“是的，我自己亲眼看见古米的西比尔吊在一个笼子里。孩子们在问她：西比尔，你要什么的时候，她回答说，我要死。”
　　
　　
　　（献给埃兹拉·庞德
　　最卓越的匠人）
　　
　　
　　
　　一、死者葬礼
　　
　　四月是最残忍的一个月，荒地上
　　长着丁香，把回忆和欲望
　　参合在一起，又让春雨
　　催促那些迟钝的根芽。
　　冬天使我们温暖，大地
　　给助人遗忘的雪覆盖着，又叫
　　枯干的球根提供少许生命。
　　夏天来得出人意外，在下阵雨的时候
　　来到了斯丹卜基西；我们在柱廊下躲避，
　　等太阳出来又进了霍夫加登，
　　喝咖啡，闲谈了一个小时。
　　我不是俄国人，我是立陶宛来的，是地道的德国人。
　　而且我们小时候住在大公那里
　　我表兄家，他带着我出去滑雪橇，
　　我很害怕。他说，玛丽，
　　玛丽，牢牢揪住。我们就往下冲。
　　在山上，那里你觉得自由。
　　大半个晚上我看书，冬天我到南方。
　　
　　什么树根在抓紧，什么树根在从
　　这堆乱石块里长出？人子啊，
　　你说不出，也猜不到，因为你只知道
　　一堆破烂的偶像，承受着太阳的鞭打
　　枯死的树没有遮荫。蟋蟀的声音也不使人放心，
　　焦石间没有流水的声音。只有
　　这块红石下有影子，
　　（请走进这块红石下的影子）
　　我要指点你一件事，它既不像
　　你早起的影子，在你后面迈步；
　　也不像傍晚的，站起身来迎着你；
　　我要给你看恐惧在一把尘土里。
　　
　　风吹得很轻快，
　　吹送我回家去，
　　爱尔兰的小孩，
　　你在哪里逗留？
　　“一年前你先给我的是风信子；
　　他们叫我做风信子的女郎”，
　　——可是等我们回来，晚了，从风信子的园里来，
　　你的臂膊抱满，你的头发湿漉，我说不出
　　话，眼睛看不见，我既不是
　　活的，也未曾死，我什么都不知道，
　　望着光亮的中心看时，是一片寂静。
　　荒凉而空虚是那大海。
　　马丹梭梭屈里士，著名的女相士，
　　患了重感冒，可仍然是
　　欧罗巴知名的最有智慧的女人，
　　带着一副恶毒的纸牌，这里，她说，
　　是你的一张，那淹死了的腓尼基水手，
　　（这些珍珠就是他的眼睛，看！）
　　这是贝洛多纳，岩石的女主人
　　一个善于应变的女人。
　　这人带着三根杖，这是“转轮”，
　　这是那独眼商人，这张牌上面
　　一无所有，是他背在背上的一种东西。
　　是不准我看见的。我没有找到
　　“那被绞死的人”。怕水里的死亡。
　　我看见成群的人，在绕着圈子走。
　　谢谢你。你看见亲爱的爱奎尔太太的时候
　　就说我自己把天宫图给她带去，
　　这年头人得小心啊。
　　
　　并无实体的城，
　　在冬日破晓的黄雾下，
　　一群人鱼贯地流过伦敦桥，人数是那么多，
　　我没想到死亡毁坏了这许多人。
　　叹息，短促而稀少，吐了出来，
　　人人的眼睛都盯住在自己的脚前。
　　流上山，流下威廉王大街，
　　直到圣马利吴尔诺斯教堂，那里报时的钟声
　　敲着最后的第九下，阴沉的一声。
　　在那里我看见一个熟人，拦住他叫道：“斯代真！”
　　你从前在迈里的船上是和我在一起的！
　　去年你种在你花园里的尸首，
　　它发芽了吗？今年会开花吗？
　　还是忽来严霜捣坏了它的花床？
　　叫这狗熊星走远吧，它是人们的朋友，
　　不然它会用它的爪子再把它挖掘出来！
　　你！虚伪的读者！——我的同类——我的兄弟！
　　
　　二、对弈
　　
　　她所坐的椅子，像发亮的宝座
　　在大理石上放光，有一面镜子，
　　座上满刻着结足了果子的藤，
　　还有个黄金的小爱神探出头来
　　（另外一个把眼睛藏在翅膀背后）
　　使七枝光烛台的火焰加高一倍，
　　桌子上还有反射的光彩
　　缎盒里倾注出的炫目辉煌，
　　是她珠宝的闪光也升起来迎着；
　　在开着口的象牙和彩色玻璃制的
　　小瓶里，暗藏着她那些奇异的合成香料——膏状，粉状或液体的——使感觉
　　局促不安，迷惘，被淹没在香味里；受到
　　窗外新鲜空气的微微吹动，这些香气
　　在上升时，使点燃了很久的烛焰变得肥满，
　　又把烟缕掷上镶板的房顶，
　　使天花板的图案也模糊不清。
　　大片海水浸过的木料洒上铜粉
　　青青黄黄地亮着，四周镶着的五彩石上，
　　又雕刻着的海豚在愁惨的光中游泳。
　　那古旧的壁炉架上展现着一幅
　　犹如开窗所见的田野景物，
　　那是翡绿眉拉变了形，遭到了野蛮国王的
　　强暴：但是在那里那头夜莺
　　她那不容玷辱的声音充满了整个沙漠，
　　她还在叫唤着，世界也还在追逐着，
　　“唧唧”唱给脏耳朵听。
　　其它那些时间的枯树根
　　在墙上留下了记认；凝视的人像
　　探出身来，斜倚着，使紧闭的房间一片静寂。
　　楼梯上有人在拖着脚步走。
　　在火光下，刷子下，她的头发
　　散成了火星似的小点子
　　亮成词句，然后又转而为野蛮的沉寂。
　　
　　“今晚上我精神很坏。是的，坏。陪着我。
　　跟我说话。为什么总不说话。说啊。
　　你在想什么？想什么？什么？
　　我从来不知道你在想什么。想。”
　　
　　我想我们是在老鼠窝里，
　　在那里死人连自己的尸骨都丢得精光。
　　“这是什么声音？”
　　风在门下面。
　　“这又是什么声音？风在干什么？”
　　没有，没有什么。
　　“你
　　“你什么都不知道？什么都没看见？什么都
　　不记得？”
　　我记得
　　那些珍珠是他的眼睛。
　　“你是活的还是死的？你的脑子里竟没有什么？”
　　可是
　　噢噢噢噢这莎士比希亚式的爵士音乐——
　　它是这样文静
　　这样聪明
　　“我现在该做些什么？我该做些什么？
　　我就照现在这样跑出去，走在街上
　　披散着头发，就这样。我们明天该作些什么？
　　我们究竟该作些什么？”
　　十点钟供开水。
　　如果下雨，四点钟来挂不进雨的汽车。
　　我们也要下一盘棋，
　　按住不知安息的眼睛，等着那一下敲门的声音。
　　
　　丽儿的丈夫退伍的时候，我说——
　　我毫不含糊，我自己就对她说，
　　请快些，时间到了
　　埃尔伯特不久就要回来，你就打扮打扮吧。
　　他也要知道给你镶牙的钱
　　是怎么花的。他给的时候我也在。
　　把牙都拔了吧，丽儿，配一副好的，
　　他说，实在的，你那样子我真看不得。
　　我也看不得，我说，替可怜的埃尔伯特想一想，
　　他在军队里耽了四年，他想痛快痛快，
　　你不让他痛快，有的是别人，我说。
　　啊，是吗，她说。就是这么回事。我说。
　　那我就知道该感谢谁了，她说，向我瞪了一眼。
　　请快些，时间到了
　　你不愿意，那就听便吧，我说。
　　你没有可挑的，人家还能挑挑拣拣呢。
　　要是埃尔伯特跑掉了，可别怪我没说。
　　你真不害臊，我说，看上去这么老相。
　　（她还只三十一。）
　　没办法，她说，把脸拉得长长的，
　　是我吃的那药片，为打胎，她说。
　　（她已经有了五个。小乔治差点送了她的命。）
　　药店老板说不要紧，可我再也不比从前了。
　　你真是个傻瓜，我说。
　　得了，埃尔伯特总是缠着你，结果就是如此，我说，
　　不要孩子你干吗结婚？
　　请快些，时间到了
　　说起来了，那天星期天埃尔伯特在家，他们吃滚烫的烧火腿，
　　他们叫我去吃饭，叫我乘热吃——
　　请快些，时间到了
　　请快些，时间到了
　　明儿见，毕尔。明儿见，璐。明儿见，梅。明儿见。
　　再见。明儿见，明儿见。
　　明天见，太太们，明天见，可爱的太太们，明天见，明天见。
　　
　　三、火诫
　　
　　河上树木搭成的蓬帐已破坏：树叶留下的最后手指
　　想抓住什么，又沉落到潮湿的岸边去了。那风
　　吹过棕黄色的大地，没人听见。仙女们已经走了。
　　可爱的泰晤士，轻轻地流，等我唱完了歌。
　　河上不再有空瓶子，加肉面包的薄纸，
　　绸手帕，硬的纸皮匣子，香烟头
　　或其他夏夜的证据。仙女们已经走了。
　　还有她们的朋友，最后几个城里老板们的后代；
　　走了，也没有留下地址。
　　在莱芒湖畔我坐下来饮泣……
　　可爱的泰晤士，轻轻地流，等我唱完了歌。
　　可爱的泰晤士，轻轻地流，我说话的声音不会大，也不会多。
　　可是在我身后的冷风里我听见
　　白骨碰白骨的声音，慝笑从耳旁传开去。
　　一头老鼠轻轻穿过草地
　　在岸上拖着它那粘湿的肚皮
　　而我却在某个冬夜，在一家煤气厂背后
　　在死水里垂钓
　　想到国王我那兄弟的沉舟
　　又想到在他之前的国王，我父亲的死亡。
　　白身躯赤裸裸地在低湿的地上，
　　白骨被抛在一个矮小而干燥的阁楼上，
　　只有老鼠脚在那里踢来踢去，年复一年。
　　但是在我背后我时常听见
　　喇叭和汽车的声音，将在
　　春天里，把薛维尼送到博尔特太太那里。
　　啊月亮照在博尔特太太
　　和她女儿身上是亮的
　　她们在苏打水里洗脚
　　啊这些孩子们的声音，在教堂里歌唱！
　　
　　吱吱吱
　　唧唧唧唧唧唧
　　受到这样的强暴。
　　铁卢
　　
　　并无实体的城
　　在冬日正午的黄雾下
　　尤吉尼地先生，哪个士麦那商人
　　还没光脸，袋里装满了葡萄干
　　到岸价格，伦敦：见票即付，
　　用粗俗的法语请我
　　在凯能街饭店吃午饭
　　然后在大都会度周末。
　　
　　在那暮色苍茫的时刻，眼与背脊
　　从桌边向上抬时，这血肉制成的引擎在等侯
　　像一辆出租汽车颤抖而等候时，
　　我，帖瑞西士，虽然瞎了眼，在两次生命中颤动，
　　年老的男子却有布满皱纹的女性乳房，能在
　　暮色苍茫的时刻看见晚上一到都朝着
　　家的方向走去，水手从海上回到家，
　　打字员到喝茶的时候也回了家，打扫早点的残余，点燃了她的炉子，拿出罐头食品。
　　窗外危险地晾着
　　她快要晒干的内衣，给太阳的残光抚摸着，
　　沙发上堆着（晚上是她的床）
　　袜子，拖鞋，小背心和用以束紧身的内衣。
　　我，帖瑞西士，年老的男子长着皱褶的乳房
　　看到了这段情节，预言了后来的一切——
　　我也在等待那盼望着的客人。
　　他，那长疙瘩的青年到了，
　　一个小公司的职员，一双色胆包天的眼，
　　一个下流家伙，蛮有把握，
　　正像一顶绸帽扣在一个布雷德福的百万富翁头上。
　　时机现在倒是合式，他猜对了，
　　饭已经吃完，她厌倦又疲乏，
　　试着抚摸抚摸她
　　虽说不受欢迎，也没受到责骂。
　　脸也红了，决心也下了，他立即进攻；
　　探险的双手没遇到阻碍；
　　他的虚荣心并不需要报答，
　　还欢迎这种漠然的神情。
　　（我，帖瑞西士，都早就忍受过了，
　　就在这张沙发或床上扮演过的；
　　我，那曾在底比斯的墙下坐过的
　　又曾在最卑微的死人中走过的。）
　　最后又送上形同施舍似的一吻，
　　他摸着去路，发现楼梯上没有灯……
　　
　　她回头在镜子里照了一下，
　　没大意识到她那已经走了的情人；
　　她的头脑让一个半成形的思想经过：
　　“总算玩了事：完了就好。”
　　美丽的女人堕落的时候，又
　　在她的房里来回走，独自
　　她机械地用手抚平了头发，又随手
　　在留声机上放上一张片子。
　　“这音乐在水上悄悄从我身旁经过”
　　经过斯特兰德，直到女王维多利亚街。
　　啊，城啊城，我有时能听见
　　在泰晤士下街的一家酒店旁
　　那悦耳的曼陀铃的哀鸣
　　还有里面的碗盏声，人语声
　　是渔贩子到了中午在休息：那里
　　殉道堂的墙上还有
　　难以言传的伊沃宁的荣华，白的与金黄色的。
　　
　　长河流汗
　　流油与焦油
　　船只漂泊
　　顺着来浪
　　红帆
　　大张
　　顺风而下，在沉重的桅杆上摇摆。
　　船只冲洗
　　漂流的巨木
　　流到格林威治河区
　　经过群犬岛。
　　Weialala leia
　　Wallala leialala
　　
　　伊丽莎白和莱斯特
　　打着桨
　　船尾形成
　　一枚镶金的贝壳
　　红而金亮
　　活泼的波涛
　　使两岸起了细浪
　　西南风
　　带到下游
　　连续的钟声
　　白色的危塔
　　Weialala leia
　　Wallala leialala
　　“电车和堆满灰尘的树。
　　海勃里生了我。里其蒙和邱
　　毁了我。在里其蒙我举起双膝
　　仰卧在独木舟的船底。
　　
　　“我的脚在摩尔该，我的心
　　在我的脚下。那件事后
　　他哭了。他答应‘重新做人’。
　　我不作声。我该怨恨什么呢？”
　　
　　“在马该沙滩
　　我能够把
　　乌有和乌有联结在一起
　　脏手上的破碎指甲。
　　我们是伙下等人，从不指望
　　什么。”
　　啊呀看哪
　　于是我到迦太基来了
　　
　　烧啊烧啊烧啊烧啊
　　主啊你把我救拔出来
　　主啊你救拔
　　
　　烧啊
　　
　　四、水里的死亡
　　
　　腓尼基人弗莱巴斯，死了已两星期，
　　忘记了水鸥的鸣叫，深海的浪涛
　　利润与亏损。
　　海下一潮流
　　在悄声剔净他的骨。在他浮上又沉下时
　　他经历了他老年和青年的阶段
　　进入漩涡。
　　外邦人还是犹太人
　　啊你转着舵轮朝着风的方向看的，
　　回顾一下弗莱巴斯，他曾经是和你一样漂亮、高大的。
　　
　　五、雷霆的话
　　
　　火把把流汗的面庞照得通红以后
　　花园里是那寒霜般的沉寂以后
　　经过了岩石地带的悲痛以后
　　又是叫喊又是呼号
　　监狱宫殿和春雷的
　　回响在远山那边震荡
　　他当时是活着的现在是死了
　　我们曾经是活着的现在也快要死了
　　稍带一点耐心
　　
　　这里没有水只有岩石
　　岩石而没有水而有一条沙路
　　那路在上面山里绕行
　　是岩石堆成的山而没有水
　　若还有水我们就会停下来喝了
　　在岩石中间人不能停止或思想
　　汗是干的脚埋在沙土里
　　只要岩石中间有水
　　死了的山满口都是龋齿吐不出一滴水
　　这里的人既不能站也不能躺也不能坐
　　山上甚至连静默也不存在
　　只有枯干的雷没有雨
　　山上甚至连寂寞也不存在
　　只有绛红阴沉的脸在冷笑咆哮
　　在泥干缝猎的房屋的门里出现
　　只要有水
　　而没有岩石
　　若是有岩石
　　也有水
　　有水
　　有泉
　　岩石间有小水潭
　　若是只有水的响声
　　不是知了
　　和枯草同唱
　　而是水的声音在岩石上
　　那里有蜂雀类的画眉在松树间歌唱
　　点滴点滴滴滴滴
　　可是没有水
　　
　　谁是那个总是走在你身旁的第三人？
　　我数的时候，只有你和我在一起
　　但是我朝前望那白颜色的路的时候
　　总有另外一个在你身旁走
　　悄悄地行进，裹着棕黄色的大衣，罩着头
　　我不知道他是男人还是女人
　　——但是在你另一边的那一个是谁？
　　
　　这是什么声音在高高的天上
　　是慈母悲伤的呢喃声
　　这些带头罩的人群是谁
　　在无边的平原上蜂拥而前，在裂开的土地上蹒跚而行
　　只给那扁平的水平线包围着
　　山的那边是哪一座城市
　　在紫色暮色中开裂、重建又爆炸
　　倾塌着的城楼
　　耶路撒冷雅典亚力山大
　　维也纳伦敦
　　并无实体的
　　
　　一个女人紧紧拉直着她黑长的头发
　　在这些弦上弹拨出低声的音乐
　　长着孩子脸的蝙蝠在紫色的光里
　　嗖嗖地飞扑着翅膀
　　又把头朝下爬下一垛乌黑的墙
　　倒挂在空气里的那些城楼
　　敲着引起回忆的钟，报告时刻
　　还有声音在空的水池、干的井里歌唱。
　　在山间那个坏损的洞里
　　在幽黯的月光下，草儿在倒塌的
　　坟墓上唱歌，至于教堂
　　则是有一个空的教堂，仅仅是风的家。
　　它没有窗子，门是摆动着的，
　　枯骨伤害不了人。
　　只有一只公鸡站在屋脊上
　　咯咯喔喔咯咯喔喔
　　刷的来了一炷闪电。然后是一阵湿风
　　带来了雨
　　
　　恒河水位下降了，那些疲软的叶子
　　在等着雨来，而乌黑的浓云
　　在远处集合在喜马望山上。
　　丛林在静默中拱着背蹲伏着。
　　然后雷霆说了话
　　DA
　　Datta：我们给了些什么？
　　我的朋友，热血震动着我的心
　　这片刻之间献身的非凡勇气
　　是一个谨慎的时代永远不能收回的
　　就凭这一点，也只有这一点，我们是存在了
　　这是我们的讣告里找不到的
　　不会在慈祥的蛛网披盖着的回忆里
　　也不会在瘦瘦的律师拆开的密封下
　　在我们空空的屋子里
　　DA
　　Dayadhvam：我听见那钥匙
　　在门里转动了一次，只转动了一次
　　我们想到这把钥匙，各人在自己的监狱里
　　想着这把钥匙，各人守着一座监狱
　　只在黄昏的时候，世外传来的声音
　　才使一个已经粉碎了的柯里欧莱纳思一度重生
　　DA
　　Damyata：那条船欢快地
　　作出反应，顺着那使帆用桨老练的手
　　海是平静的，你的心也会欢快地
　　作出反应，在受到邀请时，会随着
　　引导着的双手而跳动
　　
　　我坐在岸上
　　垂钓，背后是那片干旱的平原
　　我应否至少把我的田地收拾好？
　　伦敦桥塌下来了塌下来了塌下来了
　　然后，他就隐身在炼他们的火里，
　　我什么时候才能象燕子——啊，燕子，燕子，
　　阿基坦的王子在塔楼里受到废黜
　　这些片断我用来支撑我的断垣残壁
　　那么我就照办吧。希罗尼母又发疯了。
　　舍己为人。同情。克制。
　　平安。平安
　　平安。

