叶芝诗10首
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.’
与她现实的痛苦。
我痛恨的人像蝼蚁一样活着，
我热爱的人寥若晨星，
早已经死去，
懦夫仍蜷缩于其位，
狂徒依旧地肆意妄为，
流氓恶棍逍遥法外
博得一片麻醉的喝彩，
巧言令色者在愚弄平民，
自作聪明者在人群中高喊，
这些行尸走肉，
要打垮一切智慧，
要打垮伟大的艺术。
也许十二个月以后，
在蔑视蝼蚁和行尸走肉中，
我又会突然间地
想起一个人，
一张紫铜色的脸，
穿着山里人的衣服，
爬山涉水到幽僻的山间，
溪流穿石而过，
只见他手腕一甩
便把鱼钩抛入了深渊。
他不存在于世上，
他不过就是一个梦。
“在我有生之年，我一定要
为他写一首诗，”我惊叹，
“就像清晨中的
明与暗、冷与暖。”
Her Praise
She is foremost of those that I would hear praised.
I have gone about the house，gone up and down
As a man does who has published a new book，
Or a young girl dressed out in her new gown，
And though I have turned the talk by hook or crook
Until her praise should be the uppermost theme，
A woman spoke of some new tale she had read，
A man confusedly in a half dream
As though some other name ran in his head.
She is foremost of those that I would hear praised.
I will talk no more of books or the long war
But walk by the dry thorn until I have found
Some beggar sheltering from the wind，and there
Manage the talk until her name come round.
If there be rags enough he will know her name
And be well pleased remembering it，for in the old days，
Though she had young men's praise and old men's blame，
Among the poor both old and young gave her praise.
可是这个女人却一直讲着一些她刚读到的故事，
我已经听的迷糊，半睡半醒，
心神皆不再守舍而另想入非非。
可我想听到所有受过赞美的，她是第一人。
我不想再谈论什么书本，什么战争，
我只想颠沛流离，不怕劈荆斩棘，
去寻找那些乞丐，他们在躲风避雨处，
仍在津津有味地谈论着，她的话题。
尽管他们一无所有，可他们知道她的名字，
而且无比兴奋地牢牢记住，旧日早已经飞驰，
她在人们中毁誉参半，褒贬不一，
但是穷苦大众皆给予她热烈的赞美。
A Deep-Sworn Vow
Others because you did not keep
That deep-sworn vow have been friends of mine；
Yet always when I look death in the face，
When I clamber to the heights of sleep，
Or when I grow excited with wine，
Suddenly I meet your face.
重誓
因为你没能信守重誓，
所以这样就有别人成为了我的朋友；
但是每当我面对可怕的死亡，
每当爬上了大梦的兴头，
每当喝酒又喝的狂奋，
都会顿见你的双眸。
Easter
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words，
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words，
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club，
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed，changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will，
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When，young and beautiful，
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse；
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force；
He might have won fame in the end，
So sensitive his nature seemed，
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken，vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart，
Yet I number him in the song；
He，too，has resigned his part
In the casual comedy；
He，too，has been changed in his turn，
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road，
The rider，the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud，
Minute by minute change；
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute；
A horse-hoof slides on the brim，
And a horse plashes within it；
The long-legged moor-hens dive，
And hens to moor-cocks call；
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part，our part
To murmur name upon name，
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No，no，not night but death；
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream；enough
To know they dreamed and are dead；
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse—
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be，
Wherever green is worn，
Are changed，changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
年复活节
日暮，我遇见他们，
神采依然如故，
从十八世纪灰色的楼里
桌椅卷柜间走出。
我点头走过，
礼貌地寒暄两句，
或者是稍略驻足，
仍旧礼貌地寒暄两句。
我想去俱乐部的炉火旁，
能讲上几个笑话，
逗我的那些朋友
可以轻松地快乐一下。
无疑，我和他们
生活的地方杂乱无形，
一切在变，在发生巨变，
可怖的美已诞生。
伯爵夫人在平日
沉湎于天真的幻想，
可是到了夜里与人争辩，
能吵的声音尖狂。
她年轻时非常的美，
骑马追捕野兔时，
没谁的声音比她悦耳。
这位英雄开办了一间校舍，
他骑着我们的天马。
那位是英雄的助手和朋友，
甘愿投奔英雄的麾下，
凭写作他可以功成名就，
他天性多愁善感，
他的思想热烈而俊秀。
这位，我想像他就是个酒鬼，
傲慢自负而又虚伪，
他深深伤害了，
我心中最爱的一个人。
但我在歌中还是要提到他，
他也辞掉了无聊的
肥皂剧里的角色，
他也改变了他的行径，
彻底地改变了，
可怖的美已诞生。
万众一心，
经历了春秋，
凝聚为坚硬的磐石，
要去激荡那生命之流。
战马从大路上奔来，
骑兵云集，像鸟儿列阵飞徊，
飞徊在翻滚的云间，
分秒穿梭，逝而不在；
云影罩住了湍流，
分秒穿梭，逝而不在；
战马焦急地在水边践踏，
溅起一阵阵的水花；
长腿鸡相互尖呼，
呼啸着向水中俯冲；
分秒穿梭，万物俱在，
磐石，主宰沉浮。
为有牺牲多壮志，
敢锤心肠如铁石。
啊，何时牺牲终有尽头？
这但愿上帝有知。
我们只能轻唤其名，
就像母亲晚上的呼叫，
叫她的玩野的孩子
该回家来睡觉了。
这就是夜幕的降临？
不，不，这绝不是夜幕降临，
是死，无谓的死的时辰！
英格兰或许会恪守信义，
不管她说过做过些什么。
我们知道战士的梦想，
更知道战士的梦想已经死亡，
即使他们沉湎于过度的
爱而死，这又怎样？
我要在诗中记下——
皮尔斯、麦克唐纳、
康纳利及麦克布拉特，
今天和未来的日子，
只要是见到泛青，
便一切在变，发生巨变，
可怖的美已诞生。
Towards Break of Day
Was it the double of my dream
The woman that by me lay
Dreamed，or did we halve a dream
Under the first cold gleam of day?
