叶芝诗8首
Lapis Lazuli
For Harry Clifton
I have heard that hysterical women say
They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow，
Of poets that are always gay，
For everybody knows or else should know
That if nothing drastic is done
Aeroplane and Zeppelin will come out，
Pitch like King Billy bomb-balls in
Until the town lie beaten flat.
All perform their tragic play，
There struts Hamlet，there is Lear，
That’s Ophelia，that Cordelia；
Yet they，should the last scene be there，
The great stage curtain about to drop，
If worthy their prominent part in the play，
Do not break up their lines to weep.
They know that Hamlet and Lear are gay；
Gaiety transfiguring all that dread.
All men have aimed at，found and lost；
Black out；Heaven blazing into the head:
Tragedy wrought to its uttermost.
Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages，
And all the drop-scenes drop at once
Upon a hundred thousand stages，
It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.
On their own feet they came，or On shipboard，
Camel-back，horse-back，ass-back，mule-back，
Old civilisations put to the sword.
Then they and their wisdom went to rack:
No handiwork of Callimachus，
Who handled marble as if it were bronze，
Made draperies that seemed to rise
When sea-wind swept the corner，stands；
His long lamp-chimney shaped like the stem
Of a slender palm，stood but a day；
All things fall and are built again，
And those that build them again are gay.
Two Chinamen，behind them a third，
Are carved in lapis lazuli，
Over them flies a long-legged bird，
A symbol of longevity；
The third，doubtless a serving-man，
Carries a musical instrument.
Every discoloration of the stone，
Every accidental crack or dent，
Seems a water-course or an avalanche，
Or lofty slope where it still snows
Though doubtless plum or cherry-branch
Sweetens the little half-way house
Those Chinamen climb towards，and I
Delight to imagine them seated there；
There，on the mountain and the sky，
On all the tragic scene they stare.
One asks for mournful melodies；
Accomplished fingers begin to play.
Their eyes mid many wrinkles，their eyes，
Their ancient，glittering eyes，are gay.
战机、飞艇就会升空来袭，
就像比利国王投掷炸弹
把城市夷为平地。
可人人都在演着悲剧，
那个是高傲的哈姆雷特，那是李尔王，
那是奥菲丽娅和考狄丽娅，
但是每到最后的一场，
舞台大幕总要落下，
但是人们只要能合名角的扮相，
就不会忘记台词而哭泣，
皆知哈姆雷特和李尔王是强梁，
强者只有欢乐，没有恐慌。
人们满怀理想，奋斗，失望，
舞台灯光熄灭，天光照在头顶，
悲剧总是演到最高潮，
当哈姆雷特在徘徊，李尔王怒目圆睁，
所有的垂幕便都立刻落下，
千万个舞台遂寂然无声，
悲剧总在高潮绝音。
他们来了，徒步，乘船，
骑骆驼，骑马，骑驴，或骑骡子，
千年文明就是一场剑与血，
他们携其智慧走向没落。
伽里马科斯善于雕石铸铜，
他雕刻的衣纹随着
海风吹袭而飘然荡起，
如今其作品却没有一件在侧，
那盏像高挑的棕榈树的灯
仅立一天而夭折。
一切被毁灭而又重建，
重建者陶醉于欢乐。
天青石雕刻三个中国人，
两人在前一人随兮，
头上仙鹤飞舞，
那是长生不老之喻，
后者无疑是仆人，
带着一件乐器。
石上每一片褪痕，
每一处天然的裂隙和凹缺，
都像是一条河流或一段雪崩，
高陇似依然飘雪，
而梅子、樱枝已是
香绕山腰间那处亭榭，
那几个人正在向上攀登，
我乐于想像他们攀至亭下停歇，
在那儿眺望远山和高天，
俯瞰人间万般悲绝，
其一人请奏当哭相和，
妙手即弹悲歌一阕，
他们眼边布满皱纹，可眼里，
那沧桑、闪光的眼里，充满喜悦。
The Spur
You think it horrible that lust and rage
Should dance attention upon my old age；
They were not such a plague when I was young；
What else have I to spur me into song?
Those Images
What if I bade you leave
The cavern of the mind?
There’s better exercise
In the sunlight and wind.
I never bade you go
To Moscow or to Rome.
Renounce that drudgery，
Call the Muses home.
Seek those images
That constitute the wild，
The lion and the virgin，
The harlot and the child.
Find in middle air
An eagle on the wing，
Recognise the five
That make the Muses sing.
我从未叫你
去莫斯科或罗马，
但劝你放弃乏味的工作，
把缪斯唤回家。
去寻觅那些意象，
可以构成狂愤，
构成凶恶，构成纯洁，
构成淫荡，构成天真。
你看在半空中
一只雄鹰展翅翱翔，
抓住意象在心，
就可使缪斯歌唱。
The Municipal Gallery Re-visited
I
Around me the images of thirty years:
An ambush；pilgrims at the water-side；
Casement upon trial，half hidden by the bars，
Guarded；Griffith staring in hysterical pride；
Kevin O‘Higgins’countenance that wears
A gentle questioning look that cannot hide
A soul incapable of remorse or rest；
A revolutionary soldier kneeling to be blessed；
II
An Abbot or Archbishop with an upraised hand
Blessing the Tricolour.‘This is not，’I say，
‘The dead Ireland of my youth，but an Ireland
The poets have imagined，terrible and gay.’