　　"Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
　　vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:
　　Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo."
　　
　　
　　I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD
　　
　　April is the cruellest month, breeding
　　Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
　　Memory and desire, stirring
　　Dull roots with spring rain.
　　Winter kept us warm, covering
　　Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
　　A little life with dried tubers.
　　Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
　　With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
　　And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, 10
　　And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
　　Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
　　And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
　　My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
　　And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
　　Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
　　In the mountains, there you feel free.
　　I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
　　
　　What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
　　Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 20
　　You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
　　A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
　　And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
　　And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
　　There is shadow under this red rock,
　　(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
　　And I will show you something different from either
　　Your shadow at morning striding behind you
　　Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
　　I will show you fear in a handful of dust. 30
　　 Frisch weht der Wind
　　 Der Heimat zu
　　 Mein Irisch Kind,
　　 Wo weilest du?
　　"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
　　"They called me the hyacinth girl."
　　- Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
　　Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
　　Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
　　Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, 40
　　Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
　　Od' und leer das Meer.
　　
　　Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
　　Had a bad cold, nevertheless
　　Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
　　With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
　　Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
　　(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
　　Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
　　The lady of situations. 50
　　Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
　　And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
　　Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
　　Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
　　The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
　　I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
　　Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
　　Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
　　One must be so careful these days.
　　
　　Unreal City, 60
　　Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
　　A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
　　I had not thought death had undone so many.
　　Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
　　And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
　　Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
　　To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
　　With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
　　There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying "Stetson!
　　"You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! 70
　　"That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
　　"Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
　　"Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
　　
　　Line 42 Od'] Oed' - Editor.
　　
　　"Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
　　"Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
　　"You! hypocrite lecteur! - mon semblable, - mon frere!"
　　
　　II. A GAME OF CHESS
　　
　　The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
　　Glowed on the marble, where the glass
　　Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
　　From which a golden Cupidon peeped out 80
　　(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
　　Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
　　Reflecting light upon the table as
　　The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
　　From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
　　In vials of ivory and coloured glass
　　Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
　　Unguent, powdered, or liquid - troubled, confused
　　And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
　　That freshened from the window, these ascended 90
　　In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
　　Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
　　Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
　　Huge sea-wood fed with copper
　　Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
　　In which sad light a carved dolphin swam.
　　Above the antique mantel was displayed
　　As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
　　The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
　　So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale 100
　　Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
　　And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
　　"Jug Jug" to dirty ears.
　　And other withered stumps of time
　　Were told upon the walls; staring forms
　　Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
　　Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
　　Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
　　Spread out in fiery points
　　Glowed into words, then would be savagely still. 110
　　
　　"My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
　　"Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
　　"What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
　　"I never know what you are thinking. Think."
　　
　　I think we are in rats' alley
　　Where the dead men lost their bones.
　　
　　"What is that noise?"
　　 The wind under the door.
　　"What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?"
　　 Nothing again nothing. 120
　　 "Do
　　"You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
　　"Nothing?"
　　
　　 I remember
　　Those are pearls that were his eyes.
　　"Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?"
　　 But
　　O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag -
　　It's so elegant
　　So intelligent 130
　　"What shall I do now? What shall I do?"
　　I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
　　"With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
　　"What shall we ever do?"
　　 The hot water at ten.
　　And if it rains, a closed car at four.
　　And we shall play a game of chess,
　　Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
　　
　　When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said -
　　I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself, 140
　　HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
　　Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
　　He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
　　To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
　　You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
　　He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
　　And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
　　He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
　　And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
　　Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said. 150
　　Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
　　HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
　　If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
　　Others can pick and choose if you can't.
　　But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.
　　You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
　　(And her only thirty-one.)
　　I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
　　It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
　　(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.) 160
　　The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.
　　You are a proper fool, I said.
　　Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
　　What you get married for if you don't want children?
　　HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
　　Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
　　And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot -
　　HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
　　HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
　　Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. 170
　　Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
　　Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
　　
　　III. THE FIRE SERMON
　　
　　The river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
　　Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
　　Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
　　Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
　　The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
　　Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
　　Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
　　And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; 180
　　Departed, have left no addresses.
　　
　　Line 161 ALRIGHT. This spelling occurs also in
　　the Hogarth Press edition - Editor.
　　
　　By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .
　　Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
　　Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
　　But at my back in a cold blast I hear
　　The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
　　A rat crept softly through the vegetation
　　Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
　　While I was fishing in the dull canal
　　On a winter evening round behind the gashouse 190
　　Musing upon the king my brother's wreck
　　And on the king my father's death before him.
　　White bodies naked on the low damp ground
　　And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
　　Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.
　　But at my back from time to time I hear
　　The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
　　Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
　　O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
　　And on her daughter 200
　　They wash their feet in soda water
　　Et O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
　　
　　Twit twit twit
　　Jug jug jug jug jug jug
　　So rudely forc'd.
　　Tereu
　　
　　Unreal City
　　Under the brown fog of a winter noon
　　Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
　　Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants 210
　　C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
　　Asked me in demotic French
　　To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
　　Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.
　　
　　At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
　　Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
　　Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
　　I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
　　Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
　　At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives 220
　　Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
　　The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
　　Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
　　Out of the window perilously spread
　　Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,
　　On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
　　Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
　　I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
　　Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest -
　　I too awaited the expected guest. 230
　　He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
　　A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,
　　One of the low on whom assurance sits
　　As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
　　The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
　　The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
　　Endeavours to engage her in caresses
　　Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
　　Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
　　Exploring hands encounter no defence; 240
　　His vanity requires no response,
　　And makes a welcome of indifference.
　　(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
　　Enacted on this same divan or bed;
　　I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
　　And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
　　Bestows one final patronising kiss,
　　And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .
　　
　　She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
　　Hardly aware of her departed lover; 250
　　Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
　　"Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over."
　　When lovely woman stoops to folly and
　　Paces about her room again, alone,
　　She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
　　And puts a record on the gramophone.
　　
　　"This music crept by me upon the waters"
　　And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
　　O City city, I can sometimes hear
　　Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, 260
　　The pleasant whining of a mandoline
　　And a clatter and a chatter from within
　　Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
　　Of Magnus Martyr hold
　　Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.
　　
　　 The river sweats
　　 Oil and tar
　　 The barges drift
　　 With the turning tide
　　 Red sails 270
　　 Wide
　　 To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
　　 The barges wash
　　 Drifting logs
　　 Down Greenwich reach
　　 Past the Isle of Dogs.
　　 Weialala leia
　　 Wallala leialala
　　
　　 Elizabeth and Leicester
　　 Beating oars 280
　　 The stern was formed
　　 A gilded shell
　　 Red and gold
　　 The brisk swell
　　 Rippled both shores
　　 Southwest wind
　　 Carried down stream
　　 The peal of bells
　　 White towers
　　 Weialala leia 290
　　 Wallala leialala
　　
　　"Trams and dusty trees.
　　Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
　　Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
　　Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe."
　　
　　"My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
　　Under my feet. After the event
　　He wept. He promised 'a new start'.
　　I made no comment. What should I resent?"
　　"On Margate Sands. 300
　　I can connect
　　Nothing with nothing.
　　The broken fingernails of dirty hands.
　　My people humble people who expect
　　Nothing."
　　 la la
　　
　　To Carthage then I came
　　
　　Burning burning burning burning
　　O Lord Thou pluckest me out
　　O Lord Thou pluckest 310
　　
　　burning
　　
　　IV. DEATH BY WATER
　　
　　Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
　　Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
　　And the profit and loss.
　　 A current under sea
　　Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
　　He passed the stages of his age and youth
　　Entering the whirlpool.
　　 Gentile or Jew
　　O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, 320
　　Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
　　
　　V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID
　　
　　After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
　　After the frosty silence in the gardens
　　After the agony in stony places
　　The shouting and the crying
　　Prison and palace and reverberation
　　Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
　　He who was living is now dead
　　We who were living are now dying
　　With a little patience 330
　　
　　Here is no water but only rock
　　Rock and no water and the sandy road
　　The road winding above among the mountains
　　Which are mountains of rock without water
　　If there were water we should stop and drink
　　Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
　　Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
　　If there were only water amongst the rock
　　Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
　　Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit 340
　　There is not even silence in the mountains
　　But dry sterile thunder without rain
　　There is not even solitude in the mountains
　　But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
　　From doors of mudcracked houses
　　 If there were water
　　And no rock
　　If there were rock
　　And also water
　　And water 350
　　A spring
　　A pool among the rock
　　If there were the sound of water only
　　Not the cicada
　　And dry grass singing
　　But sound of water over a rock
　　Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
　　Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
　　But there is no water
　　
　　Who is the third who walks always beside you? 360
　　When I count, there are only you and I together
　　But when I look ahead up the white road
　　There is always another one walking beside you
　　Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
　　I do not know whether a man or a woman
　　- But who is that on the other side of you?
　　
　　What is that sound high in the air
　　Murmur of maternal lamentation
　　Who are those hooded hordes swarming
　　Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth 370
　　Ringed by the flat horizon only
　　What is the city over the mountains
　　Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
　　Falling towers
　　Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
　　Vienna London
　　Unreal
　　
　　A woman drew her long black hair out tight
　　And fiddled whisper music on those strings
　　And bats with baby faces in the violet light 380
　　Whistled, and beat their wings
　　And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
　　And upside down in air were towers
　　Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
　　And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
　　
　　In this decayed hole among the mountains
　　In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
　　Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
　　There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
　　It has no windows, and the door swings, 390
　　Dry bones can harm no one.
　　Only a cock stood on the rooftree
　　Co co rico co co rico
　　In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
　　Bringing rain
　　
　　Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
　　Waited for rain, while the black clouds
　　Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
　　The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
　　Then spoke the thunder 400
　　DA
　　Datta: what have we given?
　　My friend, blood shaking my heart
　　The awful daring of a moment's surrender
　　Which an age of prudence can never retract
　　By this, and this only, we have existed
　　Which is not to be found in our obituaries
　　Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
　　Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
　　In our empty rooms 410
　　DA
　　Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
　　Turn in the door once and turn once only
　　We think of the key, each in his prison
　　Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
　　Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours
　　Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
　　DA
　　Damyata: The boat responded
　　Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar 420
　　The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
　　Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
　　To controlling hands
　　
　　 I sat upon the shore
　　Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
　　Shall I at least set my lands in order?
　　London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
　　Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina
　　Quando fiam ceu chelidon - O swallow swallow
　　Le Prince d'Aquitaine a la tour abolie 430
　　These fragments I have shored against my ruins
　　Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.
　　Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
　　 Shantih shantih shantih
　　
　　Line 416 aetherial] aethereal
　　Line 429 ceu] uti - Editor
　　
　　
　　NOTES ON "THE WASTE LAND"
　　
　　Not only the title, but the plan and a good deal of the
　　incidental symbolism of the poem were suggested
　　by Miss Jessie L. Weston's book on the Grail legend:
　　From Ritual to Romance (Macmillan).<1> Indeed,
　　so deeply am I indebted, Miss Weston's book will elucidate
　　the difficulties of the poem much better than my notes can do;
　　and I recommend it (apart from the great interest of the book itself)
　　to any who think such elucidation of the poem worth the trouble.
　　To another work of anthropology I am indebted in general, one which has
　　influenced our generation profoundly; I mean The Golden Bough; I have
　　used especially the two volumes Adonis, Attis, Osiris. Anyone who is
　　acquainted with these works will immediately recognise in the poem
　　certain references to vegetation ceremonies.
　　
　　<1> Macmillan] Cambridge.
　　
　　
　　I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD
　　
　　Line 20. Cf. Ezekiel 2:1.
　　
　　23. Cf. Ecclesiastes 12:5.
　　
　　31. V. Tristan und Isolde, i, verses 5-8.
　　
　　42. Id. iii, verse 24.
　　
　　46. I am not familiar with the exact constitution of the Tarot pack
　　of cards, from which I have obviously departed to suit my own convenience.
　　The Hanged Man, a member of the traditional pack, fits my purpose
　　in two ways: because he is associated in my mind with the Hanged God
　　of Frazer, and because I associate him with the hooded figure in
　　the passage of the disciples to Emmaus in Part V. The Phoenician Sailor
　　and the Merchant appear later; also the "crowds of people," and
　　Death by Water is executed in Part IV. The Man with Three Staves
　　(an authentic member of the Tarot pack) I associate, quite arbitrarily,
　　with the Fisher King himself.
　　
　　60. Cf. Baudelaire:
　　
　　 "Fourmillante cite;, cite; pleine de reves,
　　 Ou le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant."
　　
　　63. Cf. Inferno, iii. 55-7.
　　
　　 "si lunga tratta
　　 di gente, ch'io non avrei mai creduto
　　 che morte tanta n'avesse disfatta."
　　
　　64. Cf. Inferno, iv. 25-7:
　　
　　 "Quivi, secondo che per ascoltare,
　　 "non avea pianto, ma' che di sospiri,
　　 "che l'aura eterna facevan tremare."
　　
　　68. A phenomenon which I have often noticed.
　　
　　74. Cf. the Dirge in Webster's White Devil .
　　
　　76. V. Baudelaire, Preface to Fleurs du Mal.
　　
　　II. A GAME OF CHESS
　　
　　77. Cf. Antony and Cleopatra, II. ii., l. 190.
　　
　　92. Laquearia. V. Aeneid, I. 726:
　　
　　 dependent lychni laquearibus aureis incensi, et noctem flammis
　　 funalia vincunt.
　　
　　98. Sylvan scene. V. Milton, Paradise Lost, iv. 140.
　　
　　99. V. Ovid, Metamorphoses, vi, Philomela.
　　
　　100. Cf. Part III, l. 204.
　　
　　115. Cf. Part III, l. 195.
　　
　　118. Cf. Webster: "Is the wind in that door still?"
　　
　　126. Cf. Part I, l. 37, 48.
　　
　　138. Cf. the game of chess in Middleton's Women beware Women.
　　
　　III. THE FIRE SERMON
　　
　　176. V. Spenser, Prothalamion.
　　
　　192. Cf. The Tempest, I. ii.
　　
　　196. Cf. Marvell, To His Coy Mistress.
　　
　　197. Cf. Day, Parliament of Bees:
　　
　　 "When of the sudden, listening, you shall hear,
　　 "A noise of horns and hunting, which shall bring
　　 "Actaeon to Diana in the spring,
　　 "Where all shall see her naked skin . . ."
　　
　　199. I do not know the origin of the ballad from which these lines
　　are taken: it was reported to me from Sydney, Australia.
　　
　　202. V. Verlaine, Parsifal.
　　
　　210. The currants were quoted at a price "carriage and insurance
　　free to London"; and the Bill of Lading etc. were to be handed
　　to the buyer upon payment of the sight draft.
　　
　　Notes 196 and 197 were transposed in this and the Hogarth Press edition,
　　but have been corrected here.
　　
　　210. "Carriage and insurance free"] "cost, insurance and freight"-Editor.
　　
　　218. Tiresias, although a mere spectator and not indeed a "character,"
　　is yet the most important personage in the poem, uniting all the rest.
　　Just as the one-eyed merchant, seller of currants, melts into
　　the Phoenician Sailor, and the latter is not wholly distinct
　　from Ferdinand Prince of Naples, so all the women are one woman,
　　and the two sexes meet in Tiresias. What Tiresias sees, in fact,
　　is the substance of the poem. The whole passage from Ovid is
　　of great anthropological interest:
　　
　　 '. . . Cum Iunone iocos et maior vestra profecto est
　　 Quam, quae contingit maribus,' dixisse, 'voluptas.'
　　 Illa negat; placuit quae sit sententia docti
　　 Quaerere Tiresiae: venus huic erat utraque nota.
　　 Nam duo magnorum viridi coeuntia silva
　　 Corpora serpentum baculi violaverat ictu
　　 Deque viro factus, mirabile, femina septem
　　 Egerat autumnos; octavo rursus eosdem
　　 Vidit et 'est vestrae si tanta potentia plagae,'
　　 Dixit 'ut auctoris sortem in contraria mutet,
　　 Nunc quoque vos feriam!' percussis anguibus isdem
　　 Forma prior rediit genetivaque venit imago.
　　 Arbiter hic igitur sumptus de lite iocosa
　　 Dicta Iovis firmat; gravius Saturnia iusto
　　 Nec pro materia fertur doluisse suique
　　 Iudicis aeterna damnavit lumina nocte,
　　 At pater omnipotens (neque enim licet inrita cuiquam
　　 Facta dei fecisse deo) pro lumine adempto
　　 Scire futura dedit poenamque levavit honore.
　　
　　221. This may not appear as exact as Sappho's lines, but I had in mind
　　the "longshore" or "dory" fisherman, who returns at nightfall.
　　
　　253. V. Goldsmith, the song in The Vicar of Wakefield.
　　
　　257. V. The Tempest, as above.
　　
　　264. The interior of St. Magnus Martyr is to my mind one of
　　the finest among Wren's interiors. See The Proposed Demolition
　　of Nineteen City Churches (P. S. King & Son, Ltd.).
　　
　　266. The Song of the (three) Thames-daughters begins here.
　　From line 292 to 306 inclusive they speak in turn.
　　V. Gutterdsammerung, III. i: the Rhine-daughters.
　　
　　279. V. Froude, Elizabeth, Vol. I, ch. iv, letter of De Quadra
　　to Philip of Spain:
　　
　　"In the afternoon we were in a barge, watching the games on the river.
　　(The queen) was alone with Lord Robert and myself on the poop,
　　when they began to talk nonsense, and went so far that Lord Robert
　　at last said, as I was on the spot there was no reason why they
　　should not be married if the queen pleased."
　　
　　293. Cf. Purgatorio, v. 133:
　　
　　 "Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia;
　　 Siena mi fe', disfecemi Maremma."
　　
　　307. V. St. Augustine's Confessions: "to Carthage then I came,
　　where a cauldron of unholy loves sang all about mine ears."
　　
　　308. The complete text of the Buddha's Fire Sermon (which corresponds
　　in importance to the Sermon on the Mount) from which these words are taken,
　　will be found translated in the late Henry Clarke Warren's Buddhism
　　in Translation (Harvard Oriental Series). Mr. Warren was one
　　of the great pioneers of Buddhist studies in the Occident.
　　
　　309. From St. Augustine's Confessions again. The collocation
　　of these two representatives of eastern and western asceticism,
　　as the culmination of this part of the poem, is not an accident.
　　
　　V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID
　　
　　In the first part of Part V three themes are employed:
　　the journey to Emmaus, the approach to the Chapel Perilous
　　(see Miss Weston's book) and the present decay of eastern Europe.
　　
　　357. This is Turdus aonalaschkae pallasii, the hermit-thrush
　　which I have heard in Quebec County. Chapman says (Handbook of
　　Birds of Eastern North America) "it is most at home in secluded
　　woodland and thickety retreats. . . . Its notes are not remarkable
　　for variety or volume, but in purity and sweetness of tone and
　　exquisite modulation they are unequalled." Its "water-dripping song"
　　is justly celebrated.
　　
　　360. The following lines were stimulated by the account of one
　　of the Antarctic expeditions (I forget which, but I think one
　　of Shackleton's): it was related that the party of explorers,
　　at the extremity of their strength, had the constant delusion
　　that there was one more member than could actually be counted.
　　
　　367-77. Cf. Hermann Hesse, Blick ins Chaos:
　　
　　"Schon ist halb Europa, schon ist zumindest der halbe Osten Europas auf dem
　　Wege zum Chaos, f鋒rt betrunken im heiligem Wahn am Abgrund entlang
　　und singt dazu, singt betrunken und hymnisch wie Dmitri Karamasoff sang.
　　Ueber diese Lieder lacht der B黵ger beleidigt, der Heilige
　　und Seher h鰎t sie mit Tr鋘en."
　　
　　402. "Datta, dayadhvam, damyata" (Give, sympathize,
　　control). The fable of the meaning of the Thunder is found
　　in the Brihadaranyaka-Upanishad, 5, 1. A translation is found
　　in Deussen's Sechzig Upanishads des Veda, p. 489.
　　
　　408. Cf. Webster, The White Devil, v. vi:
　　
　　 ". . . they'll remarry
　　 Ere the worm pierce your winding-sheet, ere the spider
　　 Make a thin curtain for your epitaphs."
　　
　　412. Cf. Inferno, xxxiii. 46:
　　
　　 "ed io sentii chiavar l'uscio di sotto
　　 all'orribile torre."
　　
　　Also F. H. Bradley, Appearance and Reality, p. 346:
　　
　　"My external sensations are no less private to myself than are my
　　thoughts or my feelings. In either case my experience falls within
　　my own circle, a circle closed on the outside; and, with all its
　　elements alike, every sphere is opaque to the others which surround
　　it. . . . In brief, regarded as an existence which appears in a soul,
　　the whole world for each is peculiar and private to that soul."
　　
　　425. V. Weston, From Ritual to Romance; chapter on the Fisher King.
　　
　　428. V. Purgatorio, xxvi. 148.
　　
　　 "'Ara vos prec per aquella valor
　　 'que vos guida al som de l'escalina,
　　 'sovegna vos a temps de ma dolor.'
　　 Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina."
　　
　　429. V. Pervigilium Veneris. Cf. Philomela in Parts II and III.
　　
　　430. V. Gerard de Nerval, Sonnet El Desdichado.
　　
　　432. V. Kyd's Spanish Tragedy.
　　
　　434. Shantih. Repeated as here, a formal ending to an Upanishad.
　　'The Peace which passeth understanding' is a feeble translation
　　of the content of this word.