I thought：‘There is a waterfall
Upon Ben Bulben side
That all my childhood counted dear；
Were I to travel far and wide
I could not find a thing so dear.’
My memories had magnified
So many times childish delight.
I would have touched it like a child
But knew my finger could but have touched
Cold stone and water. I grew wild，
Even accusing Heaven because
It had set down among its laws:
Nothing that we love over-much
Is ponderable to our touch.
I dreamed towards break of day，
The cold blown spray in my nostril.
But she that beside me lay
Had watched in bitterer sleep
The marvellous stag of Arthur，
That lofty white stag，leap
From mountain steep to steep.
晨曦
清冷的晨曦已经浮现，
女人睡在我的身边，
我们是共梦同幻，
还是在各自做梦的一半？
我想：“本•布尔本山的
那条奔泻的瀑布
是我儿时最喜欢的地方，
我就是云游四海，
再也找不到我可爱的故乡。”
我童年欢乐的记忆
突然又奔溢荡漾。
我感觉还像孩时一样能摸到它，
可我知道我的手指只能摸着
冰冷的石水。我懊恼，
责问上天，因上天
定下了律条：
凡是我们挚爱的东西，
就难以再摸到。
我梦至晨曦，
鼻孔吸入了四漫清冷的水气；
梦见女人还睡在我的身边，
睡的是那样的深沉，
她梦见亚瑟那只神鹿，
高大洁白，在跳跃，
从高山到峡谷。
The Second Coming
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer；
Things fall apart；the centre cannot hold；
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world，
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed，and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned；
The best lack all conviction，while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand；
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man，
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun，
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again；but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle，
And what rough beast，its hour come round at last，
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
基督再临
历史在不停地扩张地旋转、旋转，
人类已经听不到上帝的呼唤，
万邦在纷散解体，帝国亦难再统治，
世界没有秩序，陷入一片的混乱；
血雨腥风汹涌翻滚席卷而来，
无情地吞噬着高贵、正义、文明及辉煌，
忠贞贤良皆难以秉持理想和信念，
奸佞邪恶兴风作浪，气焰嚣张。
毫无疑问，某种启示即将显灵，
毫无疑问，基督再临已经迫近，
基督再临！这句话还未等说出口，
一面巨幅影像从宇宙的灵魂中闪出
一下扰乱了我的视线：在一片荒凉的沙漠中，
一具庞然怪物狮身人面的形体浮现，
目光宛若烈日，茫昧呆滞，残酷无情，
迟缓地扭动迈进，四周笼罩着风影，
是一群群愤怒的沙漠之鸟在飞行。
黑暗再次降临，但此刻我已知道，
寂然无声昏昏死睡的两千年，
摇篮里的梦魇跌入更深的困境，
这究是何方凶猛的巨兽，终于等到了时辰，
慵懒蹒跚地走向伯利恒去投生？
A Prayer for my Daughter
Once more the storm is howling，and half hid
Under this cradle-hood and coverlid
My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle
But Gregory's wood and one bare hill
Whereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind，
Bred on the Atlantic，can be stayed；
And for an hour I have walked and prayed
Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.
I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour
And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower，
And under the arches of the bridge，and scream
In the elms above the flooded stream；
Imagining in excited reverie
That the future years had come，
Dancing to a frenzied drum，
Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.
May she be granted beauty and yet not
Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught，
Or hers before a looking-glass，for such，
Being made beautiful overmuch，
Consider beauty a sufficient end，
Lose natural kindness and maybe
The heart-revealing intimacy
That chooses right, and never find a friend.
Helen being chosen found life flat and dull
And later had much trouble from a fool，
While that great Queen，that rose out of the spray，
Being fatherless could have her way
Yet chose a bandy-leggd smith for man.
It's certain that fine women eat
A crazy salad with their meat
Whereby the Horn of Plenty is undone.
In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned；
Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned
By those that are not entirely beautiful；
Yet many，that have played the fool
For beauty's very self，has charm made wise，
And many a poor man that has roved，
Loved and thought himself beloved，
From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.
