dreams & dust(梦与尘)-第8节
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How I would thrust the miles aside； Rush up the quiet lane； and
then； Just where her roses laughed in pride； Find her among the flowers
again。 I'd slip in silently and wait Until she saw me by the gate； And
then 。 。 。 read through a blur of tears Quick pardon for the selfish years。
This time； this time； I would not wait For that brief wire that said； Too
late！ If I could only find the way Into the Land of Yesterday。
I wonder if her roses yet Lift up their heads and laugh with pride；
And if her phlox and mignonette Have heart to blossom by their side； I
wonder if the dear old lane Still chirps with robins after rain； And if the
birds and banded bees Still rob her early cherry…trees。 。 。 。
I wonder； if I went there now； How everything would seem； and how
But no！ not now； there is no way Back to the Land of Yesterday。
OCTOBER
CEASE to call him sad and sober； Merriest of months； October！ Patron
of the bursting bins； Reveler in wayside inns； I can nowhere find a trace
Of the pensive in his face； There is mingled wit and folly； But the madcap
lacks the grace Of a thoughtful melancholy。 Spendthrift of the seasons'
gold； How he flings and scatters out Treasure filched from summer…time！
Never ruffling squire of old Better loved a tavern bout When Prince Hal
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was in his prime。 Doublet slashed with gold and green； Cloak of crimson；
changeful sheen； Of the dews that gem his breast； Frosty lace about his
throat；
Scarlet plumes that flaunt and float Backward in a gay unrest
Where's another gallant drest With such tricksy gaiety； Such unlessoned
vanity？ With his amber afternoons And his pendant poets' moons With
his twilights dashed with rose From the red…lipped afterglows With his
vocal airs at dawn Breathing hints of Helicon Bacchanalian bees that sip
Where his cider…presses drip With the winding of the horn Where his
huntsmen meet the morn With his every piping breeze Shaking from
familiar trees Apples of Hesperides With the chuckle； chirp； and trill Of
his jolly brooks that spill Mirth in tangled madrigals Down pebble…dappled
waterfalls （Brooks that laugh and make escape Through wild arbors
where the grape
Purples with a promise of Racy vintage rare as love） With his merry；
wanton air； Mirth and vanity and folly Why should he be made to bear
Burden of some melancholy Song that swoons and sinks with care？ Cease
to call him sad or sober； He's a jolly dog； October！
CHANT OF THE CHANGING HOURS
THE Hours passed by； a fleet； confused crowd； With wafture of
blown garments bright as fire； Light； light of foot and laughing； morning…
browed； And where they trod the jonquil and the briar Thrilled into
jocund life； the dreaming dells Waked to a morrice chime of jostled bells；…
… They danced！ they danced！ to piping such as flings The garnered
music of a million Springs Into one single； keener ecstasy； One
paused and shouted to my questionings： 〃Lo； I am Youth； I bid thee
follow me！〃
The Hours passed by； they paced； great lords and proud；
Crowned on with sunlight； robed in rich attire； Before their conquering
word the brute deed bowed； And Ariel fancies served their
large desire；
They spake； and roused the mused soul that dwells In dust； or； smiling；
shaped new heavens and hells； Dethroned old gods and made
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blind beggars kings： 〃And what art thou；〃 I cried to one； 〃that brings
His mistress； for a brooch； the Galaxy？〃 〃I am the plumed Thought that
soars and sings： Lo； I am Song； I bid thee follow me！〃
The Hours passed by； with veiled eyes endowed Of dream； and
parted lips that scarce suspire； To breathing dusk and arrowy moonlight
vowed； South wind and shadowy grove and murmuring lyre；
Swaying they moved； as drows'd of wizard spells Or tranc'd with sight of
recent miracles； And yet they trembled； down their folded wings Quivered
the hint of sweet withholden things； Ah； bitter…sweet in their intensity！
One paused and said unto my wonderings： 〃Lo； I am Love； I bid thee
follow me！〃
The Hours passed by； through huddled cities loud With witless hate
and stale with stinking mire：
So cowled monks might march with bier and shroud Down streets
plague…spotted toward some cleans… ing pyre； Yet； lo！ strange
lilies bloomed in lightless cells； And passionate spirits burst their clayey
shells And sang the stricken hope that bleeds and clings： Earth's
bruised heart beat in the throbbing strings； And joy still struggled
through the threnody！ One stern Hour said unto my marvelings： 〃Lo； I
am Life； I bid thee follow me！〃
The Hours passed by； the stumbling hours and cowed；
Uncertain； prone to tears and childish ire； The wavering hours that drift
like any cloud At whim of winds or fortunate or dire； The feeble
shapes that any chance expells； Their wisdom useless； lacking the blood
that swells The tensed vein： the hot； swift tide that stings With life。 Ah；
wise！ but naked to the slings Of fate； and plagued of youthful memory！
A cracked voice broke upon my pityings： 〃Lo； I am Age； I bid thee
follow me！〃
Ah； Youth！ we dallied by the babbling wells Where April all her lyric
secret tells； Ah； Song！ we sped our bold imaginings As far as yon red
planet's triple rings； O Life！ O Love！ I followed； followed thee！
There waits one word to end my journeyings： 〃Lo； I am Death； I bid
thee follow me！〃
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DREAMS AND DUST
SELVES
My dust in ruined Babylon Is blown along the level plain； And
songs of mine at dawn have soared Above the blue Sicilian main。
We are ourselves； and not ourselves 。 。 。 For ever thwarting pride
and will Some forebear's passion leaps from death To claim a vital
license still。
Ancestral lusts that slew and died； Resurgent； swell each living vein；
Old doubts and faiths； new panoplied； Dispute the mastery of the brain。
The love of liberty that flames From written rune and stricken reed
Shook the hot hearts of swordsmen sires At Marathon and Runnymede。
What are these things we call our 〃selves〃？ 。 。 。 Have I not shouted；
sobbed； and died In the bright surf of spears that broke Where Greece
rolled back the Persian tide？
Are we who breathe more quick than they Whose bones are dust
within the tomb？ Nay； as I write； what gray old ghosts Murmur and
mock me from the gloom。 。 。 。
They call 。 。 。 across strange seas they call； Strange seas； and
haunted coasts of time。 。 。 。 They startle me with wordless songs To
which the Sphinx hath known the rhyme。
Our hearts swell big with dead men's hates； Our eyes sting hot with
dead men's tears； We are ourselves； but not ourselves； Born heirs； but
serfs； to all the years！
I rode with Nimrod 。 。 。 strove at Troy 。 。 。 A slave I stood in
Crowning Tyre； A queen looked on me and I loved And died to
compass my desire。
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THE WAGES
EARTH loves to gibber o'er her dross； Her golden souls； to waste；
The cup she fills for