　　纵然语言为人所共有，但多数人立身处世仿佛各有其到。
　　向上的路和向下的路是完全一样的。
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　一
　　
　　现在的时间和过去的时间
　　也许都存在于未来的时间，
　　而未来的时间又包容于过去的时间。
　　假若全部时间永远存在
　　全部时间就再也都无法挽回。
　　过去可能存在的是一种抽象
　　只是在一个猜测的世界中，
　　保持着一种恒久的可能性。
　　过去可能存在和已经存在的
　　都指向一个始终存在的终点。
　　足音在记忆中回响
　　沿着那条我们从未走过的甬道
　　飘向那重我们从未打开的门
　　进入玫瑰园。我的话就和这样
　　在你的心中回响。
　　但是为了什么
　　更在一缸玫瑰花瓣上搅起尘埃
　　我却不知道。
　　还有一些回声
　　栖身在花园里。我们要不要去追蹑？
　　快，鸟儿说，快去寻找它们，去寻找它们
　　在花园角落里。穿过第一道门，
　　走进我们的第一个世界，我们要不要听从
　　画眉的欺骗？进入我们的第一个世界。
　　它们就在那儿，神态庄严而不可窥见，
　　在秋天的燠热里，穿过颤动的空气，
　　从容不迫地越过满地枯叶，
　　鸟儿在呼唤，于那隐藏在灌木丛中
　　不可闻见的音乐相应和，
　　那没有被人看见的眼光转过去了，因为玫瑰
　　露出了花容美姿已被人窥见的神色。
　　它们在那儿仿佛是我们的客人
　　受到我们的接待也在接待我们。
　　它们彬彬有礼地伫立在空寂的小径旁。
　　于是我们继续前行，走进黄杨木的圆形树丛，
　　俯身观看那干涸的水池。
　　干涸的水池、干涸的混凝土、围着褐色的边，
　　水池里注满了阳光变幻的水，
　　荷花升起了，悄悄地，悄悄地，
　　池面从光芒的中心闪现，
　　而它们在我们身后，映照在池中。
　　接着云朵飘过，水池又变为空虚。
　　去吧，鸟儿说，因为树叶丛中躲满了孩子
　　他们兴冲冲地藏在那儿，忍住了笑声。
　　去吧，去吧，去吧，鸟儿说：人类
　　忍受不了太多的现实。
　　过去的时间和未来的时间
　　过去可能存在的和已经存在的
　　都指向一个始终存在在终点。
　　
　　二
　　
　　大蒜和蓝宝石陷在泥里
　　阻塞了装嵌的轮轴。
　　血液中发着颤音的弦
　　在永不消失的伤疤下歌唱
　　安抚那早已忘却的战争。
　　动脉里的舞蹈
　　淋巴液的环流
　　都表现为星辰的流驶
　　在树梢中升向夏天
　　我们在摇动的树枝上空
　　在那斑驳的树叶上闪耀的光华中
　　移步前行，耳听得下面湿润的土地上
　　捕捉野猪的猎犬和野猪一如既往
　　在继续他们追逐的模式
　　但在群星中又归于和解。
　　
　　在转动不息的世界的静止点上，既无生灵也无精魂；
　　但是不止也无动。在这静止点上，只有舞蹈，
　　不停止也不移动。可别把它叫做固定不移。
　　过去和未来就在这里回合。无去无从，
　　无升无降。只有这个点，这个静止点，
　　这里原不会有舞蹈，但这里有的只是舞蹈。
　　我只能说，我们曾在那儿呆过，但我说不出是哪儿。
　　我也说不出呆了多久，因为这样就把它纳入时间。
　　
　　内心超脱了显示的欲求，
　　解脱了行动和苦痛，也解脱了内心
　　和身外的逼迫，而被围拥在
　　一种恩宠之感，一道静静的白光之中，
　　徐徐上升而有凝然不动，集中
　　在它部分的狂喜
　　达到圆满的过程中，才领悟到
　　它那部分的恐惧已经消失。
　　但是过去和未来的羁绊
　　交织在变化着的软弱的躯体中，
　　卫护着人类既不飞升天国也不堕入地狱
　　这两者都非血肉之躯所能忍受。
　　过去的时间和未来的时间
　　只容许有少许的意识。
　　能意识到就不在时间之内
　　但是只有在时间之内，那在玫瑰园中的瞬间，
　　那雨声沥沥的凉亭里的瞬间，
　　当烟雾降落在通风的教堂里的瞬间，
　　才能忆起；才能与过去和未来相及。
　　只有通过时间才被征服时间。
　　
　　三
　　
　　这是愤怼不满的地方
　　以前的时间和以后的时间
　　都沉浸于一片朦胧的光影里：既没有日光
　　赋予形体以明澈和静穆
　　把暗淡的阴影化为疏忽易逝的美
　　以暖地旋转暗示人生悠悠，
　　也没有黑暗使灵魂净化
　　剥夺一切去消感官的享乐
　　洗涤情感以摈绝尘世短暂的情爱。
　　既非充实也非空虚。只有一抹微光
　　闪摇在一张张紧张的饱经忧患的脸上
　　都因为心烦意乱而毫无意义
　　神情无所专注而极度冷漠
　　冷风劲吹在时间之前和时间之后
　　人和纸片都在风中回旋，
　　孱弱的肺叶呼吸出入
　　不健康的灵魂把嗳出的麻木
　　吐入枯萎的空气，被风卷带着掠过
　　伦敦的阴沉的山岗，掠过汉姆斯蒂德
　　和克拉肯韦尔、坎普顿和普特尼，
　　海盖特、普林姆罗斯和拉德格特。
　　不是这里，不是这里的黑暗一片
　　不在这颤抖的世界里。
　　
　　再往下去，只是往下进入
　　永远与外世隔绝的世界，
　　是世界又非世界，非世界的世界，
　　内部黑暗，剥夺了一切
　　赤贫如洗，一无所有，
　　感觉已枯竭的世界，
　　幻想已远走高飞的世界，
　　精神已失去作用的世界；
　　这是一条路，另外一条路
　　也是一样，不在运动之中
　　而是避开运动；但是世界却怀着渴望
　　在过去的时间和未来的时间的
　　碎石路上前进。
　　
　　四
　　
　　
　　时间和晚钟埋葬了白天，
　　乌云卷走了太阳。
　　向日葵会转向我们吗，铁线莲？
　　会纷披下来俯向我们吗；卷须的小花枝头
　　会抓住我们，缠住我们吗？
　　冷冽的
　　紫杉的手指会弯到
　　我们身上吗？当翠鸟的翅膀
　　以光明回答光明以后
　　现在已悄然无声，光明凝然不动
　　在这转动不息的世界的静止点上。
　　
　　五
　　
　　语言，音乐，都只能
　　在时间中行进；但是唯有生者
　　才能死灭。语言，一旦说过，就归于
　　静寂。只有通过形式，模式，
　　语言或音乐才能达到
　　静止，正如一只中国的瓷瓶
　　静止不动而仍然在时间中不断前进。
　　当乐曲余音袅袅，那不是提琴的静止，
　　不只如此，而是两者共存，
　　或者说结束于开始，
　　结束和开始永远在那儿
　　在开始之前和结束之后。
　　万物永远存在于现在。语言
　　在重负之下，损伤，迸裂，有时甚至破碎，
　　而在压力之下，要跌落，溜走，消失，
　　或者因为措辞不当而腐朽，不会在原处停留，
　　不会停留不动。尖厉刺耳的声音
　　叱责、嘲笑或者只是絮叨
　　受到的攻击总是试探的声音，
　　是葬仪舞蹈中哀声哭喊的影子，
　　是郁郁不乐的凯米艾拉的高声悲号。
　　
　　模式的细节是运动，
　　正如以十级阶梯的形状表现的那样。
　　欲望本身就是运动
　　而不在与它值得想望的本身，
　　爱本身是静止不动的，
　　只是运动的原因和目的，
　　无始无终，也无所企求
　　除非在时间方面
　　被纳入了限制的形式
　　介于存在和不存在之间。
　　猛然间，在一道阳光中
　　即使此时有尘灰飞扬
　　在绿叶丛中扬起了
　　孩子们吃吃的笑声
　　迅疾的现在，这里，现在，永远——
　　荒唐可笑的是那虚度的悲苦的时间
　　伸展在这之前和之后。