May she become a flourishing hidden tree
That all her thoughts may like the linnet be，
And have no business but dispensing round
Their magnanimities of sound，
Nor but in merriment begin a chase，
Nor but in merriment a quarrel.
O may she live like some green laurel
Rooted in one dear perpetual place.
My mind，because the minds that I have loved，
The sort of beauty that I have approved，
Prosper but little，has dried up of late，
Yet knows that to be choked with hate
May well be of all evil chances chief.
If there's no hatred in a mind
Assault and battery of the wind
Can never tear the linnet from the leaf.
An intellectual hatred is the worst，
So let her think opinions are accursed.
Have I not seen the loveliest woman born
Out of the mouth of Plenty's horn，
Because of her opinionated mind
Barter that horn and every good
By quiet natures understood
For an old bellows full of angry wind?
Considering that，all hatred driven hence，
The soul recovers radical innocence
And learns at last that it is self-delighting，
Self-appeasing，self-affrighting，
And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will；
She can，though every face should scowl
And every windy quarter howl
Or every bellows burst，be happy still.
And may her bridegroom bring her to a house
Where all's accustomed，ceremonious；
For arrogance and hatred are the wares
Peddled in the thoroughfares.
How but in custom and in ceremony
Are innocence and beauty born?
Ceremony's a name for the rich horn，
And custom for the spreading laurel tree.
为吾女祈祷
大西洋上刮起的风暴又一次嘶叫狂舞，
卷走草垛，拔倒树木，掀翻茅屋，
我的孩子就睡在风下的摇篮里，
摇篮被围巾和床单紧紧地包裹住。
只有格雷戈里的那片森林
以及一座光秃的山梁或许能将风暴降伏。
我不停地踱步祈祷已有一个时辰了，
因为在我的心中有深深的愁楚。
我为孩子不停地踱步祈祷已有一个时辰了，
一直听着海风在凌空呼啸，
呼啸已掠过拱桥，掠过泛滥的河水，
掠过茂密的榆树林，掠过四郊……
在激动人心的梦幻里我想象，
无知无畏的汹涌的海潮
已将未来的岁月推上了岸，
伴着狂乱的鼓点在如痴如醉地舞蹈。
我希望女儿长得美丽，但不要太艳，
不要使陌生人见了就神魂不守，
要是因此而自谓天生丽质，
遂陷入自恋，顾影自媚，窥镜自踌，
以为有了美貌就有了一切生活的资本，
那将会失去性情的贤惠和温柔，
当情窦绽开，因分不清是非，
那又将会永远也找不到自己心爱的朋友。
海伦天生的生活平淡无聊，
后来嫁给一个傻瓜又受尽了折磨，
还有女神维纳斯，这个大海诞生的女儿，
因为没有父亲，一切要靠自己来选择，
选择的丈夫竟是个罗圈腿的铁匠，
这就是听过见过无数遍的玩说，
一朵鲜花没有插在合适的地方，
造物主既造的完美又弄的大失其色。
我要让女儿学到教养和礼仪，
心灵不是天赐有品，心灵是修养而成真，
生的不是很美，但可以修养得美，
可是许多人却都陷入了愚蠢，
唯美而美，以为只有美才能生出智慧，
那些空虚而漂泊不定的男人，
陶醉于痴情的风花雪月的爱恋，
从不注重姑娘内心的贤柔和温存。
愿她能长成一颗茂盛的隐蔽树，
愿她的思想能像红雀一样自由地飞翔，
不是庸碌无为，而是乐善好施，
传播歌唱那典雅和芬芳，
