Уистан Оден - Стихи и эссе

     "O where are you going?" said reader to rider,
     "That valley is fatal where furnaces burn,
     Yonder's the midden whose odours will madden,
     That gap is the grave where the tall return."

     "O do you imagine," said fearer to farer,
     "That dusk will delay on your path to the pass,
     Your diligent looking discover the lacking,
     Your footsteps feel from granite to grass?"

     "O what was that bird," said horror to hearer,
     "Did you see that shape in the twisted trees?
     Behind you swiftly the figure comes softly,
     The spot on your skin is a shocking disease."

     "Out of this house"-said rider to reader,
     "Yours never will"-said farer to fearer
     "They're looking for you"-said hearer to horror,
     As he left them there, as he left them there.

     Our hunting fathers told the story
     Of the sadness of the creatures,
     Pitied the limits and the lack
     Set in their finished features;
     Saw in the lion's intolerant look,
     Behind the quarry's dying glare,
     Love raging for, the personal glory
     That reason's gift would add,
     The liberal appetite and power,
     The rightness of a god.

     Who, nurtured in that fine tradition,
     Predicted the result,
     Guessed Love by nature suited to
     The intricate ways of guilt,
     That human ligaments could so
     His southern gestures modify
     And make it his mature ambition
     To think no thought but ours,
     To hunger, work illegally,
     And be anonymous?

     Look, stranger, on this island now
     The leaping light for your delight discovers,
     Stand stable here
     And silent be,
     That through the channels of the ear
     May wander like a river
     The swaying sound of the sea.

     Here at a small field's ending pause
     Where the chalk wall falls to the foam and its tall ledges
     Oppose the pluck
     And knock of the tide,
     And the shingle scrambles after the suck —
     — ing surf, and a gull lodges
     A moment on its sheer side.

     Far off like floating seeds the ships
     Diverge on urgent voluntary errands,
     And this full view
     Indeed may enter
     And move in memory as now these clouds do,
     That pass the harbour mirror
     And all the summer through the water saunter.

     As I walked out one evening,
     Walking down Bristol Street,
     The crowds upon the pavement
     Were fields of harvest wheat.

     And down by the brimming river
     I heard a lover sing
     Under an arch of the railway:
     "Love has no ending.

     "I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
     Till China and Africa meet,
     And the river jumps over the mountain
     And the salmon sing in the street,

     "I'll love you till the ocean
     Is folded and hung up to dry
     And the seven stars go squawking
     Like geese about the sky.

     "The years shall run like rabbits,
     For in my arms I hold
     The Flower of the Ages,
     And the first love of the world."

     But all the clocks in the city
     Began to whirr and chime:
     "O let not Time deceive you,
     You cannot conquer Time.

     "In the burrows of the Nightmare
     Where Justice naked is,
     Time watches from the shadow
     And coughs when you would kiss.

     "In headaches and in worry
     Vaguely life leaks away,
     And Time will have his fancy
     To-morrow or to-day.

     "Into many a green valley
     Drifts the appalling snow;
     Time breaks the threaded dances
     And the diver's brilliant bow.

     "O plunge your hands in water,
     Plunge them in up to the wrist;
     Stare, stare in the basin
     And wonder what you've missed.

     "The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
     The desert sighs in the bed,
     And the crack in the tea-cup opens
     A lane to the land of the dead.

     "Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
     And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
     And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
     And Jill goes down on her back.

     "O look, look in the mirror,
     O look in your distress;
     Life remains a blessing
     Although you cannot bless.

     "O stand, stand at the window
     As the tears scald and start;
     You shall love your crooked nelghbour
     With your crooked heart."

     It was late, late in the evening,
     The lovers they were gone;
     The clocks had ceased their chiming,
     And the deep river ran on.

     Fish in the unruffled lakes
     Their swarming colours wear,
     Swans in the winter air
     A white perfection have,
     And the great lion walks
     Through his innocent grove;
     Lion, fish and swan
     Act, and are gone
     Upon Time's toppling wave.