　　一
　　
　　在我的开始中是我的结束。隆替演变
　　屋宇建起又倒坍、倾圮又重新扩建，
　　迁移，毁坏，修复，或在原址
　　出现一片空旷的田野，或一座工厂，或一条间道。
　　旧石筑新楼，古木升新火，
　　旧火变灰烬，灰烬化黄土，
　　而黄土如今已化为肉，毛，粪，
　　人和兽的骨，麦秆和绿叶。
　　屋宇有生也有死：有建造的时候
　　也有供生活和繁衍生息的时候，
　　有给大风吹落松弛的窗玻璃
　　摇动田鼠在来回奔驰的护壁板
　　吹起绣着沉默箴言的破挂毡的时候。
　　
　　在我的开始中是我的结束。此刻阳光
　　掠过空旷的田野而隐去，留下深巷
　　任繁密的树叶把它掩住，你在暮色苍茫中
　　倚着岸堤，一辆货车从身边驶过，
　　深巷固执地向村里伸展，在炙人的暑热中
　　村子已摧入梦乡。在暖烘烘的氤氲里那燠热的光
　　被灰色的石头吸收了，而不是折射。
　　大丽花丛沉睡在空阒的寂静中。
　　等待着早来的枭鸟。
　　在空旷的田野
　　假如你不走得太近，假如你不走得太近，
　　在一个夏天的夜半，就就能听到
　　那轻柔的笛子和小鼓的音乐，
　　看见他们围着篝火跳舞，
　　男人和女人结对而舞，着是在举行婚礼——
　　一种庄严而方便的圣礼。
　　一双双一对对，必然的结合，
　　他们互相手拉手或臂膀挽着臂膀
　　表示情投意合。一圈又一圈地围着篝火
　　或加入舞伴们的圆圈，或穿过熊熊火焰
　　婆娑起舞，质朴而严肃，或发出村野的笑声
　　提起穿着笨拙的鞋子的沉重的脚，
　　泥脚，沾着沃土的脚、
　　沉浸在村野的欢乐——那久远以来
　　在地里滋育谷物的人们的欢乐之中。
　　他们按着生命的不同季节安排生活一样。
　　有四季更替和星辰出没的时间
　　有挤奶的时间和收获的时间
　　有男人和女人匹配成婚的时间
　　也有野兽交配的时间。两脚提起和放下。
　　吃和喝。拉撒和死亡。
　　
　　东方破晓，另一个白天
　　又为炎热和寂静作准备。晨风在海上
　　吹起了波纹，掠海而去。我在这里
　　或在那里，或在别处。在我的开始中。
　　
　　
　　二
　　
　　迟留的十一月
　　需要春天的困扰吗？
　　需要夏暑的创造物
　　和那脚下缠绕的雪花吗，
　　需要那一心想扶摇直上
　　却由红变灰终于跌落下来的蜀葵，
　　需要那盖满了初雪的凋零的玫瑰吗？
　　流驰的星星敲响了雷声隆隆
　　好似意气洋洋的战车
　　部署在群星会集的战斗中。
　　天蝎星攻打太阳
　　直打得太阳和月亮沉落
　　彗星暗暗哭泣而流星飞驰
　　追逐在一阵旋风中旋转的苍穹和大地
　　在冰雪君临大地之前旋风就将世界
　　卷向燃烧着的毁灭之火。
　　
　　这不失为一种表达方式——但不太令人满意：
　　用一种陈旧的诗歌形式进行一次转弯抹角的研究，
　　而把人们始终留在一场跟语言和涵义
　　作无法容忍的扭打中。诗歌无关宗旨。
　　这并不是（重新开始）人们过去所期待的。
　　人们多年期待的东西，它的价值将是什么，
　　多年企望的平静，秋天般的平静
　　和老年的睿智，这一切又将有什么价值？
　　音容消寂的前辈他们遗赠给我们的只是欺骗的诀窍，
　　他们是骗了我们还是骗了他们自己？
　　平静不过是一种有意的愚騃
　　睿智不过是懂得一些已经失效的秘诀，
　　对他们在黑暗中窥视黑暗
　　或置黑暗于不顾都没有什么用处。
　　在我们看来，来自经验的知识
　　似乎只有一种有限的价值。
　　知识把一个模式强加于人，然后欺骗人，
　　因为模式在每一瞬间都是新的
　　而每一瞬间又都是对我们以往的一切
　　作出一次新的骇人的评价。我们只是因为欺骗
　　已不再能伤害我们，才没有受骗而已。
　　在人生的中途，不仅在旅程的中途
　　而且是全部历程，我们都在黑暗的森林中，荆棘中，
　　在沼泽的边缘，那里没有安全的落脚点
　　而且受到各种魔怪和虚幻的光明的威胁
　　引诱你去冒险。别让我听取
　　老年人的睿智，不如听他们的愚行，
　　他们对恐惧和狂乱的恐惧，他们对财产的恐惧，
　　对属于另一个人，属于别人或属于上帝的恐惧。
　　我们唯一能希冀获得的睿智
　　是谦卑的睿智：谦卑是永无止境的。
　　
　　屋宇房舍都已沉入大海。
　　
　　跳舞的人们都已长眠山下。
　　
　　
　　三
　　
　　啊 黑暗 黑暗 黑暗。他们都走进了黑暗，
　　空虚的星际之间的空间，空虚进入空虚，
　　上校们，银行家们，知名的文学家们，
　　慷慨大度的艺术赞助人、政治家和统治者，
　　显要的文官们，形形色色的委员主席们，
　　工业巨子和卑微的承包商们都走进了黑暗，
　　太阳和月亮也暗淡无光了，哥达年鉴
　　证券市场报和董事姓名录都黯然失色了，
　　感觉冷却，行动的动机也已经消失。
　　于是我们大家和他们同行，走进肃穆的葬礼，
　　不是谁的葬礼，因为没有谁要埋葬。
　　我对我的灵魂说，别作声，让黑暗降临在你的身上
　　这准是上帝的黑暗。正如在剧场里
　　为了变换场景，灯光熄灭了，
　　舞台两厢一阵沉重的辘辘声，在黑暗里
　　随着一番黑暗的动作，我们知道
　　群山，树林，远处的活动画景
　　还有那显目而堂皇的正面装设都在移走——
　　或者象一列地铁火车，在地道里，在车站与车站之间停得太久
　　旅客们交谈之声纷起，又逐渐消寂于静默，
　　而你在每张脸孔后面看到内心的空虚正在加深
　　只留下没有什么可想的恐惧在心头升起；
　　或者像上了麻醉以后，头脑清醒却无所感觉——
　　我对我的灵魂说，别作声，耐心等待但不要寄予希望，
　　因为希望会变成对虚妄的希望；
　　耐心等待但不要怀有爱恋，
　　因为爱恋会变成对虚妄的爱恋；纵然犹有信心，
　　但是信心、爱和希望都在等待之中。
　　耐心等待但不要思索，因为你还没有准备好思索：
　　这样黑暗必将变得光明，静止也将变成舞蹈。
　　
　　潺潺的溪水在低语，冬天有雷电闪烁。
　　野百合花和野草莓没有被人赏识，
　　花园里那曾回想过当年狂喜的笑声
　　如今尤未消寂，但是在要求并暗示
　　死亡与降生的痛苦。
　　你说我是在重复
　　我以前说过的话。我还要再说一遍。
　　要我再说一遍吗？为了要到达那儿，
　　到达现在你所在的地方，离开现在你不在的地方，
　　你必须经历一条其中并无引人入胜之处的道路。
　　为了最终理解你所不理解的，
　　你必须经历一条愚昧无知的道路。
　　为了占有你从未占有的东西，
　　你必须经历被剥夺的道路。
　　为了达到你现在所不在的名位，
　　你必须经历那条你不在其中的道路。
　　你所不了解的正是你所唯一了解的，
　　而你所拥有的正是你所并不拥有的，
　　而你所在的地方也正是你所不在的地方。
　　
　　
　　四
　　
　　受伤的医生挥动着钢刀
　　细心探究发病的部位；
　　在流血的双手下我们感觉到
　　医生满怀强烈同情的技艺
　　在揭开体温图表上的谜。
　　我们仅有的健康是疾病
　　如果我们听从那位垂危的护士——
　　她坚定不移的关注不是使我们欢欣
　　而是提醒我们和亚当蒙受的灾祸，
　　一旦灾祸重临，我们的病必将变为沉疴。
　　
　　整个世界是我们的医院
　　由那个不幸的百万富翁资助，
　　在那里，如果我们的病况好转，
　　我们就将死于专制的父爱的关注，
　　它须臾不离引导着我们，不论我们身在何处。
　　冷意从两脚间升向膝盖，
　　热度在精神的弦线中歌词。
　　如果使我暖和起来，那么，我准会在
　　寒冷的地狱之火中站立而冻僵，
　　炼火的烈焰是玫瑰，而浓烟是多刺的荆棘。
　　
　　滴出的血是我们唯一的饮料，
　　血腥的肉是我们唯一的食粮，
　　即使这样，我们仍然乐于称道
　　我们是有血有肉的人，结实而又健康——
　　同样，尽管如此，我们称道这个星期五好。
　　
　　
　　五
　　
　　我就在这里，在旅程的中途，已经有二十年——
　　二十个大半虚度的年月，介于两次大战的年月——
　　试着学会使用语言，而每一次尝试
　　都是一次完全新的开始，也是一次性质不同的失败，
　　因为你不过是为了叙述那已经不必再叙述
　　或者你已经不想再那样叙述的事情
　　而学习怎样驾御语言的。所以每次冒险从事
　　都是一次新的开始，一次用破敝的装备
　　向无法言述的事物发动的袭击，最后总是溃不成军
　　只留下不准确的感觉乱作一团，
　　一群没有纪律的激情的乌合之众。
　　而那需要你用气力和谦逊去征服的一切，
　　早已被那些你无法企及的人们
　　一次或两次，或好多次所发现——但是没有竞争——
　　只有去找回那已经失去的东西，
　　但一旦找到又重新失去，又去寻找，
　　这样循环反复的斗争。而现在似乎处于
　　不利的条件之下。但也许既无所得也无所失。
　　对于我们，唯有尝试自己，此外则非我们所能为力。
　　
　　家是我们出发的地方。随着我们年岁渐老
　　世界变为陌路人，死与生的模式更为复杂。
　　那已与我们隔绝——没有以前也没有以后的，
　　不是那感情强烈的瞬间，而是每瞬间都在燃烧的一生，
　　不仅是一个人的一生，而且也是
　　那些如今无法辨认的古老石碑的一生。
　　有在星光下的黄昏时刻，
　　有在灯光下的黄昏时刻
　　（在灯下翻阅相片薄的黄昏）。
　　为此时此地无关紧要之际，
　　爱最近乎它自己。
　　老年人应该是探索者，
　　此地或彼地无关大局，
　　我们必须静静地继续前进，
　　越过黑暗的寒冷和空阒无人的废墟，
　　越过波涛的呼啸，大风的怒号，
　　海鸟和海豚的浩淼大海，进入另一个感情的强度，
　　为了获得更进一步的一致，更深入的交流。
　　在我的结束中是我的开始。