只是为了兴高采烈而去追逐，
只是为了兴高采烈而争胜斗强，
啊，愿她像翠桂一样地生活，
把根永远扎在肥沃的土壤。
因为我所崇爱的思想以及赞扬的美貌
只不过是昙花一现而消失无有，
所以我的心早已枯萎干涸，
我知道，我的心是为恨而堵，
因此总是时运不济，命途多舛，
如果有一天心中没有了恨仇，
任凭雷电，任凭风吹雨打，
红雀都将依旧不会离开枝头。
最坏的事情莫过理性的仇恨，
她的固执偏见一定会受到报应。
难道就因为她的固执偏见，
用天华之丰盈、地阜之丰盛
交换了一把充满着仇恨的破风箱，
全然不顾世人之常情，
我就再也见不着造物主
造出的绝代佳人倾国倾城？
想到从此能把仇恨都除尽，
心灵又恢复本真的质朴和纯洁，
最后时刻达到自省，在自我纵情欢娱，
自我平息抚慰，自我颤栗惊厥，
那便是最美好的善意亦即是天意；
尽管许多人仍会愁眉不解，
风暴仍会嘶叫，风箱皆炸破，
但是我的女儿却会由衷地喜悦。
祝愿她的新郎把她带入新房，
一切都合乎那高尚典雅的习俗和礼仪；
显然，傲慢无知和忌妒仇恨，
这一切都是街肆贩卖的糟秕。
天真无邪和美丽漂亮
岂不是在习俗和礼仪中诞生坠地？
习俗就是枝繁叶茂的桂树，
礼仪就是丰盈丰盛的天赐地贻。
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
这不是老人的乐土，是年轻人纵欲的天堂，
像山林间的飞鸟欢快地歌唱，
像江河湖海里的游鱼肆意翻跃穿梭，
这些行走、翻飞、潜游，将死的群盲，
整个夏天都在不停地赞颂
从生出到生长，从生长到死亡。
全都沉溺于声色犬马，淫笑欢歌，
浑然不知有不朽的理性遗存的辉煌。
行将就木者就是一根枯草，
就是一件搭在拐杖上的破披风，
他只剩下灵魂可以拍手作歌，
为死皮囊上的每一道的皲裂而纵情放声，
但是没有教唱唱歌的学校，
只有一座学习昔日宏伟壮丽的圣城。
为此，我毅然决然漂洋过海
来到了这座圣城拜占庭。
啊，圣贤站立于上帝的圣火中，
宛若站在镶金壁画里那样呼之欲出，
请从圣火中走出来吧，旋身起舞，
做我的师长，教我灵魂放喉。
请你销毁掉我的心吧，它已全完被欲望
吞噬，就是一具行尸走肉，
不知自己是究竟，请让我走进
你的课堂吧，学习永恒的智谋。
一旦出神入化超凡脱尘，
我就绝不会再留恋那自然的形身，
我一定要使自己成为希腊巧夺天工的金匠
锤造锻打上釉涂彩的金制品——
一只栖息在金枝上歌唱的金雀——
供使拜占庭昏睡的帝王及贵族豪门
能够时时闻声保持些清醒，
记住那些古往今来的岁月之痕。
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
心啊，烦恼的心啊，忧虑迟暮之年，
这个荒唐，这个讥讽，
像拴在狗尾巴上拴在了我身上，
我将怎样地摆脱掉啊？
我的心从未有过
这样的激动、热情、奇异的想象，
我的耳目也从未有过
这样期盼不可能的事情——
年少时我根本就不会想这件事，
那时我只知拿上鱼竿鱼饵爬到本•布尔本山后，
在那儿度过漫长的夏日。
现在看来我必须命令缪斯打点行装，
挑选柏拉图和普罗提诺作朋友，
待我的想象力及耳目
沉浸于对抽象事物的思辩和论述，
就将全然不顾脚下的破水壶
这类东西的嘲讽。
我走上城垛，悠闲漫步，
凝视一座房屋的根基，凝视那边上的一颗树，
那颗树就像大漠升起的一缕孤烟；
在白日最后的一抹余晖里，
我松弛了我的想象，
我想从那堆废墟和那片古木中，
唤起意象和记忆，
因为我想对它们提出一个问题。
隐约可见的那处屋脊是弗仑奇夫人的家，
有一次当银制烛台及墙壁上的烛台
全都照亮红木餐桌和红酒，
一个仆人，他能够猜到
最受尊敬的夫人的一切愿望，
就是要他拿着修枝剪刀
去剪掉那个无礼的农夫的双耳，
然后盖在一个小碟里送上来。
好像没人记得了我年轻时
写过一首歌赞美一个农家姑娘，
姑娘家住在偏僻的山沟里，
我赞美她的笑脸是那样灿烂，鲜艳芬芳，
我愈是赞美，愈加满心的兴奋，
我清楚地记得，只要她去了集市，
集市上人就会挤作一团，
一支歌带来了多么伟大的荣欢。
许多人为这首歌而痴狂，
甚至有人为姑娘频频举杯称她为绝代佳人，
他们跳到桌上，发誓打赌
要亲眼见证幻想成真；
可是他们误把月光当成了白日——
音乐也使他们手舞足蹈，
失去清醒而迷途——
一个人就是掉进科伦泥塘一命呜呼。
这是多么的奇怪，作歌者一定就是个盲人，
可是现在，让我仔细想一想，
我觉得没什么好奇怪，因为悲剧
始自荷马，荷马就是一个盲人，
海伦背叛了所有的真情。
啊，但愿日月之辉
能拧成一束，牢不可分，
因只要我能高唱，我必使人疯。
我创造了罕拉汉这么个人物，
穿过蒙蒙的黎明，我把半睡不醒的他
从邻近的农舍里叫起。
他陷入一个法术大师的魔法不能自拔，
他跌倒、翻滚、前后摸爬，
只剩一副摔残的双膝可用来活口，
还要满足贪婪无厌的欲求。
二十年前我就勾勒了这样的一幕：
几个老实巴交的人在围院里玩牌，
当赌场大枭出现，他来坐庄，
他用拇指飞快地发牌，
可是他飞快发出的不再是牌
而是一条又一条的猎狗，
他把最后一张变成了一只野兔。
罕拉汉突然疯狂地站起
不能自持，遂紧跟这群狂吠的猎狗跑去——
啊，我忘了他们跑到什么地方去了——
不用管了。我要回忆一个人，
这人饱受痛苦，爱情、音乐、
甚至割下仇人的耳朵都不能使他快乐；
这样一位传奇式的人物，