Before a woman’s portrait suddenly I stand，
Beautiful and gentle in her Venetian way.
I met her all but fifty years ago
For twenty minutes in some studio.
III
Heart smitten with emotion I sink down，
My heart recovering with covered eyes；
Wherever I had looked I had looked upon
My permanent or impermanent images:
Augusta Gregory’s son；her sister’s son，
Hugh Lane，‘onlie begetter’of all these；
Hazel Lavery living and dying，that tale
As though some ballad singer had sung it all.
IV
Mancini’s portrait of Augusta Gregory，
‘Greatest since Rembrandt，’according to John Synge；
A great ebullient portrait certainly；
But where is the brush that could show anything
Of all that pride and that humility，
And I am in despair that time may bring
Approved patterns of women or of men
But not that selfsame excellence again.
V
My mediaeval knees lack health until they bend，
But in that woman，in that household where
Honour had lived so long，all lacking found.
Childless I thought，‘My children may find here
Deep-rooted things，’but never foresaw its end，
And now that end has come I have not wept；
No fox can foul the lair the badger swept.
VI
（An image out of Spenser and the common tongue）.
John Synge，I and Augusta Gregory，thought
All that we did，all that we said or sang
Must come from contact with the soil，from that
Contact everything Antaeus-like grew strong.
We three alone in modern times had brought
Everything down to that sole test again，
Dream of the noble and the beggarman.
VII
And here’s John Synge himself，that rooted man
‘Forgetting human words，’a grave deep face.
You that would judge me，do not judge alone
This book or that，come to this hallowed place
Where my friends’portraits hang and look thereon；
Ireland’s history in their lineaments trace；
Think where man’s glory most begins and ends，
And say my glory was I had such friends.
凯文•欧希金斯的表情温文尔雅，
略带疑惑，我们从中可见
他那永不后悔及不知疲倦的灵魂；
一个革命战士跪倒在地，祈求苍天。
一位寺院院长或教省大主教
举手祝福三色旗。我说，“这已经
不是我青年时代死了的爱尔兰，
而是诗人想象的爱尔兰，可怕中有着欢声。”
我在一个女人的肖像前突然停住，
她美丽高贵，飘散着威尼斯的风情，
我大约五十年前见过她，
在一间画室里交谈二十分钟。
我受到强烈地震撼难以自持，
稍许，心情平静下来，眼睛还是有些茫茫，
无论看到哪里，看到的都是
脑海里的永恒的或暂时的意象：
奥古斯塔•格雷戈里之子；她姐姐之子，
休•莱恩，曾拥有这所有的馆藏；
黑泽尔•拉佛瑞无论活着还是死去，
那故事仿佛久为民歌手传唱。
曼西尼画的奥古斯塔•格雷戈里肖像，
约翰•辛格说，“伦勃朗以来最优秀的作品”，
毫无疑问是一幅饱含情感的杰作，
可是能够展现那高贵和谦逊的
哪怕是一笔的传情之笔在什么地方，
我感到绝望，美奂美轮的
男女画像还会不断出现，
但却无法再现栩栩如生的形神。
我的中世纪的一双腿早已不灵便，
但遇见那女人，走进那庄园，看到悠悠荣耀，
我的全身就都一下充满了活力，
我没有子女时曾想，“我要让子女知道
来此可以找到根深蒂固的源泉”，
却从未预见庄园的飘摇，
现在结局到来了，我没有哭泣，
没有狐狸能够弄脏獾子清扫干净的巢。
从斯宾塞和俗语中得到的意象，
奥古斯塔•格雷戈里、约翰•辛格和我，
我们认为凡是我们做的，凡是我们说的唱的，
都必须来自于土壤，凡是来自于土壤的
都会像安泰一样茁壮成长，
在现代，只有我们三人再次把这
降至去接受这样唯独的检验，
以做到既高贵而又谦和。
这幅画就是约翰•辛格，这位扎根
土壤者“在忘记人类的语言”，表情严肃，
你们要评判我，不能仅仅根据
这本书或那本书作评判，请到这漫步，
请来欣赏我的朋友们的肖像，
随之追寻爱尔兰历史的欢乐与忧愁，
想到人的光荣的起落始终，
说我的光荣就是我有这样的朋友。
Long-legged Fly
That civilization may not sink，
Its great battle lost，
Quiet the dog，tether the pony
To a distant post；
Our master Caesar is in the tent
Where the maps are spread，
His eyes fixed upon nothing，
A hand under his head.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.
That the topless towers be burnt
And men recall that face，
Move most gently if move you must
In this lonely place.
She thinks，part woman，three parts a child，
That nobody looks；her feet
Practice a tinker shuffle
Picked up on the street.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
Her mind moves upon silence.
That girls at puberty may find
The first Adam in their thought，
Shut the door of the Pope’s Chapel，
Keep those children out.