　　I
　　In my beginning is my end. In succession
　　Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
　　Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
　　Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
　　Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
　　Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
　　Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
　　Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
　　Houses live and die: there is a time for building
　　And a time for living and for generation
　　And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
　　And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
　　And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.
　　
　　In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
　　Across the open field, leaving the deep lane
　　Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
　　Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
　　And the deep lane insists on the direction
　　Into the village, in the electric heat
　　Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light
　　Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone.
　　The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
　　Wait for the early owl.
　　
　　In that open field
　　If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
　　On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
　　Of the weak pipe and the little drum
　　And see them dancing around the bonfire
　　The association of man and woman
　　In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie—
　　A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
　　Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
　　Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
　　Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
　　Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
　　Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
　　Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
　　Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
　　Mirth of those long since under earth
　　Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
　　Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
　　As in their living in the living seasons
　　The time of the seasons and the constellations
　　The time of milking and the time of harvest
　　The time of the coupling of man and woman
　　And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
　　Eating and drinking. Dung and death.
　　
　　Dawn points, and another day
　　Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
　　Wrinkles and slides. I am here
　　Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.
　　
　　II
　　
　　What is the late November doing
　　With the disturbance of the spring
　　And creatures of the summer heat,
　　And snowdrops writhing under feet
　　And hollyhocks that aim too high
　　Red into grey and tumble down
　　Late roses filled with early snow?
　　Thunder rolled by the rolling stars
　　Simulates triumphal cars
　　Deployed in constellated wars
　　Scorpion fights against the Sun
　　Until the Sun and Moon go down
　　Comets weep and Leonids fly
　　Hunt the heavens and the plains
　　Whirled in a vortex that shall bring
　　The world to that destructive fire
　　Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.
　　
　　
　　That was a way of putting it—not very satisfactory:
　　A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion,
　　Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
　　With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter.
　　It was not (to start again) what one had expected.
　　What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
　　Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity
　　And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us
　　Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
　　Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?
　　The serenity only a deliberate hebetude,
　　The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets
　　Useless in the darkness into which they peered
　　Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us,
　　At best, only a limited value
　　In the knowledge derived from experience.
　　The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies,
　　For the pattern is new in every moment
　　And every moment is a new and shocking
　　Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
　　Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm.
　　In the middle, not only in the middle of the way
　　But all the way, in a dark wood, in a bramble,
　　On the edge of a grimpen, where is no secure foothold,
　　And menaced by monsters, fancy lights,
　　Risking enchantment. Do not let me hear
　　Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,
　　Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
　　Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
　　The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
　　Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.
　　
　　The houses are all gone under the sea.
　　
　　The dancers are all gone under the hill.
　　
　　
　　III
　　
　　O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark,
　　The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,
　　The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters,
　　The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and the rulers,
　　Distinguished civil servants, chairmen of many committees,
　　Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark,
　　And dark the Sun and Moon, and the Almanach de Gotha
　　And the Stock Exchange Gazette, the Directory of Directors,
　　And cold the sense and lost the motive of action.
　　And we all go with them, into the silent funeral,
　　Nobody's funeral, for there is no one to bury.
　　I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
　　Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
　　The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
　　With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
　　And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
　　And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away—
　　Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations
　　And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
　　And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
　　Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
　　Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing—
　　I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
　　For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
　　For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
　　But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
　　Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
　　So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
　　Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
　　The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
　　The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
　　Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
　　Of death and birth.
　　
　　You say I am repeating
　　Something I have said before. I shall say it again.
　　Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,
　　To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
　　
　　You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
　　In order to arrive at what you do not know
　　
　　You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
　　In order to possess what you do not possess
　　
　　You must go by the way of dispossession.
　　In order to arrive at what you are not
　　
　　You must go through the way in which you are not.
　　And what you do not know is the only thing you know
　　And what you own is what you do not own
　　And where you are is where you are not.
　　
　　
　　
　　IV
　　
　　The wounded surgeon plies the steel
　　That questions the distempered part;
　　Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
　　The sharp compassion of the healer's art
　　Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.
　　
　　
　　Our only health is the disease
　　If we obey the dying nurse
　　Whose constant care is not to please
　　But to remind of our, and Adam's curse,
　　And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.
　　
　　
　　The whole earth is our hospital
　　Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
　　Wherein, if we do well, we shall
　　Die of the absolute paternal care
　　That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.
　　
　　
　　The chill ascends from feet to knees,
　　The fever sings in mental wires.
　　If to be warmed, then I must freeze
　　And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
　　Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.
　　
　　
　　The dripping blood our only drink,
　　The bloody flesh our only food:
　　In spite of which we like to think
　　That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
　　Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.
　　
　　
　　
　　V
　　
　　So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—
　　Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres
　　Trying to use words, and every attempt
　　Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
　　Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
　　For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
　　One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
　　Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
　　With shabby equipment always deteriorating
　　In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
　　Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
　　By strength and submission, has already been discovered
　　Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
　　To emulate—but there is no competition—
　　There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
　　And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
　　That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
　　For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.
　　
　　Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
　　The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
　　Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
　　Isolated, with no before and after,
　　But a lifetime burning in every moment
　　And not the lifetime of one man only
　　But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
　　There is a time for the evening under starlight,
　　A time for the evening under lamplight
　　(The evening with the photograph album).
　　Love is most nearly itself
　　When here and now cease to matter.
　　Old men ought to be explorers
　　Here or there does not matter
　　We must be still and still moving
　　Into another intensity
　　For a further union, a deeper communion
　　Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
　　The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
　　Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

　　一
　　
　　我不太了解神明；但我以为这条河
　　准是个威武的棕色大神——阴沉，粗野而又倔强，
　　忍耐只能到一定侧过年度，起初人们把他认作一条边界；
　　有用，但不值得信赖，像是个商业的运输人；
　　此后只成了桥梁建造则面临的一个问题。
　　问题一旦解决，这个棕色大神就几乎
　　被城市的居民淡忘——尽管他依然难以平息，
　　保持着他的四季和愤怒，作为破坏者，作为唤起
　　人们但愿忘怀的过去的提示者。得不到机器
　　崇拜者的尊敬和抚慰，只是等待着，守望着，等待着。
　　他的律动出现在托儿所的卧室里，
　　出现在四月庭院中繁茂的埃朗萨斯树丛里，
　　出现的秋天餐桌上葡萄的芳香里，
　　和在冬天夜晚煤气灯的光圈里。
　　
　　河在我们中间，海在我们周围；
　　海也是大地的边缘，它波涛滚滚
　　拍向花岗岩，它把暗示它在远古和不久前的创造
　　星星点点地抛向岸滩：
　　星鱼，鲎，鲸鱼的脊骨；
　　在水潭里，它给我们的好奇心
　　留下了更纤巧的海藻和海葵。
　　它抛起我们失落的东西，那破烂的渔网，
　　捕捉龙虾的破篓，折断的船桨
　　和异域死者的褴褛的衣衫。海有很多种声音，
　　很多神明和很多声音。
　　盐在多刺的玫瑰上，
　　雾在冷杉树林中。
　　大海的嚎叫
　　和大海的呼喊，是不同的声音
　　常常能同时听到；帆索的哀鸣声，
　　海面上巨浪翻滚的恐吓和爱抚，
　　远处的惊涛在花岗岩的齿缝中的排击声，
　　还有为海岬逼近而发出的警告的呜咽声，
　　这些斗士大海的声音，还有掉头朝向归途的
　　发出尖啸声的浮标和海鸥：
　　在悄无生息的浓雾的压力下
　　那从容不迫的巨浪敲响了
　　隆隆钟声，报告着时间，但不是我们的时间，
　　一种时间
　　比天文钟计量的时间更古老，
　　比那些烦恼而焦虑不安的女人们计算的时间更古老，
　　她们长夜不寐，计算着未来，
　　试着把过去和未来拆散，解开，
　　又把它们重新拼合在一起，
　　在夜半和黎明之间，当过去已变为一场欺骗，
　　未来已成为没有未来，在四更之前
　　时间停歇，时间变成永无终了的时候；
　　巨浪滔滔，现在是这样，有始以来也是这样。
　　钟声
　　铿锵
　　
　　
　　二
　　
　　这无声的呜咽，这秋花的悄然谢去，
　　花瓣飘落从此凝然不动，它们的终极在哪里？
　　沉船的残骸随波漂泊，白骨在岸滩上祈求，
　　那向宣布灾难临头的通告
　　发出无从祈求的祈求，，
　　这一切的终极在哪里？
　　
　　一切了无终极，不禁如此更有那
　　随未来的时日而接触而来的后果，
　　当人生的无情岁月已落入你一度以为
　　最可信赖的事物的碎片之中——
　　因而最恰当的对策莫如舍弃的时候，
　　感情却兀自沉湎于往昔。
　　
　　最后还有出于对自己的气力不济
　　而产生无济于事的自豪和怨恨；
　　驾一叶小舟漂泊海上，任凭海水从裂隙徐徐漏入，
　　那无所依附的眷恋可能北看作无所眷恋；
　　还有那最后的通告的钟声发出不可争辩的呼喊时
　　默默无语的谛听。
　　
　　何处是渔夫的归宿，他们驶进
　　风的尾势，雾霭在那里瑟瑟颤抖？
　　我们无法想象一个没有海洋的时代
　　或者一个不是漂满了废物的海洋
　　或者一个不可能有一个目的地的未来，
　　像过去的岁月那样。
　　我们应该想起他们一如既往在戽水，
　　在张网和拉网，当那东北风势减弱吹过
　　永不变化也永不销蚀的浅提，
　　或者在船坞领取鱼钱，晒晾风帆；
　　而不应该想象他们在作一次毫无收益的出航，
　　打一网经不起审查的捕捞。
　　
　　那无声的呜咽永无穷期，
　　那秋花的谢去，没有痛苦也没有运动的痛苦的运动，
　　海的冲卷和漂流的沉船残骸，
　　白骨向它的上帝死神的祈求，这一切都永无穷期。
　　只有圣母报喜节那一声几乎是不可能
　　却又是唯一苦难祈求的祈求。
　　
　　当你年岁渐老，那过去
　　仿佛已有了另一种模式，不再只是一个结果——
　　或者甚至是一种发展：后者是部分的谬误，
　　受到肤浅的进化论思想的怂恿，
　　而在常人的心目中变成否认自己的过去的一种手段。
　　赏心乐事的瞬间——不是康泰之感，
　　功成名就，夙愿已偿，无忧无虑或感受到亲人之爱，
　　甚至不是享用一顿丰美酒宴，而是猛地或然彻悟——
　　我们有过这种经验，但没有领会其中涵义，
　　而懂得涵义就是在我们能赋予幸福以任何意义之外
　　在不同的形式中恢复以往的经验。我以前说过
　　在涵义中复活的以往经验
　　不仅是一个人一生的经验，
　　而且是多少世代人的经验——不要忘记
　　其中有的很可能根本无法言喻：
　　返顾典籍记载的历史的信念后面，
　　回转头去，只须稍稍返顾一下，
　　就看到那远古的恐怖。
　　现在，我们终于发现痛苦的瞬间
　　（至于是否出于误解，我们一向
　　寄希望于虚妄，或畏惧于不当畏惧的，
　　在不是我们要谈的问题）都与时间所具有的永恒性
　　一样永恒。在一点我们在别人的（与我们有关，
　　几乎像我们身受的一样）痛苦中领会得更深。
　　因为我们自己的过去被行动和汹涌的激流淹没了，
　　而别人的苦恼却始终是一种经验，
　　确凿无疑而又不为接踵而来的时间所磨损。
　　人们变化，微笑，而痛苦常在。
　　时间这个破坏者也是时间这个保存者，
　　就像这条运载死亡的黑人、牛棚和鸡笼的河，
　　就像苦涩的苹果和苹果上留下的齿痕一样。
　　而嶙峋的礁石在永不宁息的流水中
　　浪花冲刷它，浓雾掩蔽它；
　　风平浪静的日子，它不过是一块标石，
　　在适宜航行的气候永远是一个确定
　　航道的航海标志，但当阴沉忧郁的季节
　　或当它暴怒的时候，就露出了它本来的面目。
　　
　　
　　三
　　
　　我有时怀疑克里希纳说的是否就是这个意思——
　　在别种涵义之外——或者同一件事的另一种说法：
　　未来是一支消寂的歌，一朵殷红的玫瑰，或者是
　　一株为那些还没有到这里来表示悔恨的人们
　　留下的永志悔恨的薰衣草，
　　压在一本从未翻开却已发黄的书页之间。
　　而向上的路就是向下的路，向前的路就是回头的路。
　　你不能面对它而神色自若，但在件事却是确切无疑的，
　　时间不是治病的医生，病人已一去不复返。
　　当列车启动的时候，旅客们安顿下来
　　开始品尝水果、翻阅书刊和公务函件
　　（前来给他们送行的人们也离开了月台），
　　随着漫长时刻催人欲睡的节奏
　　他们的脸色从悲痛舒展为轻松。
　　旅人们，向前行进吧！在不是从过去
　　逃往不同的生活，也不是逃往任何未来；
　　你们不是刚才离开那个车站的人群
　　也不是行将到达终点的人们，
　　当渐行渐窄的铁轨在你们后面并成一线；
　　当你们的机声隆隆的轮船甲板上
　　谛视着船首劈开的波浪在你们后面扩展开去，
　　你们不会想到“往者已矣”
　　或者“来者可追”。
　　夜阑时分，在帆缆和天线里
　　有歌声在反复吟唱（虽然在低声细语的时间弦琴
　　既非为耳朵而弹奏，也未形之于任何语言）：
　　“向前行进吧，你们这些自以为在航海旅行的人；
　　你们不是那望见港湾渐渐消失的人们，
　　也不是行将离船上岸的人们。
　　这里，在海岸这边和更远的海岸之间，
　　当时间已经隐退，请用平等的心怀
　　思考过去和未来。
　　在这既不是行动也不是无所行动的瞬间
　　你们不妨听取这句忠告：‘在死亡的时刻
　　一个人不论他的意志专注什么样的
　　生存地位’——那是一次行动
　　（而死亡的时刻则是每一瞬间），
　　它必将在别人的生命中开花结果：
　　因此不必考虑行动的成果。
　　想前行进吧。
　　啊 航海的旅人们，啊 海员们
　　你们来到港口的人们，你们的身体将经受
　　大海的考验和判决或者不论遭到
　　什么事故的人们，这里就是你们真正的目的地。”
　　克里希纳就这样在战场上
　　劝告阿尔朱纳。
　　不是永别，
　　而是扬帆前行，航海的旅人们。
　　
　　
　　四
　　
　　圣母啊，您的神殿屹立在海岬之上，
　　请您为所有船上的人们，
　　为那些以渔业为生涯的人们，
　　也为那些与一切合法的海上交通有关
　　以及指挥他们的人们祈祷吧。
　　
　　请您也为那些送别了儿子或丈夫
　　启程出海，他们还没有回家的女人们
　　再作一次祈祷吧：
　　Figlia del tuo figlio，
　　天国之后。
　　
　　也为那些曾在船上，却在沙滩上，在大海的嘴唇里
　　或在那来者不拒的黑暗的喉咙里
　　或不论何处，只要是永恒的天使敲响
　　大海的钟声传不到他们的地方
　　最后终止了航行的人们祈祷吧。
　　
　　
　　五
　　
　　跟火星通话，与神灵交谈，
　　报告海妖的行为，
　　观测天象预卜未来，查看祭牲的内脏以释神谕，
　　或从水晶球中观察幻象，
　　从签名的笔迹看出病症，从手掌的纹路
　　追溯身世经历和从手指想起悲惨不幸；
　　用签卜或茶叶祛除凶兆，用纸牌解释
　　不可避免的事故，揣摩五角星形的图象
　　或靠服巴比妥酸打发日子，或把反复出现的想象
　　解析为前意识的各种恐惧——
　　由此探索出生、死亡或梦境；所有这些
　　都是平素的消遣和药物、报刊的特写报道，
　　而且也将永远如此，其中有些尤其如此，
　　当国家陷入危难和困惑不决的时候，
　　不论是在亚洲的海岸还是在艾琪韦尔大街。
　　人们的好奇心总爱探究过去和未来，
　　而且在这方面锲而不舍。但是领悟
　　那无始无终与时间的交叉点，却是圣者的职业——
　　也不是职业，而是他们为了爱、热忱、无私和自我屈从
　　而殉道的一生中的一种给予和取受。
　　就我们多数人来说，我们有的不过是被我们虚度的
　　瞬间，在时间之内和时间之外的瞬间，
　　不过是一次消失在一道阳光之中的心烦意乱，
　　没有被人赏识的野百合花香，或是冬天的闪电
　　或是飞溅的瀑布，或是听得过于深切
　　而一无所闻的音乐，但是只要乐曲余音未绝，
　　你就是音乐。这些不过是暗示和猜测，
　　暗示后面跟着猜测；其余就是
　　祈求，遵奉，修持，思索和行动。
　　猜出一半的暗示，懂得一半的赠予，是基督化为人身。
　　这里，各种生存地位不可能取得一致
　　是确实无疑的，
　　这里，过去和未来
　　已被征服，并且获得和解，
　　在这里行动不过是目前被驱动的事物的另一种运动，
　　运动的始源并不在于它本身之内——
　　而是受魔鬼的力量，地下的
　　力量的推动。而正当的行动
　　也不受过去与未来的约束。
　　对我们多数人来说，这是决不可能
　　在这里实现的目标；
　　我们仅仅是没有被击败而已，
　　因为我们还在继续尝试；
　　如果我们的暂时返归本源能滋育
　　（离紫杉树并不太远）
　　那意义深长的土地的生命，
　　我们，终将感到心满意足。

