天上的生”来完善“地上的生”——
这是上帝的任务。
他夸大了心智，他要清晰地显示
心智意味着什么。
他不愿学愚人们所为——折扣贴现，
分期预支生活。
他孤注一掷，他获得了天上的成功
或地上的失败，
“你相信死亡吗？”“我信！但把生活的
小小诱惑拿开！”
俗人寻求的是做点区区琐事——
看得到他的成绩；
这位高人追求的是伟大事业——
而至死未穷其理。
俗人日复一日，不断地“一加一”，
很快有一百累积；
这位高人却将目标定在百万，
结果却错失了“一”。
俗人拥有现世，假如他需要来世，
唯有靠现世关照！
而高人托付给上帝，不惑的寻找
必将把他找到。
当死神的手已扼住他的喉咙，
他仍为语法刻苦，
在他上气不接下气的咕噜中
词类成了遗嘱。——
他给我们理清了Hoti的用途，
为Oun奠定基础，
他给我们定下轻音De的规则，
而他已半身麻木……
好吧，这儿是一块平台，这儿最好！
向此地表示敬意！
这是羽族的高飞者——燕子和鹬鸟
喜爱盘旋之地！
这儿是峰顶，下面的芸芸众生
只能活在下方；
此人却决定以求知代求生，他
岂能在下方安葬？
这才是他的位置：这儿陨星疾射，
闪电爆裂，云生成，
星宿来往，暴风雨迸发出欢乐，
露水带来和平！
崇高的志向必须有相应的效果——
让他在此安葬，
让他在俗世料想不到的高处
生活，和死亡。
Confessions
What is he buzzing in my ears?
"Now that I come to die,
Do I view the world as a vale of tears?"
Ah, reverend sir, not I!
What I viewed there once, what I view again
Where the physic bottles stand
On the table's edge, —is a suburb lane,
With a wall to my bedside hand.
That lane sloped, much as the bottles do,
From a house you could descry
O'er the garden-wall: is the curtain blue
Or green to a healthy eye?
To mine, it serves for the old June weather
Blue above lane and wall;
And that farthest bottle labelled "Ether"
Is the house o'ertopping all.
At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper,
There watched for me, one June,
A girl: I know, sir, it's improper,
My poor mind's out of tune.
Only, there was a way...you crept
Close by the side, to dodge
Eyes in the house, two eyes except:
They styled their house "The Lodge."
What right had a lounger up their lane?
But, by creeping very close,
With the good wall's help,—their eyes might strain
And stretch themselves to Oes,
Yet never catch her and me together,
As she left the attic, there,
By the rim of the bottle labelled "Ether,"
And stole from stair to stair,
And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas,
We loved, sir—used to meet:
How sad and bad and mad it was—
But then, how it was sweet!
忏悔
他尽在我耳边唠叨些什么？
“在此告别人世之时，
我是否看透了人世是泪之国？”
啊，牧师先生，并非如此！
我从前见到的，如今又在眼前，——
瞧这排药瓶在桌子边
排成一行，那是一条郊区小巷，
还有一堵墙在我床边。
那条巷是斜坡，像这排药瓶似的，
坡顶有座楼，请你望过去，
就在花园墙后，……在健康的眼里，
这帘子是蓝还是绿？
在我眼中，它就是当年的六月天，
一片蔚蓝笼罩小巷和墙，
最远的那个瓶子，贴着“醚” 的标签，
就是那高出一切的楼房。
在阳台上，紧挨着那瓶塞子，
她等着我，那年六月里，
一位姑娘……我知道，先生，这不合适，
我可怜的神智已越出控制。
可那儿还是有路……可以沿边潜入，
直到那座楼，他们称为“别墅”，
得把楼里所有的眼睛避开，
只有一双眼睛例外。
我哪有资格在他们巷里逛？
但是，只要尽量把腰弯，
靠那好心的园墙给我帮忙，
哪怕他们双眼瞪得滚圆，
仍然从未捉到她和我在一起，——
她从搁楼下来，就在那里，
从那贴着“醚”字的瓶子口边
悄悄地溜下层层楼梯，
在缠满蔷薇的庭园门边约会。
唉，先生，我们常常相亲相昵，——
多么可悲，多么不轨，多么狂悖，
可是，这却是多么甜蜜！
Youth and Art
It once might have been, once only:
We lodged in a street together,
You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely,
I, a lone she-bird of his feather.