     We, till shadowed days are done,
     We must weep and sing
     Duty's conscious wrong,
     The Devil in the clock,
     The goodness carefully worn
     For atonement or for luck;
     We must lose our loves,
     On each beast and bird that moves
     Turn an envious look.

     Sighs for folly done and said
     Twist our narrow days,
     But I must bless, I must praise
     That you, my swan, who have
     All gifts that to the swan
     Impulsive Nature gave,
     The majesty and pride,
     Last night should add
     Your voluntary love.

     Now the leaves are falling fast,
     Nurse's flowers will not last;
     Nurses to the graves are gone,
     And the prams go rolling on.

     Whispering neighbours, left and right,
     Pluck us from the real delight;
     And the active hands must freeze
     Lonely on the separate knees.

     Dead in hundreds at the back
     Follow wooden in our track,
     Arms raised stiffly to reprove
     In false attitudes of love.

     Starving through the leafless wood
     Trolls run scolding for their food;
     And the nightingale is dumb,
     And the angel will not come.

     Cold, impossible, ahead
     Lifts the mountain's lovely head
     Whose white waterfall could bless
     Travellers in their last distress.

     "O who can ever gaze his fill,"
     Farmer and fisherman say,
     "On native shore and local hill,
     Grudge aching limb or callus on the hand?
     Father, grandfather stood upon this land,
     And here the pilgrims from our loins will stand."
     So farmer and fisherman say
     In their fortunate hey-day:
     But Death's low answer drifts across
     Empty catch or harvest loss
     Or an unlucky May.
     The earth is an oyster with nothing inside it,
     Not to be born is the best for man;
     The end of toil is a bailiff's order,
     Throw down the mattock and dance while you can.

     "O life's too short for friends who share,"
     Travellers think in their hearts,
     "The city's common bed, the air,
     The mountain bivouac and the bathing beach,
     Where incidents draw every day from each
     Memorable gesture and witty speech."
     So travellers think in their hearts,
     Till malice or circumstance parts
     Them from their constant humour:
     And slyly Death's coercive rumour
     In that moment starts.
     A friend is the old old tale of Narcissus,
     Not to be born is the best for man;
     An active partner in something disgraceful,
     Change your partner, dance while you can.

     "O stretch your hands across the sea,"
     The impassioned lover cries,
     "Stretch them towards your harm and me.
     Our grass is green, and sensual our brief bed,
     The stream sings at its foot, and at its head
     The mild and vegetarian beasts are fed."
     So the impassioned lover cries
     Till the storm of pleasure dies:
     From the bedpost and the rocks
     Death's enticing echo mocks,
     And his voice replies.
     The greater the love, the more false to its object,
     Not to be born is the best for man;
     After the kiss comes the impulse to throttle,
     Break the embraces, dance while you can.

     "I see the guilty world forgiven,"
     Dreamer and drunkard sing,
     "The ladders let down out of heaven,
     The laurel springing from the martyr's blood,
     The children skipping where the weeper stood,
     The lovers natural and the beasts all good."
     So dreamer and drunkard sing
     Till day their sobriety bring:
     Parrotwise with Death's reply
     From whelping fear and nesting lie,
     Woods and their echoes ring.
     The desires of the heart are as crooked as corkscrews,
     Not to be born is the best for man;
     The second-best is a formal order,
     The dance's pattern; dance while you can.

     Dance, dancefor the figure is easy,
     The tune is catching and will not stop;
     Dance till the stars come down from the rafters;
     Dance, dance, dance till you drop.

     About suffering they were never wrong,
     The Old Masters: how well they understood
     Its human position; how it takes place
     While someone else is eating  or opening a window or just walking dully
along;
     How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
     For the miraculous birth, there always must be
     Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
     On a pond at the edge of the wood:
     They never forgot
     That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
     Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
     Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
     Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

     In Brueghel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
     Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
     Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
     But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
     As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
     Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
     Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
     Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.