　　一
　　
　　仲东的春天是它自己的季节
　　漫漫永昼而到日落却一片湿润，
　　悬在时间中，在极圈和回归线之间。
　　当短暂的白昼因为寒霜和火成为最明亮的时刻，
　　匆促的太阳点燃了地上和沟里的冰，
　　在无风的冷冽中那是心的热，
　　在一面似水的镜子里
　　映照出一道刺目的强光，
　　在就是晌午时分之所以令人眩目而一无所见。
　　灼热的光比柴枝的火更烈比火盆更旺，
　　激起麻木的精神：没有风，只有圣灵降临节的火
　　在这一年的黑暗时节。在融化和结冰之间
　　灵魂的活力在颤抖。没有大地的气息
　　或者有生命之物的气息。这是春天季节
　　但不是在约定的时间之内。现在树篱
　　因为雪花短暂开放而一时满身素白，
　　一次比夏花绽放更突然的花开，
　　既未含葩待放也不会凋零谢落，
　　不在世代蕃衍的计划之内。
　　夏天在哪里？那不可想象的
　　零度的夏天？
　　
　　如果你到这里来，
　　选择你可能选择的路线
　　从你可能出那里来的地方来，
　　如果你在山楂花开的时候到这里来，
　　你会发现五月里，树篱又变白了，
　　飘散这迷人的甜香。
　　到旅程的终点都一样，
　　如果你像一位困顿的国王夤夜而来，
　　如果你白天来又不知道你为何而来，
　　那都一样，当你离开崎岖的小径
　　在猪栏后面拐向那阴暗的前庭和墓碑的时候。
　　你原先以为是你此行的目的
　　现在不过是意义的一层贝壳，一层荚
　　只要有什么目的能实现的话，目的才破壳而出。
　　或者是你原先根本没有目的
　　或者是目的在于你是想象的终点之外
　　而在实现的过程中已经改变。另有一些地方
　　也是世界的终点，有的在海的入口
　　或者在一片黑暗的湖上，在沙漠中
　　或者在一座城市里——
　　但是在地点和时间上，这里是最近的地方，
　　现在和在英格兰。
　　
　　如果你到这里来，
　　不论走哪条路，从哪里出发，
　　在哪个地方或哪个季节，
　　那都是一样：你必须抛开
　　感觉和思想。你到这里来不是为了证明什么，
　　教诲自己，或者告诉什么新奇的事物
　　或者传送报告。你到这里来
　　是到祈祷一向是正当的地方来
　　俯首下跪。祈祷不只是
　　一种话语，祈祷者头脑的
　　清醒的活动，或者是祈求呼告的声音。
　　死者活着的时候，无法以言词表达的，
　　他们作为死者能告诉你：死者的交流思想
　　超乎生者的语言之外是用火表达的。
　　这里，无始无终的瞬间的交叉点是英格兰，
　　而不是任何其他地方。决不而且永远。
　　
　　二
　　
　　一个老人衣袖上的灰
　　是焚烧的玫瑰留下的全部尘灰。
　　尘灰悬在空中
　　标志着一个故事在这里告终。
　　你吸入的尘灰曾经是一座宅邸——
　　墙、护壁板和耗子。
　　希望和希望的死亡，
　　这是空气的死亡。
　　
　　在眼睛之上，在嘴巴里
　　有洪水和干旱，
　　止水和死沙
　　在争斗着谁占上风。
　　坼裂的失去元气的泥土
　　张目结舌地望着徒然无益的劳动，
　　放声大笑而没有欢乐。
　　这是土的死亡。
　　
　　水和火取代
　　城镇、牧场和野草。
　　水和火嘲弄
　　我们拒绝奉献的牺牲。
　　水和火也必将腐蚀
　　我们遗忘的圣殿和唱诗席的
　　已经毁坏的基础。
　　这是水和火的死亡。
　　
　　
　　在黎明来临前无法确知的时刻
　　漫漫长夜行将结束
　　永无终止又到了终点
　　当黑黝黝的鸽子喷吐着忽隐忽现的火舌
　　在地平线下掠飞归去以后
　　在硝烟升腾的三个地区之间
　　再没有别的声息只有枯叶像白铁皮一般
　　嘎嘎作响地扫过沥青路面
　　这时我遇见一个在街上闲荡的行人
　　像被不可阻挡的城市晨风吹卷的
　　金属薄片急匆匆地向我走来。
　　当我用锐利而审视的目光
　　打量他那张低垂的脸庞
　　就像我们盘问初次遇见的陌生人那样
　　在即将消逝的暮色中
　　我瞧见一位曾经相识、但已淡忘的已故的大师
　　突然显现的面容，我恍惚记得
　　他既是一个又是许多个；晒黒的脸上
　　一个熟识的复合的灵魂的眼睛
　　既亲密又不可辨认。
　　因此我反复了一个双重角色，一面喊叫
　　一面又听另一个人喊叫：“啊！你在这里？”
　　尽管我们都不是。我还是我，
　　但我知道我自己已经成了另一个人——
　　而他只是一张还在形成的脸；但语言已足够
　　强迫他们承认曾经相识。
　　因此，按照一般的风尚，
　　双方既然素昧平生也就不可能产生误会，
　　我们在这千载难逢，没有以前也没有以后的
　　交叉时刻和谐地漫步在行人道上作一次死亡的巡逻。
　　我说：“我感到惊异是那么轻松安适，
　　然而轻松正是惊异的原因。所以说，
　　我也许并不理解，也许不复记忆。”
　　他却说：“我的思想和原则已被你遗忘，
　　我不想再一次详细申诉。
　　这些东西已经满足了它们的需要：由它们去吧。
　　你自己的也是这样，祈求别人宽恕它们吧，
　　就像我祈求你宽恕善与恶一样。上季的果子
　　已经吃过，喂饱了的野兽也一定会把空桶踢开。
　　因为去年的话属于去年的语言
　　而来年的话还在等待另一种语调。
　　但是，对于来自异域没有得到抚慰的灵魂，
　　在两个已变得非常相像的世界之间
　　现在道路已畅通无阻，
　　所以当我把我的躯体
　　委弃在遥远的岸边以后
　　我在我从未想到会重访的街巷
　　找到了我从未想说的话。
　　既然我们关心的是说话，而说话又驱使我们
　　去纯洁部族的方言
　　并怂恿我们瞻前顾后，
　　那么就让我打开长久保存的礼物
　　褒美你一生的成就。
　　首先，当肉体与灵魂开始分离时，
　　即将熄灭的感觉失去了魅力
　　它那冷漠的摩擦不能给你提供任何许诺
　　而只能是虚妄的果子的苦涩无味。
　　第二，是对人间的愚行自知表示愤怒的
　　软弱无力，以及对那不再引人发笑的一切
　　你的笑声受到的伤害。
　　最后，在重演你一生的作为和扮演的角色时
　　那撕裂心肺的痛苦；日后败露的动机所带来的羞愧，
　　还有你一度一位是行善之举，
　　如今觉察过去种种全是恶行
　　全是对别人的伤害而产生的内疚。
　　于是愚人的赞扬刺痛你，世间的荣誉玷污你。
　　激怒的灵魂从错误走向错误
　　除非得到炼火的匡救，因为像一个舞蹈家
　　你必然要随着节拍向那儿跳去。”
　　天色即将破晓。在这条毁损的街上
　　他带着永别的神情离开了我，
　　消失在汽笛的长鸣声中。
　　
　　
　　
　　三
　　
　　有三种情况发生在这同一片树篱，
　　往往貌似想像其实截然不同：
　　对自身、对物和人们的依附，
　　从自身、从物和人们的分离；以及在这两者之间
　　产生的冷漠，它与前两种相似，犹如死与生相似，
　　处于两种生涯之间——不绽开花朵，处于
　　生的和死的苦恼之间。这正是记忆的用处：
　　为了解脱——不是因为爱得不够
　　而是爱超乎欲望之外的扩展，于是不仅从过去
　　也从未来得到解脱。这样，对一个地方的爱恋
　　始于我们对自己的活动场所的依附
　　终于发现这种活动没多大意义
　　虽然决不是冷漠。历史也许是奴役，
　　历史也许是自由。瞧，那一张张脸一处处地方
　　随着那尽其是能爱过它们的自我
　　一起，现在它们都消失了，
　　而在另一种模式下更新，变化。
　　
　　罪是不可避免的，但是
　　一切终将安然无恙，而且
　　时间万物也终将安然无恙。
　　如果我又一次想起这个地方，
　　又一次想起那些人，他们并非全都值得称道，
　　既非直系亲属也非性情和善之辈，
　　却是一些具有特殊才能的人，
　　他们都受了一种共同的思潮的感召，
　　而联合在把他们分裂为营垒的斗争中；
　　如果我在黄昏时分想起一位国王，
　　想起三个和更多的人被处决在绞刑架上
　　还有一些死后默默无闻的人
　　在其他地方，在这里和国外，
　　我也想起一个双目失明悄然死去的人，
　　为什么我们纪念这些死去的人
　　就该胜于纪念那些濒临死亡的人呢？
　　这不是重新去敲响往昔的钟声
　　也不是召唤一朵玫瑰的幽灵的咒语。
　　我们无法复活那些古老的派别
　　我们无法恢复那些古老的政策
　　或者跟上一面古老的皮鼓敲击的鼓点。
　　这些人，和反对他们的那些人
　　和那些他们反对的人
　　如今都接受了无声的命令
　　归入一个单一的团体。
　　不管我们重幸运的人们继承到什么
　　我们已经从失败的人们取得了
　　他们不得不留给我们的一切——一种象征：
　　一种在死亡中得到完善的象征。
　　因此，通过动机的纯化
　　凭着我们祈求的理由
　　一切终将安然无恙，而且
　　时间万物也终将安然无恙。
　　
　　
　　
　　四
　　
　　鸽子喷吐着炽烈的恐怖的火焰
　　划破夜空，掠飞而下
　　烈焰的火舌昭吿世间
　　它免除了死者的过错和罪愆。
　　那仅有的希望，要不就是失望
　　在于你对焚尸柴堆的选择或者就在于柴堆——
　　通过烈火从烈火中得到涤罪。
　　
　　是谁想出这种折磨的呢？是爱。
　　爱是不熟悉的名字
　　它在编织火焰之衫的那双手后面，
　　火焰使人无法忍耐
　　那衣衫绝非人力所能解开。
　　我们只是活着，只是悲叹
　　不是让这种火就是让那种火把我们的生命耗完。
　　
　　
　　
　　五
　　
　　我们叫做开始的往往就是结束
　　而宣告结束也就是着手开始。
　　终点是我们出发的地方。每个短语
　　和每个句子只要安排妥帖（每个词都各得其所，
　　从它所处的位置支持其他的词，
　　文字既不羞怯也不炫耀，
　　新与旧之间的一种轻松的交流，
　　普通的文字确切而不鄙俗，
　　规范的文字准确而不迂腐，
　　融洽无间地在一起舞蹈）
　　那么每个短语每个句子都是一个结束和一个开始，
　　每首诗都是一篇墓志铭。而任何一个行动
　　都是走向断头台，走向烈火，落入大海
　　或走向一块你无法辨认的石碑的一步：
　　而这就是我们出发的地方，
　　我们与濒临死亡的人们偕亡：
　　瞧，他们离去了，我们与他们同行。
　　我们与死者同生：
　　瞧，他们回来了，携我们与他们俱来。
　　玫瑰飘香和紫杉扶疏的时令
　　经历的时间一样短长。一个没有历史的民族
　　不能从时间得到拯救，因为历史
　　是无始无终的瞬间的一种模式，所以，当一个冬天的下午
　　天色渐渐暗淡的时候，在一座僻静的教堂里
　　历史就是现在和英格兰。
　　
　　由于这种爱和召唤声的吸引
　　我们将不停止探索
　　而我们一切探索的终点
　　将是到达我们出发的地方
　　并且是生平第一遭知道这地方。
　　当时间的终极犹待我们去发现的时候
　　穿过那未认识的，忆起的大门
　　就是过去曾经是我们的起点；
　　在最漫长的大河的源头
　　有深藏的瀑布的飞湍声
　　在苹果林中有孩子们的欢笑声，
　　这些你都不知道，因为你
　　并没有去寻找
　　而只是听到，隐约听到，
　　在大海两次潮汐之间的寂静里。
　　倏忽易逝的现在，这里，现在，永远——
　　一种极其简单的状态
　　（要求付出的代价却不比任何东西少）
　　而一切终将安然无恙，
　　时间万物也终将安然无恙
　　当火舌最后交织成牢固的火焰
　　烈火与玫瑰化为一体的时候。

