Kitabı oku: «Last Poems by A. E. Housman», sayfa 4

XIX

 
     In midnights of November,
         When Dead Man's Fair is nigh,
     And danger in the valley,
         And anger in the sky,
 
 
     Around the huddling homesteads
         The leafless timber roars,
     And the dead call the dying
         And finger at the doors.
 
 
     Oh, yonder faltering fingers
         Are hands I used to hold;
     Their false companion drowses
         And leaves them in the cold.
 
 
     Oh, to the bed of ocean,
         To Africk and to Ind,
     I will arise and follow
         Along the rainy wind.
 
 
     The night goes out and under
         With all its train forlorn;
     Hues in the east assemble
         And cocks crow up the morn.
 
 
     The living are the living
         And dead the dead will stay,
     And I will sort with comrades
         That face the beam of day.
 

XX

 
     The night is freezing fast,
         To-morrow comes December;
               And winterfalls of old
     Are with me from the past;
         And chiefly I remember
               How Dick would hate the cold.
 
 
     Fall, winter, fall; for he,
         Prompt hand and headpiece clever,
               Has woven a winter robe,
     And made of earth and sea
         His overcoat for ever,
               And wears the turning globe.
 

XXI

 
     The fairies break their dances
         And leave the printed lawn,
     And up from India glances
         The silver sail of dawn.
 
 
     The candles burn their sockets,
         The blinds let through the day,
     The young man feels his pockets
         And wonders what's to pay.
 

XXII

 
     The sloe was lost in flower,
         The April elm was dim;
     That was the lover's hour,
         The hour for lies and him.
 
 
     If thorns are all the bower,
         If north winds freeze the fir,
     Why, 'tis another's hour,
         The hour for truth and her.
 

XXIII

 
     In the morning, in the morning,
         In the happy field of hay,
     Oh they looked at one another
         By the light of day.
 
 
     In the blue and silver morning
         On the haycock as they lay,
     Oh they looked at one another
         And they looked away.
 

XXIV. EPITHALAMIUM

 
         He is here, Urania's son,
     Hymen come from Helicon;
     God that glads the lover's heart,
     He is here to join and part.
     So the groomsman quits your side
     And the bridegroom seeks the bride:
     Friend and comrade yield you o'er
     To her that hardly loves you more.
 
 
         Now the sun his skyward beam
     Has tilted from the Ocean stream.
     Light the Indies, laggard sun:
     Happy bridegroom, day is done,
     And the star from OEta's steep
     Calls to bed but not to sleep.
 
 
         Happy bridegroom, Hesper brings
     All desired and timely things.
     All whom morning sends to roam,
     Hesper loves to lead them home.
     Home return who him behold,
     Child to mother, sheep to fold,
     Bird to nest from wandering wide:
     Happy bridegroom, seek your bride.
 
 
         Pour it out, the golden cup
     Given and guarded, brimming up,
     Safe through jostling markets borne
     And the thicket of the thorn;
     Folly spurned and danger past,
     Pour it to the god at last.
 
 
         Now, to smother noise and light,
     Is stolen abroad the wildering night,
     And the blotting shades confuse
     Path and meadow full of dews;
     And the high heavens, that all control,
     Turn in silence round the pole.
     Catch the starry beams they shed
     Prospering the marriage bed,
     And breed the land that reared your prime
     Sons to stay the rot of time.
     All is quiet, no alarms;
     Nothing fear of nightly harms.
     Safe you sleep on guarded ground,
     And in silent circle round
     The thoughts of friends keep watch and ward,
     Harnessed angels, hand on sword.
 

XXV. THE ORACLES

 
     'Tis mute, the word they went to hear on high Dodona mountain
         When winds were in the oakenshaws and all the cauldrons tolled,
     And mute's the midland navel-stone beside the singing fountain,
         And echoes list to silence now where gods told lies of old.
 
 
     I took my question to the shrine that has not ceased from speaking,
         The heart within, that tells the truth and tells it twice as plain;
     And from the cave of oracles I heard the priestess shrieking
         That she and I should surely die and never live again.
 
 
     Oh priestess, what you cry is clear, and sound good sense I think it;
         But let the screaming echoes rest, and froth your mouth no more.
     'Tis true there's better boose than brine, but he that drowns must drink it;
         And oh, my lass, the news is news that men have heard before.
 
 
     The King with half the East at heel is marched from lands of morning;
         Their fighters drink the rivers up, their shafts benight the air.
     And he that stands will die for nought, and home there's no returning.
         The Spartans on the sea-wet rock sat down and combed their hair.