Your trade was with sticks and clay,
You thumbed, thrust, patted and polished,
Then laughed "They will see some day
Smith made, and Gibson demolished."
My business was song, song, song;
I chirped, cheeped, trilled and twittered,
"Kate Brown's on the boards ere long,
And Grisi's existence embittered!"
I earned no more by a warble
Than you by a sketch in plaster;
You wanted a piece of marble,
I needed a music-master.
We studied hard in our styles,
Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos,
For air looked out on the tiles,
For fun watched each other's windows.
You lounged, like a boy of the South,
Cap and blouse—nay, a bit of beard too;
Or you got it, rubbing your mouth
With fingers the clay adhered to.
And I—soon managed to find
Weak points in the flower-fence facing,
Was forced to put up a blind
And be safe in my corset-lacing.
No harm! It was not my fault
If you never turned your eye's tail up
As I shook upon E in alt ,
Or ran the chromatic scale up:
For spring bade the sparrows pair,
And the boys and girls gave guesses,
And stalls in our street looked rare
With bulrush and watercresses.
Why did not you pinch a flower
In a pellet of clay and fling it?
Why did not I put a power
Of thanks in a look, or sing it?
I did look, sharp as a lynx,
(And yet the memory rankles)
When models arrived, some minx
Tripped up-stairs, she and her ankles.
But I think I gave you as good!
"That foreign fellow,—who can know
How she pays, in a playful mood,
For his tuning her that piano?"
Could you say so, and never say
"Suppose we join hands and fortunes,
And I fetch her from over the way,
Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes?"
No, no: you would not be rash,
Nor I rasher and something over:
You've to settle yet Gibson's hash,
And Grisi yet lives in clover.
But you meet the Prince at the Board,
I'm queen myself at bals-paré ,
I've married a rich old lord,
And you're dubbed knight and an R.A.
Each life unfulfilled, you see;
It hangs still, patchy and scrappy:
We have not sighed deep, laughed free,
Starved, feasted, despaired,—been happy.
And nobody calls you a dunce,
And people suppose me clever:
This could but have happened once,
And we missed it, lost it for ever.
青春和艺术
曾有过一次可能，仅仅一次：
当时我们同住一条街道，
你是独住在屋顶上的麻雀，
我是同样毛色的孤单雌鸟。
你的手艺是木棍和黏土，
你成天又捣又捏，又磨又拍，
并且笑着说：“请拭目以待，
瞧史密斯成材，吉布森 下台。”
我的事业除了歌还是歌，
我成天啁啁啾啾，啭鸣不歇，
“凯蒂·布劳恩登台之日，
格丽西 将黯然失色！”
你为人塑写生像所得无几，
跟我的卖唱彼此彼此。
你缺少的是一方大理石，
我缺少一位音乐教师。
我们勤奋钻研各自的艺术，
而只啄食一点面包皮果腹。
要找空气，就开窗望瓦面，
要找笑料，就瞧对方的窗户。
你懒懒散散，南方孩子的神气，
便帽，工作服，还有一抹胡须；
说不定是你用沾泥的手指
擦嘴的时候糊上去的。
而我呢，没多久也就发现
花篱笆的空隙是个弱点，
我不得不挂起了窗帘，
我穿花边紧身衣才能保安全。
没坏处！这又不是我的错，
当我在高音E上唱出颤音，
或是爬上了一串半音阶的坡，
你呀，你连眼角都没扫过我。
春天吩咐麻雀们成双对，
小伙子和姑娘们都在相猜，
我们街上的摊子可真美——
点缀着新鲜的香蒲、香菜。
为什么你不捏个泥丸，
插朵花儿扔进我窗里来？
为什么我不含情回眸，
把无限的感激之意唱出来？
我若回眸时凶得像只山猫，
每当你那儿有模特儿来到，
轻佻的姑娘轻快地上楼，
至今我回想起来还气恼！
可是我也给了你一点儿好看！——
“那个外国人来调钢琴那天，
她干嘛显出一副顽皮相，
谁知道她付人家什么价钱？”
你是否可能说而未说出来：
“让我们把手和命运联在一道，
我把她接到街这边来，
连同她的钢琴和长短调”？
不啊不，你不会鲁莽行事的，
我也不会比你更轻率：
你还得赶超和征服吉布森，
格丽西也还处于黄金时代。
后来，你已经受到亲王 邀请，
而我成了化装舞会的王后。
我嫁了个富有的老贵族，
你被授予爵士和院士衔头。
可是我们的生活都不满足，
这生活平静、残缺、拼凑、应付，
我们没有尽情地叹、尽情地笑，
没有挨饿、狂欢、绝望——没有幸福。
没有人说你是傻瓜、笨蛋，
大家都夸我聪明、能干……
一生只可能遇到一次啊，
我们却错过了它，直到永远。
Natural Magic
All I can say is—I saw it!