　　Little Gidding
　　I
　　Midwinter spring is its own season
　　Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,
　　Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.
　　When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,
　　The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,
　　In windless cold that is the heart's heat,
　　Reflecting in a watery mirror
　　A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.
　　And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier,
　　Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire
　　In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing
　　The soul's sap quivers. There is no earth smell
　　Or smell of living thing. This is the spring time
　　But not in time's covenant. Now the hedgerow
　　Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom
　　Of snow, a bloom more sudden
　　Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading,
　　Not in the scheme of generation.
　　Where is the summer, the unimaginable
　　Zero summer?
　　
　　 If you came this way,
　　Taking the route you would be likely to take
　　From the place you would be likely to come from,
　　If you came this way in may time, you would find the hedges
　　White again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness.
　　It would be the same at the end of the journey,
　　If you came at night like a broken king,
　　If you came by day not knowing what you came for,
　　It would be the same, when you leave the rough road
　　And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade
　　And the tombstone. And what you thought you came for
　　Is only a shell, a husk of meaning
　　From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled
　　If at all. Either you had no purpose
　　Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured
　　And is altered in fulfilment. There are other places
　　Which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws,
　　Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city—
　　But this is the nearest, in place and time,
　　Now and in England.
　　
　　 If you came this way,
　　Taking any route, starting from anywhere,
　　At any time or at any season,
　　It would always be the same: you would have to put off
　　Sense and notion. You are not here to verify,
　　Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
　　Or carry report. You are here to kneel
　　Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more
　　Than an order of words, the conscious occupation
　　Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.
　　And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
　　They can tell you, being dead: the communication
　　Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
　　Here, the intersection of the timeless moment
　　Is England and nowhere. Never and always.
　　
　　
　　
　　II
　　
　　Ash on and old man's sleeve
　　Is all the ash the burnt roses leave.
　　Dust in the air suspended
　　Marks the place where a story ended.
　　Dust inbreathed was a house—
　　The walls, the wainscot and the mouse,
　　The death of hope and despair,
　　 This is the death of air.
　　
　　There are flood and drouth
　　Over the eyes and in the mouth,
　　Dead water and dead sand
　　Contending for the upper hand.
　　The parched eviscerate soil
　　Gapes at the vanity of toil,
　　Laughs without mirth.
　　 This is the death of earth.
　　
　　Water and fire succeed
　　The town, the pasture and the weed.
　　Water and fire deride
　　The sacrifice that we denied.
　　Water and fire shall rot
　　The marred foundations we forgot,
　　Of sanctuary and choir.
　　 This is the death of water and fire.
　　
　　In the uncertain hour before the morning
　　 Near the ending of interminable night
　　 At the recurrent end of the unending
　　After the dark dove with the flickering tongue
　　 Had passed below the horizon of his homing
　　 While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin
　　Over the asphalt where no other sound was
　　 Between three districts whence the smoke arose
　　 I met one walking, loitering and hurried
　　As if blown towards me like the metal leaves
　　 Before the urban dawn wind unresisting.
　　 And as I fixed upon the down-turned face
　　That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge
　　 The first-met stranger in the waning dusk
　　 I caught the sudden look of some dead master
　　Whom I had known, forgotten, half recalled
　　 Both one and many; in the brown baked features
　　 The eyes of a familiar compound ghost
　　Both intimate and unidentifiable.
　　 So I assumed a double part, and cried
　　 And heard another's voice cry: 'What! are you here?'
　　Although we were not. I was still the same,
　　 Knowing myself yet being someone other—
　　 And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed
　　To compel the recognition they preceded.
　　 And so, compliant to the common wind,
　　 Too strange to each other for misunderstanding,
　　In concord at this intersection time
　　 Of meeting nowhere, no before and after,
　　 We trod the pavement in a dead patrol.
　　I said: 'The wonder that I feel is easy,
　　 Yet ease is cause of wonder. Therefore speak:
　　 I may not comprehend, may not remember.'
　　And he: 'I am not eager to rehearse
　　 My thoughts and theory which you have forgotten.
　　 These things have served their purpose: let them be.
　　So with your own, and pray they be forgiven
　　 By others, as I pray you to forgive
　　 Both bad and good. Last season's fruit is eaten
　　And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail.
　　 For last year's words belong to last year's language
　　 And next year's words await another voice.
　　But, as the passage now presents no hindrance
　　 To the spirit unappeased and peregrine
　　 Between two worlds become much like each other,
　　So I find words I never thought to speak
　　 In streets I never thought I should revisit
　　 When I left my body on a distant shore.
　　Since our concern was speech, and speech impelled us
　　 To purify the dialect of the tribe
　　 And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight,
　　Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age
　　 To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort.
　　 First, the cold friction of expiring sense
　　Without enchantment, offering no promise
　　 But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit
　　 As body and soul begin to fall asunder.
　　Second, the conscious impotence of rage
　　 At human folly, and the laceration
　　 Of laughter at what ceases to amuse.
　　And last, the rending pain of re-enactment
　　 Of all that you have done, and been; the shame
　　 Of motives late revealed, and the awareness
　　Of things ill done and done to others' harm
　　 Which once you took for exercise of virtue.
　　 Then fools' approval stings, and honour stains.
　　From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit
　　 Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire
　　 Where you must move in measure, like a dancer.'
　　The day was breaking. In the disfigured street
　　 He left me, with a kind of valediction,
　　 And faded on the blowing of the horn.
　　
　　
　　
　　III
　　
　　There are three conditions which often look alike
　　Yet differ completely, flourish in the same hedgerow:
　　Attachment to self and to things and to persons, detachment
　　From self and from things and from persons; and, growing between them, indifference
　　Which resembles the others as death resembles life,
　　Being between two lives—unflowering, between
　　The live and the dead nettle. This is the use of memory:
　　For liberation—not less of love but expanding
　　Of love beyond desire, and so liberation
　　From the future as well as the past. Thus, love of a country
　　Begins as attachment to our own field of action
　　And comes to find that action of little importance
　　Though never indifferent. History may be servitude,
　　History may be freedom. See, now they vanish,
　　The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them,
　　To become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern.
　　
　　Sin is Behovely, but
　　All shall be well, and
　　All manner of thing shall be well.
　　If I think, again, of this place,
　　And of people, not wholly commendable,
　　Of no immediate kin or kindness,
　　But of some peculiar genius,
　　All touched by a common genius,
　　United in the strife which divided them;
　　If I think of a king at nightfall,
　　Of three men, and more, on the scaffold
　　And a few who died forgotten
　　In other places, here and abroad,
　　And of one who died blind and quiet
　　Why should we celebrate
　　These dead men more than the dying?
　　It is not to ring the bell backward
　　Nor is it an incantation
　　To summon the spectre of a Rose.
　　We cannot revive old factions
　　We cannot restore old policies
　　Or follow an antique drum.
　　These men, and those who opposed them
　　And those whom they opposed
　　Accept the constitution of silence
　　And are folded in a single party.
　　Whatever we inherit from the fortunate
　　We have taken from the defeated
　　What they had to leave us—a symbol:
　　A symbol perfected in death.
　　And all shall be well and
　　All manner of thing shall be well
　　By the purification of the motive
　　In the ground of our beseeching.
　　
　　
　　
　　IV
　　
　　The dove descending breaks the air
　　With flame of incandescent terror
　　Of which the tongues declare
　　The one discharge from sin and error.
　　The only hope, or else despair
　　 Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre—
　　 To be redeemed from fire by fire.
　　
　　Who then devised the torment? Love.
　　Love is the unfamiliar Name
　　Behind the hands that wove
　　The intolerable shirt of flame
　　Which human power cannot remove.
　　 We only live, only suspire
　　 Consumed by either fire or fire.
　　
　　
　　
　　V
　　
　　What we call the beginning is often the end
　　And to make and end is to make a beginning.
　　The end is where we start from. And every phrase
　　And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
　　Taking its place to support the others,
　　The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
　　An easy commerce of the old and the new,
　　The common word exact without vulgarity,
　　The formal word precise but not pedantic,
　　The complete consort dancing together)
　　Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
　　Every poem an epitaph. And any action
　　Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
　　Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
　　We die with the dying:
　　See, they depart, and we go with them.
　　We are born with the dead:
　　See, they return, and bring us with them.
　　The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
　　Are of equal duration. A people without history
　　Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
　　Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
　　On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel
　　History is now and England.
　　
　　With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this
　　 Calling
　　
　　We shall not cease from exploration
　　And the end of all our exploring
　　Will be to arrive where we started
　　And know the place for the first time.
　　Through the unknown, unremembered gate
　　When the last of earth left to discover
　　Is that which was the beginning;
　　At the source of the longest river
　　The voice of the hidden waterfall
　　And the children in the apple-tree
　　Not known, because not looked for
　　But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
　　Between two waves of the sea.
　　Quick now, here, now, always—
　　A condition of complete simplicity
　　(Costing not less than everything)
　　And all shall be well and
　　All manner of thing shall be well
　　When the tongues of flame are in-folded
　　Into the crowned knot of fire
　　And the fire and the rose are one.

　　假如我认为，我是回答一个能转回阳世间的人，
　　那么，这火焰就不会再摇闪。但既然，如我听
　　到的果真没有人能活着离开这深渊，我回答你
　　就不必害怕流言。
　　
　　
　　那么我们走吧，你我两个人，
　　正当朝天空慢慢铺展着黄昏
　　好似病人麻醉在手术桌上；
　　我们走吧，穿过一些半清冷的街，
　　那儿休憩的场所正人声喋喋；
　　有夜夜不宁的下等歇夜旅店
　　和满地蚌壳的铺锯末的饭馆；
　　街连着街，好象一场讨厌的争议
　　带着阴险的意图
　　要把你引向一个重大的问题……
　　唉，不要问，"那是什么？"
　　让我们快点去作客。
　　在客厅里女士们来回地走，
　　谈着画家米开朗基罗。
　　
　　黄色的雾在窗玻璃上擦着它的背，
　　黄色的烟在窗玻璃上擦着它的嘴，
　　把它的舌头舐进黄昏的角落，
　　徘徊在快要干涸的水坑上；
　　让跌下烟囱的烟灰落上它的背，
　　它溜下台阶，忽地纵身跳跃，
　　看到这是一个温柔的十月的夜，
　　于是便在房子附近蜷伏起来安睡。
　　
　　呵，确实地，总会有时间
　　看黄色的烟沿着街滑行，
　　在窗玻璃上擦着它的背；
　　总会有时间，总会有时间
　　装一副面容去会见你去见的脸；
　　总会有时间去暗杀和创新，
　　总会有时间让举起问题又丢进你盘里的
　　双手完成劳作与度过时日；
　　有的是时间，无论你，无论我，
　　还有的是时间犹豫一百遍，
　　或看到一百种幻景再完全改过，
　　在吃一片烤面包和饮茶以前。
　　
　　在客厅里女士们来回地走，
　　谈着画家米开朗基罗。
　　
　　呵，确实地，总还有时间
　　来疑问，"我可有勇气？""我可有勇气？"
　　总还有时间来转身走下楼梯，
　　把一块秃顶暴露给人去注意——
　　（她们会说："他的头发变得多么稀！"）
　　我的晨礼服，我的硬领在腭下笔挺，
　　我的领带雅致而多彩，用一个简朴的别针固定——
　　（她们会说："可是他的胳膊腿多么细！"）
　　我可有勇气
　　搅乱这个宇宙？
　　在一分钟里总还有时间
　　决定和变卦，过一分钟再变回头。
　　
　　因为我已经熟悉了她们，熟悉了她们所有的人——
　　熟悉了那些黄昏，和上下午的情景，
　　我是用咖啡匙子量走了我的生命；
　　我熟悉每当隔壁响起了音乐
　　话声就逐渐低微而至停歇。
　　所以我怎么敢开口？
　　
　　而且我已熟悉那些眼睛，熟悉了她们所有的眼睛——
　　那些眼睛能用一句成语的公式把你盯住，
　　当我被公式化了，在别针下趴伏，
　　那我怎么能开始吐出
　　我的生活和习惯的全部剩烟头？
　　我又怎么敢开口？
　　而且我已经熟悉了那些胳膊，熟悉了她们所有的胳膊——
　　那些胳膊带着镯子，又袒露又白净
　　（可是在灯光下，显得淡褐色毛茸茸！）
　　是否由于衣裙的香气
　　使得我这样话离本题？
　　那些胳膊或围着肩巾，或横在案头。
　　那时候我该开口吗？
　　可是我怎么开始？
　　
　　是否我说，我在黄昏时走过窄小的街，
　　看到孤独的男子只穿着衬衫
　　倚在窗口，烟斗里冒着袅袅的烟？……
　　
　　那我就会成为一对蟹螯
　　急急爬过沉默的海底。
　　
　　啊，那下午，那黄昏，睡得多平静！
　　被纤长的手指轻轻抚爱，
　　睡了……倦慵的……或者它装病，
　　躺在地板上，就在你我脚边伸开。
　　是否我，在用过茶、糕点和冰食以后，
　　有魄力把这一刻推到紧要的关头？
　　然而，尽管我曾哭泣和斋戒，哭泣和祈祷，
　　尽管我看见我的头（有一点秃了）用盘子端了进来，
　　我不是先知——这也不值得大惊小怪；
　　我曾看到我伟大的时刻闪烁，
　　我曾看到我的外衣暗笑，
　　一句话，我有点害怕。
　　
　　而且，归根到底，是不是值得
　　当小吃、果子酱和红茶已用过，
　　在杯盘中间，当人们谈着你和我，
　　是不是值得以一个微笑
　　把这件事情一口啃掉，
　　把整个宇宙压缩成一个球，
　　使它滚向某个重大的问题，
　　说道："我是拉撒路，从冥界
　　来报一个信，我要告诉你们一切。"——
　　万一她把枕垫放在头下一倚，
　　说道："唉，我意思不是要谈这些；
　　不，我不是要谈这些。"
　　
　　那么，归根到底，是不是值得，
　　是否值得在那许多次夕阳以后，
　　在庭院的散步和水淋过街道以后，
　　在读小说以后，在饮茶以后，在长裙拖过地板以后，——
　　说这些，和许多许多事情？——
　　要说出我想说的话绝不可能！
　　仿佛有幻灯把神经的图样投到幕上：
　　是否还值得如此难为情，
　　假如她放一个枕垫或掷下披肩，
　　把脸转向窗户，甩出一句：
　　那可不是我的本意，
　　那可绝不是我的本意。
　　
　　不！我并非哈姆雷特王子，当也当不成；
　　我只是个侍从爵士，为王家出行，
　　铺排显赫的场面，或为王子出主意，
　　就够好的了；无非是顺手的工具，
　　服服帖帖，巴不得有点用途，
　　细致，周详，处处小心翼翼；
　　满口高谈阔论，但有点愚鲁；
　　有时候，老实说，显得近乎可笑，
　　有时候，几乎是个丑角。
　　
　　呵，我变老了……我变老了……
　　我将要卷起我的长裤的裤脚。
　　
　　我将把头发往后分吗？我可敢吃桃子？
　　我将穿上白法兰绒裤在海滩上散步。
　　我听见了女水妖彼此对唱着歌。
　　
　　我不认为她们会为我而唱歌。
　　
　　我看过她们凌驾波浪驶向大海，
　　梳着打回来的波浪的白发，
　　当狂风把海水吹得又黑又白。
　　
　　我们留连于大海的宫室，
　　被海妖以红的和棕的海草装饰，
　　一旦被人声唤醒，我们就淹死。

　　S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
　　A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
　　Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
　　Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
　　Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
　　Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
　　
　　
　　LET us go then, you and I,
　　When the evening is spread out against the sky
　　Like a patient etherized upon a table;
　　Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
　　The muttering retreats 5
　　Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
　　And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
　　Streets that follow like a tedious argument
　　Of insidious intent
　　To lead you to an overwhelming question…. 10
　　Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
　　Let us go and make our visit.
　　
　　In the room the women come and go
　　Talking of Michelangelo.
　　
　　The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15
　　The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
　　Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
　　Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
　　Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
　　Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20
　　And seeing that it was a soft October night,
　　Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
　　
　　And indeed there will be time
　　For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
　　Rubbing its back upon the window panes; 25
　　There will be time, there will be time
　　To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
　　There will be time to murder and create,
　　And time for all the works and days of hands
　　That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
　　Time for you and time for me,
　　And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
　　And for a hundred visions and revisions,
　　Before the taking of a toast and tea.
　　
　　In the room the women come and go 35
　　Talking of Michelangelo.
　　
　　And indeed there will be time
　　To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
　　Time to turn back and descend the stair,
　　With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— 40
　　(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
　　My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
　　My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
　　(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
　　Do I dare 45
　　Disturb the universe?
　　In a minute there is time
　　For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
　　
　　For I have known them all already, known them all:
　　Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50
　　I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
　　I know the voices dying with a dying fall
　　Beneath the music from a farther room.
　　 So how should I presume?
　　
　　And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 55
　　The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
　　And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
　　When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
　　Then how should I begin
　　To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60
　　 And how should I presume?
　　
　　And I have known the arms already, known them all—
　　Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
　　(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
　　Is it perfume from a dress 65
　　That makes me so digress?
　　Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
　　 And should I then presume?
　　 And how should I begin?
　　. . . . . . . .
　　Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70
　　And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
　　Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
　　
　　I should have been a pair of ragged claws
　　Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
　　. . . . . . . .
　　And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 75
　　Smoothed by long fingers,
　　Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
　　Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
　　Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
　　Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 80
　　But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
　　Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
　　I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
　　I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
　　And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 85
　　And in short, I was afraid.
　　
　　And would it have been worth it, after all,
　　After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
　　Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
　　Would it have been worth while, 90
　　To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
　　To have squeezed the universe into a ball
　　To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
　　To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
　　Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— 95
　　If one, settling a pillow by her head,
　　 Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
　　 That is not it, at all.”
　　
　　And would it have been worth it, after all,
　　Would it have been worth while, 100
　　After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
　　After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
　　And this, and so much more?—
　　It is impossible to say just what I mean!
　　But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 105
　　Would it have been worth while
　　If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
　　And turning toward the window, should say:
　　 “That is not it at all,
　　 That is not what I meant, at all.”
　　. . . . . . . .
　　 110
　　No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
　　Am an attendant lord, one that will do
　　To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
　　Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
　　Deferential, glad to be of use, 115
　　Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
　　Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
　　At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
　　Almost, at times, the Fool.
　　
　　I grow old … I grow old … 120
　　I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
　　
　　Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
　　I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
　　I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
　　
　　I do not think that they will sing to me. 125
　　
　　I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
　　Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
　　When the wind blows the water white and black.
　　
　　We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
　　By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130
　　Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

　　眼睛，我曾在最后一刻的泪光中看见你
　　穿越在界限之上
　　在死亡这畔的梦国里
　　黄金时代的景象再现
　　我看到了眼睛，但没有泪水
　　这是我的苦难
　　
　　这就是我的苦难
　　眼睛，我不该再次见到你
　　目光坚毅的双眼
　　眼睛，我不该看见你，除非是
　　在死亡的另一王国的门口
　　那儿，正如这里
　　眼睛会持久一些
　　泪水也会持久一些
　　并将我们一起当成笑柄
　　
　　------------------------------
　　
　　我最后一次看到的充满泪水的眼睛
　　
　　我最后一次看到的充满泪水的眼睛
　　越过分界线
　　这里，在死亡的梦幻王国中
　　金色的幻象重新出现
　　我看到眼睛，但未看到泪水
　　这是我的苦难
　　这是我的苦难
　　我再也见不到的眼睛
　　充满决心的眼睛
　　除了在死亡另一王国的门口
　　我再也见不到的眼睛
　　那里，就像在这里
　　眼睛的生命力更长一些
　　比泪水的生命力更长一些
　　眼睛在嘲弄我们。
　　裘小龙译

　　风在四点骤然刮起，撞击着
　　在生与死之间摆动的钟铃
　　这里，在死亡的梦幻国土中
　　混乱的争斗出现了苏醒的回音
　　它究竟是梦呢还是其他 ？
　　当逐渐变暗的河面
　　竞是一张流着汗和泪的脸时
　　我的目光穿越渐暗的河水
　　营地的篝火与异国的长矛一起晃动。
　　这儿，越过死亡的另一河流
　　鞑靼族的骑兵摇晃着他们的矛头。

　　红河、红河，
　　慢慢流淌的热默默无声，
　　没有意志能像河流那般平静。
　　难道热只在一度听到的
　　反舌鸟的婉啭中运动？静谧的山岭
　　等待着。大门等待着。紫色的树，
　　白色的树，等待，等待，
　　延宕，衰败。生存着，生存着，
　　从不运动。永远运动的
　　铁的思想和我一起来临
　　又和我一起消失：
　　红河、河、河。

她们在地下室厨房里弄得早餐盘子丁当响，
而沿着众人践踏的街边
我知道女仆们潮湿的心灵
正在院子门边沮丧地发芽。
棕色的雾的波浪把一张张扭曲的脸
从街底向我抛了上来，
从一个穿泥污裙子的过路人身上
撕下一个无目的的微笑在空中盘旋
然后消失于无数屋顶的平面。

THEY are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
And along the trampled edges of the street
I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
Sprouting despondently at area gates.