当后来失败破落的倾家荡产
过完余下猪狗不如的日子，
未听见邻居对他说过什么。
在毁灭之前，几百年来，
不断有身着戎装、脚穿铁鞋、
挎刀持枪的士兵爬上狭窄的楼梯，
这群野蛮粗鲁的士兵
就是古往今来的轮回的影像，
他们蜂拥而至，遂大吵大叫，气喘吁吁，
在桌上掷起骰子，一片豪赌之声，
打破了睡梦的安宁。
我想问问大家，请大家都过来吧，
来吧，半途而废贫困潦倒的老朽，
来吧，带着美人盲目游荡炫耀的情郎，
来吧，被赌枭打发被上帝遗弃在荒野上的
那个财迷，来吧，最喜欢将耳朵
作为礼物的弗仑奇夫人，
来吧，那个嘲笑缪斯而喜欢村妹
结果掉进泥塘而淹死的倒霉鬼（0）。
凡是已经衰老了的男人和女人，
不论贫富，只要爬过这道梁，穿过这扇门，
可曾公开或私下像我此刻这样
抑郁不满，痛恨走入黄昏？
你们不说，可我已经从急于离去的
眼神里看到了答案。
去吧，但请罕拉汉呆在原地，
因我需要他对轮回的记忆。
老色鬼到处沾花惹草，
他那处心积虑的花花心肠，
等你进了坟墓兴许会搞得明白，
当然你也计算每个不可预知、不可预见的
投入，可你只要是遇到一个飞眼、
一个抚摸或一声叹息的诱纵，
便会情不自禁走进别人的迷宫。
精力是不是全部用到了女人的身上，
只想得到，而担心失去？
要是不怕失去，说明你已经离开了迷宫，
已经不再介意所谓的
骄傲、懦弱、某种精于心计的蠢念
或曾被叫做良心的东西。
一旦记忆被恢复，重新返场，
太阳无辉，白日无光。
是时候我要写我的遗嘱了，
我选择的是钢铁硬汉，
他们勇敢地溯流而上，
迎急湍，战险滩，清晨，
在滴水的岩石旁
抛竿垂钩；我宣称
他们将继承我的骄傲，
这是不受个人事业和国家治乱约束的
以及超然于暴君与奴隶
即残酷奴役与被痛苦奴役之外的
那些人的坚毅的骄傲，
他们就是伯克、格拉顿，
他们虽然坚拒一切，
但是却接受了这份骄傲，
接受了像旭日喷薄东升
霞光万道光芒四射的骄傲，
接受了像天地丰盈丰盛的骄傲，
接受了像暴风骤雨
瞬间灌满干涸之流的骄傲，
接受了像奔流不息的时间
使天鹅凝视落晖的骄傲，
天鹅漫游在绵延无际
闪闪发光的河流上，
轻唱它的挽歌。
我宣布我的信仰：
我嘲笑普罗提诺的思想，
亦批判柏拉图的说教，
人成为有机的整体，
他的从生到死亡，
不是由超自然的精神
组装出来的东西，
同样，太阳、月亮和星星，这一切，
更能证明不单是精神的组合排列，
伴随着死亡，我们诞生了，
我们有梦，我们能创造出
在月亮之上的乐园。
我已经心神安宁，
因我看到了意大利的奇技淫巧
及希腊那辉煌的石刻，
我还能感受到诗人的丰富的想象
及其对爱情的回忆
与对女人的言语的回忆，
这一切都完全能够证明
人类将进化为超人，
能够再现旧梦。
就像我们通过窥孔窥看穴鸟，
穴鸟时而低鸣时而尖叫，
衔着嫩枝细草在一层层地絮窝。
当一家人为乔迁欢笑，
母鸟是当廷至尊，
她会率先在软榻卧下，
就那样温暖她简陋的小巢。
我把信仰和骄傲都留给
那些勇攀高山的
朝气蓬勃的钢铁硬汉，
以便他们在旭日东升光芒四射时，
可以从容地垂下鱼竿；
这样的全神贯注的静坐，
可以把石磨平砺穿，
可以把铁折弯扭断。
现在我要拯救我的灵魂，
我要迫使它认准
去一所博学的学府学习，
要忘记那血肉之身，
任其渐渐破败衰竭，
哪怕暴躁易怒而胡言乱语，
哪怕变得老年痴呆，
哪怕遇到什么更加不幸的事情——
诸如亲朋好友的死亡，
或是由于最宝贵的双眼失明
而致使梗塞窒息——
这些都不过像天上的浮云
随地平线一起消隐，
或就像一只倦鸟
在一圈圈暗淡的幽影里啼鸣。
Meditations in Time of Civil War
I
Ancestral Houses
Surely among a rich man’s flowering lawns，
Amid the rustle of his planted hills，
Life overflows without ambitious pains；
And rains down life until the basin spills，
And mounts more dizzy high the more it rains
As though to choose whatever shape it wills
And never stoop to a mechanical
Or servile shape，at others’beck and call.
Mere dreams，mere dreams! Yet Homer had not Sung
Had he not found it certain beyond dreams
That out of life’s own self-delight had sprung
The abounding glittering jet；though now it seems
As if some marvellous empty sea-shell flung
Out of the obscure dark of the rich streams，
And not a fountain，were the symbol which
Shadows the inherited glory of the rich.