The room was as bare as your hand.
I locked in the swarth little lady,—I swear,
From the head to the foot of her—well, quite as bare!
"No Nautch shall cheat me," said I, "taking my stand
At this bolt which I draw!" And this bolt—I withdraw it,
And there laughs the lady, not bare, but embowered
With—who knows what verdure, o'erfruited, o'erflowered?
Impossible! Only—I saw it!
All I can sing is—I feel it!
This life was as blank as that room;
I let you pass in here. Precaution, indeed?
Walls, ceiling and floor,—not a chance for a weed!
Wide opens the entrance: where's cold now, where's gloom?
No May to sow seed here, no June to reveal it,
Behold you enshrined in these blooms of your bringing,
These fruits of your bearing—nay, birds of your winging!
A fairy-tale! Only—I feel it!
天然的魔力
我所能说的是——我亲眼所见！
精光的房间里只有精光的四壁。
我赌咒我锁进个娇小的黑女郎，
她也一无遮掩，从头到脚全身精光！
“印度舞女纵有本事也休想作弊，
我坚守阵地紧握门闩！”但等我开闩，
看哪，女郎笑着，不复赤裸而是鲜花缤纷，
天晓得是什么花果绿叶披满了周身。
这不可能！可是——我亲眼所见！
我所能唱的是——我亲身所感！
这生活本像那房间一样空虚，
我让你进入，而四面是严密布防——
四壁和上下，哪有长一棵草的地方？
但开门一看，阴沉寒冷俱已隐去。
既无五月撒种，也无六月浇灌，
看哪，你却簇拥着你带来的花朵，
你带来了群群小鸟、累累硕果！
这是童话！可是——我亲身所感！
Magical Nature
Flower—I never fancied, jewel—I profess you!
Bright I see and soft I feel the outside of a flower.
Save but glow inside and—jewel, I should guess you,
Dim to sight and rough to touch: the glory is the dower.
You, forsooth, a flower? Nay, my love, a jewel—
Jewel at no mercy of a moment in your prime!
Time may fray the flower-face: kind be time or cruel,
Jewel, from each facet, flash your laugh at time!
魔力的天然
我从不认为你是花儿，我相信你是宝石！
花儿的外表摸起来柔和，看起来娇美，
只缺乏内部的燃烧。而宝石呢，我猜得对，
看起来暗淡，摸起来粗糙，却藏有灿烂光辉。
你真是花儿吗？不，我的爱，你是一颗宝石，
宝石啊，不受年华摆布，不随岁月衰老。
不论时间仁慈或残酷，都会叫花颜凋萎，
而宝石的每个晶面，闪着你对时间的笑傲！
Appearances
I
And so you found that poor room dull,
Dark, hardly to your taste, my dear?
Its features seemed unbeautiful:
But this I know—'twas there, not here,
You plighted troth to me, the word
Which—ask that poor room how it heard.
II
And this rich room obtains your praise
Unqualified,—so bright, so fair,
So all whereat perfection stays?
Ay, but remember—here, not there,
the other word was spoken! Ask
This rich room how you dropped the mask!
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