Стихи
Шрифт:
Он, ступая руки в боки,
Льет беcсмыслицы потоки.
Сентябрь 1968
IN MEMORY OF W. B. YEATS
(d. January 1939)
I
He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the air-ports almost deserted?
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
O all the instruments agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.
But for him it was last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed: he became his admirers.
Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections;
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.
But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom;
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
O all the instruments agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
II
You were silly like us: your gift survived it all;
The parich of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself; mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its saying where executives
Would never want to tamper; it flows south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.
III
Earth, receive an honoured guest;
William Yeats is laid to rest:
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.
Time that is intolerant,
Of the brave and innocent,
And indifferent in a week
To a beautiful physique,
Worships language and forgives
Everyone by whome it lives;
Pardons cowardice, conceit,
Lays its honours at their feet.
Time that with this strange excuse
Pardoned Kipling and his views,
And will pardon Paul Claudel,
Pardons him for writing well.
In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;
Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.
Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;
With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;
In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
February 1939
ПАМЯТИ
(умершего в январе 1939 года)
I
Он растворился в смерти, как в зиме,
Замерз ручей, пусты аэропорты,
Неразличимы были статуи под снегом,
У гибнущего дня во рту тонула ртуть,
О, всем согласно измерительным приборам,
День его смерти был и холоден, и мрачен.
Вдали от мучавшей его болезни
Бежали волки через лес вечнозеленый,
Крестьянская речушка превзмогла соблазн нарядной набережной;
И языки скорбящих о поэте
Смерть отделили от его стихов.
Но для него то был последний, как и сам он, день,
День медсестер и слухов;
Переферии тела подняли мятеж,
На площадях сознанья было пусто,
И в пригороды вторглась тишина,
Остановились токи чувств:
Он стал одним из почитателей своих.
Теперь рассеян он по сотне городов
И отдан незнакомым ощущеньям,
Чтоб счастье обрести в иных лесах,
И быть наказаным по коду чести чужеземцев.
Слова умершего
Теперь воплощены в наитие живущих.
Но в шуме и значительности Завтра,
Где в залах Биржи брокеры ревут, как звери,
Где бедняки так свыклись со страданьем,
И каждый, в клетке самого себя, почти уверен в собственной свободе,
Об этом дне припомнит тысяча-другая,
Как чем-то необычный в жизни день.
О, всем согласно измерительным приборам,
День его смерти был и холоден, и мрачен.
II
Ты глуп был, как и мы: все пережил твой дар;
Богатых прихожанок, физический распад,