Αποσπάσματα από το «Poetry»

Ένα τραγούδι που κάνει τη μία νύχτα να μοιάζει τόσο παλιά όσο και το ανθρώπινο είδος.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!No hungry generations tread thee down;The voice I hear this passing night was heardIn ancient days by emperor and clown:Perhaps the self-same song that found a pathThrough the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,She stood in tears amid the alien corn;The same that oft-times hathCharm’d magic casements, opening on the foamOf perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Οι άνθρωποι που λείπουν από κάθε τέλειο έργο τέχνης.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?To what green altar, O mysterious priest,Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?What little town by river or sea shore,Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?And, little town, thy streets for evermoreWill silent be; and not a soul to tellWhy thou art desolate, can e’er return.

Το φθινόπωρο απαντά στο ερώτημα για την άνοιξη.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mournAmong the river-sallows, borne aloftOr sinking as the light wind lives or dies;And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble softThe redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Πώς μοιάζει ένας θεός όταν χάνει τη δύναμή του.

Deep in the shady sadness of a valeFar sunken from the healthy breath of morn,Far from the fiery noon, and eve’s one star,Sat gray-hair’d Saturn, quiet as a stone,Still as the silence round about his lair;Forest on forest hung about his headLike cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there,Not so much life as on a summer’s dayRobs not one light seed from the feather’d grass,But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.A stream went voiceless by, still deadened moreBy reason of his fallen divinitySpreading a shade: the Naiad ’mid her reedsPress’d her cold finger closer to her lips.

Ένα μυαλό μέσα στη νύχτα, που ψάχνει κάτι που θα προτιμούσε να μην ανακαλύψει.

O soft embalmer of the still midnight,Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower’d from the light,Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throwsAround my bed its dewy charities;Then save me, or the passed day will shineUpon my pillow, breeding many woes;Save me from curious conscience, that still lordsIts strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,And seal the hushed casket of my soul.

Η μικρή σκληρότητα του να κρατάς κοντά σου κάτι άγριο από αγάπη.

I had a dove and the sweet dove died;And I have thought it died of grieving:O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied,With a silken thread of my own hand’s weaving;Sweet little red feet! why should you die—Why should you leave me, sweet bird! why?You lived alone in the forest-tree,Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?I kiss’d you oft and gave you white peas;Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

Στην κορυφή του βουνού, ακόμη και η αυτογνωσία χάνεται στην ομίχλη.

Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loudUpon the top of Nevis, blind in mist!I look into the chasms, and a shroudVaporous doth hide them,—just so much wistMankind do know of hell; I look o’erhead,And there is sullen mist,—even so muchMankind can tell of heaven; mist is spreadBefore the earth, beneath me,—even such,Even so vague is man’s sight of himself!Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet,—Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf,I tread on them,—that all my eye doth meetIs mist and crag, not only on this height,But in the world of thought and mental might!

Μια γενέθλια βραδιά που δεν ζητά τίποτα πιο δυνατό από μια ήσυχη φωτιά.

Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals,And their faint cracklings o’er our silence creepLike whispers of the household gods that keepA gentle empire o’er fraternal souls.And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles,Your eyes are fix’d, as in poetic sleep,Upon the lore so voluble and deep,That aye at fall of night our care condoles.This is your birth-day, Tom, and I rejoiceThat thus it passes smoothly, quietly:Many such eves of gently whisp’ring noiseMay we together pass, and calmly tryWhat are this world’s true joys,—ere the great Voice,From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.

Ο ποταμός που λατρεύουν οι αυτοκρατορίες, από κοντά και χωρίς τον μύθο του.

Son of the old moon-mountains African!Chief of the Pyramid and Crocodile!We call thee fruitful, and that very whileA desert fills our seeing’s inward span;Nurse of swart nations since the world began,Art thou so fruitful? or dost thou beguileSuch men to honour thee, who, worn with toil,Rest for a space ’twixt Cairo and Decan?O may dark fancies err! They surely do;’Tis ignorance that makes a barren wasteOf all beyond itself. Thou dost bedewGreen rushes like our rivers, and dost tasteThe pleasant sun-rise. Green isles hast thou too,And to the sea as happily dost haste.