Some violent bitter man，some powerful man
Called architect and artist in，that they，
Bitter and violent men，might rear in stone
The sweetness that all longed for night and day，
The gentleness none there had ever known；
But when the master’s buried mice can play，
And maybe the great-grandson of that house，
For all its bronze and marble，’s but a mouse.
O what if gardens where the peacock strays
With delicate feet upon old terraces，
Or else all Juno from an urn displays
Before the indifferent garden deities；
O what if levelled lawns and gravelled ways
Where slippered Contemplation finds his ease
And Childhood a delight for every sense，
But take our greatness with our violence?
What if the glory of escutcheoned doors，
And buildings that a haughtier age designed，
The pacing to and fro on polished floors
Amid great chambers and long galleries，lined
With famous portraits of our ancestors；
What if those things the greatest of mankind
Consider most to magnify，or to bless，
But take our greatness with our bitterness?
II
My House
An ancient bridge，and a more ancient tower，
A farmhouse that is sheltered by its wall，
An acre of stony ground，
Where the symbolic rose can break in flower，
Old ragged elms，old thorns innumerable，
The sound of the rain or sound
Of every wind that blows；
The stilted water-hen
Crossing Stream again
Scared by the splashing of a dozen cows；
A winding stair，a chamber arched with stone，
A grey stone fireplace with an open hearth，
A candle and written page.
Il Penseroso’s Platonist toiled on
In some like chamber，shadowing forth
How the daemonic rage
Imagined everything.
Benighted travellers
From markets and from fairs
Have seen his midnight candle glimmering.
Two men have founded here. A man-at-arms
Gathered a score of horse and spent his days
In this tumultuous spot，
Where through long wars and sudden night alarms
His dwindling score and he seemed castaways
Forgetting and forgot；
And I，that after me
My bodily heirs may find，
To exalt a lonely mind，
Befitting emblems of adversity.
III
My Table
Two heavy trestles，and a board
Where Sato’s gift，a changeless sword，
By pen and paper lies，
That it may moralise
My days out of their aimlessness.
A bit of an embroidered dress
Covers its wooden sheath.
Chaucer had not drawn breath
When it was forged. In Sato’s house，
Curved like new moon，moon-luminous，
It lay five hundred years.
Yet if no change appears
No moon；only an aching heart
Conceives a changeless work of art.
Our learned men have urged
That when and where’twas forged
A marvellous accomplishment，
In painting or in pottery，went
From father unto son
And through the centuries ran
And seemed unchanging like the sword.
Soul’s beauty being most adored，
Men and their business took
The soul’s unchanging look；
For the most rich inheritor，
Knowing that none could pass Heaven’s door，
That loved inferior art，
Had such an aching heart
That he，although a country’s talk
For silken clothes and stately walk，
Had waking wits；it seemed
Juno’s peacock screamed.
IV
My Descendants
Having inherited a vigorous mind
From my old fathers，I must nourish dreams
And leave a woman and a man behind
As vigorous of mind，and yet it seems
Life scarce can cast a fragrance on the wind，
Scarce spread a glory to the morning beams，
But the torn petals strew the garden plot；
And there’s but common greenness after that.
And what if my descendants lose the flower
Through natural declension of the soul，
Through too much business with the passing hour，
Through too much play，or marriage with a fool?
May this laborious stair and this stark tower
Become a roofless ruin that the owl
May build in the cracked masonry and cry
Her desolation to the desolate sky.
The Primum Mobile that fashioned us
Has made the very owls in circles move；
And I，that count myself most prosperous，
Seeing that love and friendship are enough，
For an old neighbour’s friendship chose the house
And decked and altered it for a girl’s love，
And know whatever flourish and decline
These stones remain their monument and mine.
V
The Road at My Door
An affable Irregular，
A heavily-built Falstaffian man，
Comes cracking jokes of civil war
As though to die by gunshot were
The finest play under the sun.
A brown Lieutenant and his men，
Half dressed in national uniform，
Stand at my door，and I complain
Of the foul weather，hail and rain，
A pear-tree broken by the storm.
I count those feathered balls of soot
The moor-hen guides upon the stream，
To silence the envy in my thought；
And turn towards my chamber，caught
In the cold snows of a dream.
VI
The Stare’s Nest by My Window
The bees build in the crevices
Of loosening masonry，and there
The mother birds bring grubs and flies.
My wall is loosening；honey-bees，
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
We are closed in，and the key is turned
On our uncertainty；somewhere
A man is killed，or a house burned，
Yet no clear fact to be discerned:
Come build in he empty house of the stare.
A barricade of stone or of wood；
Some fourteen days of civil war；
Last night they trundled down the road
That dead young soldier in his blood:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
We had fed the heart on fantasies，
The heart’s grown brutal from the fare；
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love；O honey-bees，
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
VII
I see Phantoms of Hatred and of the Heart’s
Fullness and of the Coming Emptiness
I climb to the tower-top and lean upon broken stone，
A mist that is like blown snow is sweeping over all，
Valley，river，and elms，under the light of a moon
That seems unlike itself，that seems unchangeable，
A glittering sword out of the east. A puff of wind
And those white glimmering fragments of the mist sweep by.
