威廉·勃特勒·叶芝,爱尔兰诗歌.ppt

;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;I Swear by what the sages spoke Round the Mareotic Lake That the Witch of Atlas knew, Spoke and set the cocks a-crow. Swear by those horsemen, by those women Complexion and form prove superhuman, That pale, long-visaged company That air in immortality Completeness of their passions won; Now they ride the wintry dawn Where Ben Bulben sets the scene. Heres the gist of what they mean. ;III You that Mitchels prayer have heard, Send war in our time, O Lord! Know that when all words are said And a man is fighting mad, Something drops from eyes long blind, He completes his partial mind, For an instant stands at ease, Laughs aloud, his heart at peace. Even the wisest man grows tense With some sort of violence Before he can accomplish fate, Know his work or choose his mate. ;Till her bowels are in heat, Proof that theres a purpose set Before the secret working mind: Profane perfection of mankind. Quattrocento put in print On backgrounds for a God or Saint Gardens where a souls at ease; Where everything that meets the eye, Flowers and grass and cloudless sky, Resemble forms that are or seem When sleepers wake and yet still dream, And when its vanished still declare, With only bed and bedstead there, That heavens had opened. ;V Irish poets, learn your trade, Sing whatever is well made, Scorn the sort now growing up All out of shape from toe to top, Their unremembering hearts and heads Base-born products of base beds. Sing the peasantry, and then Hard-riding country gentlemen, The holiness of monks, and after Porter-drinkers randy laughter; Sing the lords and ladies gay That were beaten into clay Through seven heroic centuries; Cast your mind on other days That we in coming days may be Still the indomitable Irishry. ;;