The brown waves of fog toss up to me 5
Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,
And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts
An aimless smile that hovers in the air
And vanishes along the level of the roofs.

　　AS she laughed I was aware of becoming involved
　　in her laughter and being part of it, until her
　　teeth were only accidental stars with a talent
　　for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short gasps,
　　inhaled at each momentary recovery, lost finally
　　in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by
　　the ripple of unseen muscles. An elderly waiter
　　with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading
　　a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty
　　green iron table, saying: "If the lady and
　　gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden,
　　if the lady and gentleman wish to take their
　　tea in the garden..." I decided that if the
　　shaking of her breasts could be stopped, some of
　　the fragments of the afternoon might be collected,
　　and I concentrated my attention with careful
　　subtlety to this end.

三
你从床上掀掉一条毯子，
你仰卧着，等待着；
你瞌睡着，观望着黑夜显示出
成千上万个污秽的意象——
这些意象构成了你的灵魂。
这些意象在天花板上隐现。
当人世生活全都重新回来，
阳光在百叶窗中间爬上，
你听到一只麻雀在街沟中歌唱，
对你，街道呈现这样一个景象，
对此，街道自己几乎不能理解；
坐在床边上，那里
你卷着头发中的纸带子，
或用两只腌膳的手掌
捏着黄黄的脚底心。

四
他的灵魂紧紧拉过了那片
消失于一座城市大钟后面的天空，
他的灵魂给不停的脚步踩踏着，
在四点、五点和六点钟。
又短又粗的手指填着烟斗，
一张张晚报，还有深信
某些必然的事的眼睛，
一条暗黑的街道的意识
急于要掌握这个世界。

我被那缭绕着、紧抱着
这些意象的幻想感动，
一种无穷的温柔的
无穷的痛苦的事物的概念。

用手擦一下你的嘴，然后大笑，
世界旋转着，像个古老的妇人
在空地中拣煤渣。

I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.

II
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.

III
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters,
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed's edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.

IV
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

　　Thou hast committed--
　　Fornication: but that was in another country
　　And besides, the wench is dead.
　　-- The Jew of Malta.
　　
　　
　　I
　　Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon
　　You have the scene arrange itself--as it will seem to do--
　　With "I have saved this afternoon for you";
　　And four wax candles in the darkened room,
　　Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead,
　　An atmosphere of Juliet's tomb
　　Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.
　　We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole
　　Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger-tips.
　　"So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul
　　Should be resurrected only among friends
　　Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom
　　That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room."
　　--And so the conversation slips
　　Among velleities and carefully caught regrets
　　Through attenuated tones of violins
　　Mingled with remote cornets
　　And begins.
　　
　　"You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,
　　And how, how rare and strange it is, to find
　　In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,
　　(For indeed I do not love it... you knew? you are not blind!
　　How keen you are!)
　　To find a friend who has these qualities,
　　Who has, and gives
　　Those qualities upon which friendship lives.
　　How much it means that I say this to you--
　　Without these friendships--life, what cauchemar!"
　　Among the windings of the violins
　　And the ariettes
　　Of cracked cornets
　　Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins
　　Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own,
　　Capricious monotone
　　That is at least one definite "false note."
　　--Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance,
　　Admire the monuments
　　Discuss the late events,
　　Correct our watches by the public clocks.
　　Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks.
　　
　　II
　　Now that lilacs are in bloom
　　She has a bowl of lilacs in her room
　　And twists one in her fingers while she talks.
　　"Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know
　　What life is, you should hold it in your hands";
　　(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)
　　"You let it flow from you, you let it flow,
　　And youth is cruel, and has no remorse
　　And smiles at situations which it cannot see."
　　I smile, of course,
　　And go on drinking tea.
　　"Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall
　　My buried life, and Paris in the Spring,
　　I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world
　　To be wonderful and youthful, after all."
　　
　　The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune
　　Of a broken violin on an August afternoon:
　　"I am always sure that you understand
　　My feelings, always sure that you feel,
　　Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand.
　　
　　You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles' heel.
　　You will go on, and when you have prevailed
　　You can say: at this point many a one has failed.
　　
　　But what have I, but what have I, my friend,
　　To give you, what can you receive from me?
　　Only the friendship and the sympathy
　　Of one about to reach her journey's end.
　　
　　I shall sit here, serving tea to friends...."
　　
　　I take my hat: how can I make a cowardly amends
　　For what she has said to me?
　　You will see me any morning in the park
　　Reading the comics and the sporting page.
　　Particularly I remark An English countess goes upon the stage.
　　A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance,
　　Another bank defaulter has confessed.
　　I keep my countenance, I remain self-possessed
　　Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired
　　Reiterates some worn-out common song
　　With the smell of hyacinths across the garden
　　Recalling things that other people have desired.
　　Are these ideas right or wrong?
　　
　　III
　　The October night comes down; returning as before
　　Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease
　　I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door
　　And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.
　　
　　"And so you are going abroad; and when do you return?
　　But that's a useless question.
　　You hardly know when you are coming back,
　　You will find so much to learn."
　　My smile falls heavily among the bric-à-brac.
　　
　　"Perhaps you can write to me."
　　My self-possession flares up for a second;
　　This is as I had reckoned.
　　
　　"I have been wondering frequently of late
　　(But our beginnings never know our ends!)
　　Why we have not developed into friends."
　　I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark
　　Suddenly, his expression in a glass.
　　My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark.
　　
　　"For everybody said so, all our friends,
　　They all were sure our feelings would relate
　　So closely! I myself can hardly understand.
　　We must leave it now to fate.
　　You will write, at any rate.
　　Perhaps it is not too late.
　　I shall sit here, serving tea to friends."
　　
　　And I must borrow every changing shape
　　To find expression... dance, dance
　　Like a dancing bear,
　　Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape.
　　Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance--
　　Well! and what if she should die some afternoon,
　　Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose;
　　Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand
　　With the smoke coming down above the housetops;
　　Doubtful, for quite a while
　　Not knowing what to feel or if I understand
　　Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon...
　　Would she not have the advantage, after all?
　　This music is successful with a "dying fall"
　　Now that we talk of dying--
　　And should I have the right to smile?

　　Twelve o'clock.
　　Along the reaches of the street
　　Held in a lunar synthesis,
　　Whispering lunar incantations
　　Dissolve the floors of memory
　　And all its clear relations
　　Its divisions and precisions,
　　Every street lamp that I pass
　　Beats like a fatalistic drum,
　　And through the spaces of the dark
　　Midnight shakes the memory
　　As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
　　
　　Half-past one,
　　The street-lamp sputtered,
　　The street-lamp muttered,
　　The street-lamp said, "Regard that woman
　　Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
　　Which opens on her like a grin.
　　You see the border of her dress
　　Is torn and stained with sand,
　　And you see the corner of her eye
　　Twists like a crooked pin."
　　
　　The memory throws up high and dry
　　A crowd of twisted things;
　　A twisted branch upon the beach
　　Eaten smooth, and polished
　　As if the world gave up
　　The secret of its skeleton,
　　Stiff and white.
　　A broken spring in a factory yard,
　　Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
　　Hard and curled and ready to snap.
　　
　　Half-past two,
　　The street lamp said,
　　"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
　　Slips out its tongue
　　And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
　　So the hand of the child, automatic,
　　Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
　　I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
　　I have seen eyes in the street
　　Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
　　And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
　　An old crab with barnacles on his back,
　　Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
　　
　　Half-past three,
　　The lamp sputtered,
　　The lamp muttered in the dark.
　　The lamp hummed:
　　"Regard the moon,
　　La lune ne guarde aucune rancune,
　　She winks a feeble eye,
　　She smiles into corners.
　　She smooths the hair of the grass.
　　The moon has lost her memory.
　　A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
　　Her hand twists a paper rose,
　　That smells of dust and eau de Cologne,
　　She is alone
　　With all the old nocturnal smells
　　That cross and cross across her brain."
　　The reminiscence comes
　　Of sunless dry geraniums
　　And dust in crevices,
　　Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
　　And female smells in shuttered rooms,
　　And cigarettes in corridors
　　And cocktail smells in bars.
　　
　　The lamp said,
　　"Four o'clock,
　　Here is the number on the door.
　　Memory!
　　You have the key,
　　The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair.
　　Mount.
　　The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
　　Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."
　　
　　The last twist of the knife.

　　'A cold coming we had of it,
　　Just the worst time of the year
　　For a journey, and such a journey:
　　The ways deep and the weather sharp,
　　The very dead of winter.'
　　And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
　　Lying down in the melting snow.
　　There were times we regretted
　　The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
　　And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
　　Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
　　And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
　　And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
　　And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
　　And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
　　A hard time we had of it.
　　At the end we preferred to travel all night,
　　Sleeping in snatches,
　　With the voices in our ears, saying
　　That this was all folly.
　　
　　Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
　　Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
　　With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
　　And three trees on the low sky,
　　And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
　　Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
　　Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
　　And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
　　But there was no information, and so we continued
　　And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
　　Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.
　　
　　All this was a long time ago, I remember,
　　And I would do it again, but set down
　　This set down
　　This: were we led all that way for
　　Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
　　We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
　　But had thought they were different; this Birth was
　　Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
　　We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
　　But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
　　With an alien people clutching their gods.
　　I should be glad of another death.

　　THE broad-backed hippopotamus
　　Rests on his belly in the mud;
　　Although he seems so firm to us
　　He is merely flesh and blood.
　　
　　Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail,
　　Susceptible to nervous shock;
　　While the True Church can never fail
　　For it is based upon a rock.
　　
　　The hippo's feeble steps may err
　　In compassing material ends,
　　While the True Church need never stir
　　To gather in its dividends.
　　
　　The 'potamus can never reach
　　The mango on the mango-tree;
　　But fruits of pomegranate and peach
　　Refresh the Church from over sea.
　　
　　At mating time the hippo's voice
　　Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
　　But every week we hear rejoice
　　The Church, at being one with God.
　　
　　The hippopotamus's day
　　Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
　　God works in a mysterious way--
　　The Church can sleep and feed at once.
　　
　　I saw the 'potamus take wing
　　Ascending from the damp savannas,
　　And quiring angels round him sing
　　The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
　　
　　Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
　　And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
　　Among the saints he shall be seen
　　Performing on a harp of gold.
　　
　　He shall be washed as white as snow,
　　By all the martyr'd virgins kist,
　　While the True Church remains below
　　Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.

　　APENECK Sweeney spreads his knees
　　Letting his arms hang down to laugh,
　　The zebra stripes along his jaw
　　Swelling to maculate giraffe.
　　
　　The circles of the stormy moon
　　Slide westward toward the River Plate,
　　Death and the Raven drift above
　　And Sweeney guards the horned gate.
　　
　　Gloomy Orion and the Dog
　　Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
　　The person in the Spanish cape
　　Tries to sit on Sweeney's knees
　　
　　Slips and pulls the table cloth
　　Overturns a coffee-cup,
　　Reorganized upon the floor
　　She yawns and draws a stocking up;
　　
　　The silent man in mocha brown
　　Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes;
　　The waiter brings in oranges
　　Bananas figs and hothouse grapes;
　　
　　The silent vertebrate in brown
　　Contracts and concentrates, withdraws;
　　Rachel née Rabinovitch
　　Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;
　　
　　She and the lady in the cape
　　Are suspect, thought to be in league;
　　Therefore the man with heavy eyes
　　Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,
　　
　　Leaves the room and reappears
　　Outside the window, leaning in,
　　Branches of wistaria
　　Circumscribe a golden grin;
　　
　　The host with someone indistinct
　　Converses at the door apart,
　　The nightingales are singing near
　　The Convent of the Sacred Heart,
　　
　　And sang within the bloody wood
　　When Agamemnon cried aloud,
　　And let their liquid droppings fall
　　To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud.

　　Miss Helen Slingsby was my maiden aunt,
　　And lived in a small house near a fashionable square
　　Cared for by servants to the number of four.
　　Now when she died there was silence in heaven
　　And silence at her end of the street.
　　The shutters were drawn and the undertaker wiped his feet--
　　He was aware that this sort of thing had occurred before.
　　The dogs were handsomely provided for,
　　But shortly afterwards the parrot died too.
　　The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece,
　　And the footman sat upon the dining-table
　　Holding the second housemaid on his knees--
　　Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived.

　　The readers of the Boston Evening Transcript
　　Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn.
　　When evening quickens faintly in the street,
　　Wakening the appetites of life in some
　　And to others bringing the Boston Evening Transcript,
　　I mount the steps and ring the bell, turning
　　Wearily, as one would turn to nod good-bye to Rochefoucauld,
　　If the street were time and he at the end of the street,
　　And I say, "Cousin Harriet, here is the Boston Evening Transcript."

Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire--nil nisi divinum stabile
est; caetera fumus--the gondola stopped, the old
palace was there, how charming its grey and pink--
goats and monkeys, with such hair too!--so the
countess passed on until she came through the
little park, where Niobe presented her with a
cabinet, and so departed.
 
Burbank crossed a little bridge
Descending at a small hotel;
Princess Volupine arrived,
They were together, and he fell.
 
Defunctive music under sea
Passed seaward with the passing bell
Slowly: the God Hercules
Had left him, that had loved him well.
 
The horses, under the axletree
Beat up the dawn from Istria
With even feet. Her shuttered barge
Burned on the water all the day.
 
But this or such was Bleistein's way:
A saggy bending of the knees
And elbows, with the palms turned out,
Chicago Semite Viennese.
 
A lustreless protrusive eye
Stares from the protozoic slime
At a perspective of Canaletto.
The smoky candle end of time
 
Declines. On the Rialto once.
The rats are underneath the piles.
The jew is underneath the lot.
Money in furs. The boatman smiles,
 
Princess Volupine extends
A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand
To climb the waterstair. Lights, lights,
She entertains Sir Ferdinand
 
Klein. Who clipped the lion's wings
And flea'd his rump and pared his claws?
Thought Burbank, meditating on
Time's ruins, and the seven laws.

　　I observe: "Our sentimental friend the moon!
　　Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)
　　It may be Prester John's balloon
　　Or an old battered lantern hung aloft
　　To light poor travellers to their distress."
　　She then: "How you digress!"
　　
　　And I then: "Some one frames upon the keys
　　That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain
　　The night and moonshine; music which we seize
　　To body forth our vacuity."
　　She then: "Does this refer to me?"
　　"Oh no, it is I who am inane."
　　
　　"You, madam, are the eternal humorist,
　　The eternal enemy of the absolute,
　　Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist!
　　With your aid indifferent and imperious
　　At a stroke our mad poetics to confute--"
　　And--"Are we then so serious?"