Frenzies bewilder，reveries perturb the mind；
Monstrous familiar images swim to the mind’s eye.
‘Vengeance upon the murderers，’the cry goes up，
‘Vengeance for Jacques Molay.’In cloud-pale rags，or in lace，
The rage-driven，rage-tormented，and rage-hungry troop，
Trooper belabouring trooper，biting at arm or at face，
Plunges towards nothing，arms and fingers spreading wide
For the embrace of nothing；and I，my wits astray
Because of all that senseless tumult，all but cried
For vengeance on the murderers of Jacques Molay.
Their legs long，delicate and slender，aquamarine their eyes，
Magical unicorns bear ladies on their backs.
The ladies close their musing eyes. No prophecies，
Remembered out of Babylonian almanacs，
Have closed the ladies’eyes，their minds are but a pool
Where even longing drowns under its own excess；
Nothing but stillness can remain when hearts are full
Of their own sweetness，bodies of their loveliness.
The cloud-pale unicorns，the eyes of aquamarine，
The quivering half-closed eyelids，the rags of cloud or of lace，
Or eyes that rage has brightened，arms it has made lean，
Give place to an indifferent multitude，give place
To brazen hawks. Nor self-delighting reverie，
Nor hate of what’s to come，nor pity for what’s gone，
Nothing but grip of claw，and the eye’s complacency，
The innumerable clanging wings that have put out the moon.
I turn away and shut the door，and on the stair
Wonder how many times I could have proved my worth
In something that all others understand or share；
But O! ambitious heart，had such a proof drawn forth
A company of friends，a conscience set at ease，
It had but made us pine the more. The abstract joy，
The half-read wisdom of daemonic images，
Suffice the ageing man as once the growing boy.
内战时期的沉思
I
祖屋
在庄园里，当漫步在开满鲜花的草地上，
当登上郁郁葱葱风声瑟瑟的山丘，
生命顿涌起了热流，洗刷尽雄心勃勃的痛苦，
这热流如倾盆之雨，淹没了沟垄，
愈登目愈眩，暴雨亦愈急，
生命的意志仿佛可以任意选象择形，
但就是决不会卑躬屈膝成麻木的
奴性的媚影，俯首贴耳，唯命是从。
这仅仅是梦，仅仅是梦！但是荷马
就是在尽情讴歌梦想，因为在梦想之巅，
生命的自我欢娱激起了一股豪迈汹涌
光彩夺目的喷泉。虽然星移斗转，
如今这股喷泉像是个奇妙的空贝壳
被江河澎湃的暗潮拍打在岸，不能再尽欢，
但它仍然会是一个象征的符号，
荫庇着这份繁荣富饶的遗产。
那些帝王将相，那些英雄豪杰，
总会召来建筑家和艺术家为他们做工，
这些人才才是真正的英雄豪杰，
他们日以继夜，构筑雕塑，
一心要建造空前的伟大的艺术品；
但是当王崩侯薨，便是群鼠在纵欢追逐，
传不到几代，那不肖子孙，
望着青铜理石，也不过是只鼠。
啊，倘使花园里的孔雀走失，
高蹈在破落衰败的台榭庭堂，
或朱诺在漠不关心的花神面前
极力展示她的臼头舂米之艺，将会怎样？
啊，倘使思想者及天真的儿童
走在平坦的草坪及铺砾的道路上，