There on that scaffolding reclines
Michael Angelo.
With no more sound than the mice make
His hand moves to and fro.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.
一只手在支着头，
而两眼茫茫。
像一只长脚蝇飞在水面，
思绪在沉静中彷徨。
为了焚毁城堡
使人能记住她那脸庞，
凡是走过这幽僻之地的人
一定要脚步轻放。
她一分像女人，三分像孩童，
以为没人能张望，
跳着从街上学的一种舞，
舞步极粗狂。
像一只长脚蝇飞在水面，
思绪在沉静中彷徨。
为了怀春的少女
能找到心中的第一个亚当，
请关上教堂的大门，
让孩子在外面徜徉。
米开朗基罗
倚躺在脚手架上，
他轻轻地挥动着手，
轻如鼠而无声响。
像一只长脚蝇飞在水面，
思绪在沉静中彷徨。
Why should not Old Man be Mad?
Why should not old men be mad?
Some have known a likely lad
That had a sound fly-fisher’s wrist
Turn to a drunken journalist；
A girl that knew all Dante once
Live to bear children to a dunce；
A Helen of social welfare dream，
Climb on a wagonette to scream.
Some think it a matter of course that chance
Should starve good men and bad advance，
That if their neighbours figured plain，
As though upon a lighted screen，
No single story would they find
Of an unbroken happy mind，
A finish worthy of the start.
Young men know nothing of this sort，
Observant old men know it well；
And when they know what old books tell，
And that no better can be had，
Know why an old man should be mad.
海伦怀抱社会福利的梦，
却尖叫地爬到了游览马车上。
有人认为这是理所当然——
忠良废弃，奸恶嚣张——
希望自己周围的人都是才貌平庸，
就好像在一个大屏幕上，
他们摆着饱食终日的神情
从头到尾儿白看一场，
看不到有一个故事情景。
年轻人幼稚，不谙世事沧桑，
而老人饱尝风雨，则深识变故，
只要勤读那些历史篇章，
知道善恶仍在殊死搏斗，
就知道老人为什么会癫狂。
The Circus Animals’ Desertion
I
I sought a theme and sought for it in vain，
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last，being but a broken man，
I must be satisfied with my heart，although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show，
Those stilted boys，that burnished chariot，
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.
II
What can I but enumerate old themes?
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands，allegorical dreams，
Vain gaiety，vain battle，vain repose，
Themes of the embittered heart，or so it seems，
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows；
But what cared I that set him on to ride，
I，starved for the bosom of his faery bride?
And then a counter-truth filled out its play，
The Countess Cathleen was the name I gave it；
She，pity-crazed，had given her soul away，
But masterful Heaven had intervened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy，
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it，
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.
And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea；
Heart-mysteries there，and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
Players and painted stage took all my love，
And not those things that they were emblems of.
III
Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind，but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street，
Old kettles，old bottles，and a broken can，
Old iron，old bones，old rags，that raving slut
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder’s gone，
I must lie down where all the ladders start，
In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
那些踩高跷的孩子，那锃亮的马车，
狮子，女人，上帝，咸知其端。
我除了重复已有的主题还能做何？
海上骑士奥辛被牵着鼻梁
穿越了三座魔岛——寓言的梦幻——
虚幻的欢乐，虚幻的战斗，虚幻的安详，
诸如此类心灵受苦的主题，
似可装点那些老歌或在宫廷演唱，
可是我为何在意使他飞驰而去，
难道我渴望他那仙女的新娘？
接着戏中演出一个悖理，
我给她取名叫《女伯爵凯瑟琳》，
她，痴心于怜悯，不惜出卖灵魂，
可是主宰天下的上苍却伸手把她救生；
狂热和仇恨奴役她的灵魂，
我以为我的爱也定会把它毁焚，
我于是产生了梦想，而且很快
这梦想便占有了我全部的思想和爱情。
当库胡林与惊涛骇浪搏斗时，
傻子和瞎子却偷走了面包，
我神秘的心啊，可是也不难说清，
就是为梦想而魂牵梦绕；
为事业而心无旁骛，
专注于目前，并也要记忆宁照，
各种角色和绚丽的舞台是我全部的爱，
而不是那些他们显示的虚表。
那些全部在纯洁的心灵里生长的
伟大的形象，原始于何处？
当始于一堆破烂儿，或街上清扫的垃圾，
空瓶子、破罐子，旧水壶，
还有废铁、残骸、烂布及柜上收钱的
长舌妇。如今我已把梯子撤除，
我必须躺在梯子的最下面，
那儿是心灵的杂乱的废品铺。
Politics
‘In our time the destiny of man presents its meaning
In political terms.’—Thomas Mann
How can I，that girl standing there，
My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics?
Yet here’s a travelled man that knows
What he talks about，
And there’s a politician
That has read and thought，
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war’s alarms，
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms!
推荐阅读：
劳伦斯·尤斯登《The Origin Of The Knights Of The Bath》
现存最古老的女性诗人创作的英语诗歌《Wulf and Eadwacer》