cruelty is the id pass of the cruel,
honesty the grave stone of the honest.
look, in the sky plated gold,
crooked reflections of all the dead float around.
the glacial epoch is over,
so why is there ice everywhere?
good hope was rounded a long time ago,
so where are these thousands of boats racing on the dead sea?
i came into this world
with only blank pages, rope and my fingers;
therefore, before final judgements are given,
i need to speak in all the voices of the defendants.
just let me say, world,
if a thousand challengers are under your feet
count me as challenger one-thousand-and-one.
i don't believe the sky is always blue;
i don't believe it was thunder echoing;
i don't believe all dreaming is false;
i don't believe the dead cannot bring judgement.
if the sea is doomed someday to break its levees
my heart must flood with all the bitter waters.
if the land is destined to form the hills again,
let real human beings learn to choose the higher ground.
the latest, favorable turnings, the twinkling stars
studding the naked sky,
are pictographs five-thousand years old.
they are the eyes of the future staring at us now.
the second coming
william butler yeats
turning and turning in the widening gyre
the falcon cannot hear the falconer;
things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
the ceremony of innocence is drowned;
the best lack all conviction, while the worst
are full of passionate intensity.
surely some revelation is at hand;
surely the second coming is at hand.
the second coming! hardly are those words out
when a vast image out of spiritus mundi
troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
a shape with lion body and the head of a man,
a gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
the darkness drops again but now i know
that twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
and what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
slouches towards bethlehem to be born?
威廉 巴特勒 叶芝
it little profits that an idle king,
by this still hearth, among these barren crags,
matched with an aged wife, i mete and dole
unequal laws unto a savage race,
that hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
i cannot rest from travel: i will drink
life to the lees: all times i have enjoyed
greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
that loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
through scudding drifts the rainy hyades
vest the dim sea: i am become a name;
for always roaming with a hungry heart
much have i seen and known; cities of men
and manners, climates, councils, governments,
myself not least, but honoured of them all;
and drunk delight of battle with my peers;
far on the ringing plains of windy troy.
i am part of all that i have met;
yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
for ever and for ever when i move.
how dull it is to pause, to make an end,
to rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
as though to breath were life. life piled on life
were all to little, and of one to me
little remains: but every hour is saved
from that eternal silence, something more,
a bringer of new things; and vile it were
for some three suns to store and hoard myself,
and this gray spirit yearning in desire
to follow knowledge like a sinking star,
beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
this is my son, mine own telemachus,
to whom i leave the scepter and the isle—
well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
this labour, by slow prudence to make mild
a rugged people, and through soft degrees
subdue them to the useful and the good.
most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
of common duties, decent not to fail
in offices of tenderness, and pay
meet adoration to my household gods,
when i am gone. he works his work, i mine.
there lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
there gloom the dark broad seas. my mariners,
souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me—
that ever with a frolic welcome took
the thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
free hearts, free foreheads—you and i are old;
old age had yet his honour and his toil;
death closes all: but something ere the end,
some work of noble note, may yet be done,
not unbecoming men that strove with gods.
the lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
the long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
moans round with many voices. come, my friends,
'tis not too late to seek a newer world.
push off, and sitting well in order smite
the sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
to sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
of all the western stars, until i die.
it may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
it may be we shall touch the happy isles,
and see the great achilles, whom we knew.
though much is taken, much abides; and though
we are not now that strength which in the old days
moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are,
one equal-temper of heroic hearts,
made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.