一个悠然自得，一个对世界充满了欢喜，
可是伟大却被枭雄掠夺，将会怎样？
倘使那些流传千古的庄严高贵的建筑——
大门饰有盾纹，铭刻着光荣与梦想，
高殿长廊，地面早已被足迹磨得光滑，
四处列着我们闻名的祖先塑像——
这些都已黯然失色，将会怎样？
倘使这些人类最伟大的艺术杰作
值得无比的推崇和赞美，
可是伟大却被豪强掠夺，将会怎样？
II
我的家
一座古桥，一座更古老的塔楼，
一处被院墙掩蔽的农屋，
一英亩石头地，
玫瑰算是象征性的花木，
老榆树长得歪歪扭扭，荆棘纵横蔓延，
雨声沥沥，风声不住，
声声迅疾劲切，
一群牛践踏河流，
吓得趾高气扬的水鸡，
穿流而走。
拾盘旋楼梯而上，直到石拱屋的顶楼，
一个石壁炉，带有一个炉床，
一只蜡烛，几张纸。
《沉思的人》中的柏拉图主义者的思想
就是在这样的房间里思索出来，
预示出了魔力的狂热
会如何描绘万物。
从市场上、从集市上
夜归的游客
见过他午夜的烛光。
两个人在这儿住过，一个士兵
与他的二十匹马，在这兵荒马乱中
坚守着什么任务，
长期的战争，夜袭频仍，
他的马在减少，他也好像成了个被遗弃者，
忘记了别人，也被别人忘得无踪无影。
但是我，而且在我身后，
我的子嗣会记得清，
我歌颂了一个孤独的心，
是苦难的象征。
III
我的桌子
两个笨重的支架，一张桌板，
上面放着佐藤的礼物，一把永恒的剑，
旁边是笔和写字的稿纸，
这可以让我吐露真言，
避免百无聊赖，虚度光阴。
一小块儿绣花布
盖在木制的剑鞘上。
铸造这把宝剑时，乔叟
尚未诞生。这把宝剑
放在佐藤家里已有五百年了，
像一弯新月，闪烁着银色之光。
然而，要是未发生变故，
就没有一弯新月，就只有一颗痛苦的心
思念一件永恒的艺术品。
我们的饱学之士极力主张
无论何时无论何地
铸造了这件杰作，
然在绘画或陶艺中，
父子代代相传经历几百年，
就会创作出艺术品，
就像这把宝剑永恒不变。
心灵的美最受敬慕，
人及其事业可使
心灵呈现永恒不变；
因为身怀绝艺的继承人，
他知道若是沉溺雕虫小技，
他所弄出的东西绝不会通过上帝之门，
他因此有一颗痛苦的心，
虽然得到国人的谈论，
谈论他衣着光华，步态从容，
他十分清醒：这仿佛就是
朱诺的孔雀在尖鸣。
IV
我的后代
祖先遗传给我刚健蓬勃的思想，
我自然而然也在孕育着我的梦想，
我要让我留下的这一对孩子
也能具有刚健蓬勃的思想，
但是生命看上去很难将芬芳充满在风中，
也很难使晨曦照射出万丈光芒，
而多像零碎的花瓣儿散落在花园里，
随后是一片小草，寂寞空凉。
那会怎样，倘使我的后代黯然失色——
随着精神的自然的披靡，
随着耗费精力于烦杂琐碎的俗务，
随着吃喝玩乐，或盲目地嫁夫娶妻——
那就愿这费力攀爬的楼梯及空凉的塔楼
变成一堆坍圮荒芜的废墟，
愿枭鹰在这堆碎石瓦砾上筑巢，
向凄厉的天空呼叫它的凄厉。
那个诞育我们的第十层天，
亦诞育了更自由的枭鹰盘旋高飞；
我，自谓已取得了无上的光荣，
我看到爱情和友谊早已硕果累累，
为一个老邻居的情意我买下了这处房屋，
装修改造是为能与一个姑娘依偎，
我知道不管将来是兴旺或衰败，
这些石头仍是我与他们的纪念碑。
V
我门边的路
一个和善的体态发福的
杂牌儿军的福斯塔夫式的人物，
带着内战破碎的玩笑走了进来，
仿佛光天化日下一击毙命
是最好玩儿的事情。
皮肤黝黑的中尉和他的士兵，
一半穿着国军军装，
站在我的门口，我抱怨
这个死天气，大雨夹着冰雹，
风暴把一棵梨树掀倒。
我数着那些煤烟色的羽毛球——
那些游在河流上的红松鸡——
以平息我心中的忌恨；
我转身走入屋里，
陷入梦中的冰天雪地。
VI
我窗外的燕八哥巢()
蜜蜂在残垣断壁间筑巢，
鸟儿也在那里栖息，
飞来飞去，衔着虫蝇，
我的墙壁也残破了，蜜蜂啊，
蜜蜂，来燕八哥的空屋筑巢吧。
我们被关在屋里，
不清楚门何时会被打开，
有地方有人被杀，房子被烧，
可是局势如何却不清楚，
蜜蜂，来燕八哥的空屋筑巢吧。
石木的街垒路障，
大约持续十四天的内战，
昨晚有人用车推来一个士兵，
浑身是血已经死亡，
蜜蜂，来燕八哥的空屋筑巢吧。
我们的心是用狂想哺育的，
这将心哺育的凶狠残暴，
我们的天性充满仇恨，
缺少仁爱，蜜蜂啊，
蜜蜂，来燕八哥的空屋筑巢吧。
VII
我看到一些幽灵，有仇恨，
有内心充实，有对未来感到空虚
我爬上塔楼顶，依靠着凹凸不平的石头，
薄雾就像纷飞的飘雪洗刷世间，
山谷、河流、榆树，都在月光下，
月亮不像月亮，像那把东方的宝剑，
闪着永恒不变的光。一阵风起，
终于把薄雾里缤纷的晶莹闪烁的碎沫吹散。
狂乱迷惑，幻想烦扰，心神不定，
可怕熟悉的意象浮现在心灵的眼前。
“向杀人犯报仇，”喊声响起，
“为雅克•莫雷报仇。”一身白色的衣绶——
被狂怒驱使、折磨、刺激的人群——
人群扑向人群，厮打一团，抓脸咬手，
皆扑入了虚无，挥拳舞臂，
皆拥进了虚无；我亦神志迷糊，
被这场盲目的暴乱蛊惑，因而大喊：
向杀害雅克•莫雷的凶手报仇。
女人的腿修长纤细，眼睛蔚蓝，
有魔力的独角兽把她们驮在背上。
女人皆闭上了沉思的眼。没有预言——
没人能从巴比伦的历书上说出其详——
使女人闭上眼睛，使他们的心灵成为一潭池水，
并渴望着能在深池中坠落淹亡。
当心灵充满甜蜜，肉体充满健美，
世间除了平静，万事茫茫（0）。
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