main street and other poems-第4节
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Who can never mingle the radiant hues to make a wonder live；
Who can only show your little woe to the world in a rhythmic dress
What kind of a counterpart of you does the three…ring circus give？
Well here in the little side…show tent to…day some people stand；
One is a giant； one a dwarf； and one has a figured skin；
And each is scarred and seared and marred by Fate's relentless hand；
And each one shows his grief for pay； with a sort of pride therein。
You put your sorrow into rhyme and want the world to look；
You sing the news of your ruined hope and want the world to hear；
Their woe is pent in a canvas tent and yours in a printed book。
O； poet of the broken heart； salute your brothers here！
Queen Elizabeth Speaks
My hands were stained with blood； my heart was proud and cold；
My soul is black with shame 。 。 。 but I gave Shakespeare gold。
So after aeons of flame； I may； by grace of God；
Rise up to kiss the dust that Shakespeare's feet have trod。
Mid…ocean in War…time
（For My Mother）
The fragile splendour of the level sea；
The moon's serene and silver…veiled face；
Make of this vessel an enchanted place
Full of white mirth and golden sorcery。
Now； for a time； shall careless laughter be
Blended with song； to lend song sweeter grace；
And the old stars； in their unending race；
Shall heed and envy young humanity。
And yet to…night； a hundred leagues away；
These waters blush a strange and awful red。
Before the moon； a cloud obscenely grey
Rises from decks that crash with flying lead。
And these stars smile their immemorial way
On waves that shroud a thousand newly dead！
In Memory of Rupert Brooke
In alien earth； across a troubled sea；
His body lies that was so fair and young。
His mouth is stopped； with half his songs unsung；
His arm is still； that struck to make men free。
But let no cloud of lamentation be
Where； on a warrior's grave； a lyre is hung。
We keep the echoes of his golden tongue；
We keep the vision of his chivalry。
So Israel's joy； the loveliest of kings；
Smote now his harp； and now the hostile horde。
To…day the starry roof of Heaven rings
With psalms a soldier made to praise his Lord；
And David rests beneath Eternal wings；
Song on his lips； and in his hand a sword。
The New School
（For My Mother）
The halls that were loud with the merry tread of young and careless feet
Are still with a stillness that is too drear to seem like holiday；
And never a gust of laughter breaks the calm of the dreaming street
Or rises to shake the ivied walls and frighten the doves away。
The dust is on book and on empty desk； and the tennis…racquet and balls
Lie still in their lonely locker and wait for a game that is never played；
And over the study and lecture…room and the river and meadow falls
A stern peace； a strange peace； a peace that War has made。
For many a youthful shoulder now is gay with an epaulet；
And the hand that was deft with a cricket…bat is defter with a sword；
And some of the lads will laugh to…day where the trench is red and wet；
And some will win on the bloody field the accolade of the Lord。
They have taken their youth and mirth away
from the study and playing…ground
To a new school in an alien land beneath an alien sky；
Out in the smoke and roar of the fight their lessons and games are found；
And they who were learning how to live are learning how to die。
And after the golden day has come and the war is at an end；
A slab of bronze on the chapel wall will tell of the noble dead。
And every name on that radiant list will be the name of a friend；
A name that shall through the centuries in grateful prayers be said。
And there will be ghosts in the old school；
brave ghosts with laughing eyes；
On the field with a ghostly cricket…bat； by the stream with a ghostly rod；
They will touch the hearts of the living with a flame that sanctifies；
A flame that they took with strong young hands
from the altar…fires of God。
Easter Week
（In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett）
（〃Romantic Ireland's dead and gone；
It's with O'Leary in the grave。〃）
William Butler Yeats。
〃Romantic Ireland's dead and gone；
It's with O'Leary in the grave。〃
Then； Yeats； what gave that Easter dawn
A hue so radiantly brave？
There was a rain of blood that day；
Red rain in gay blue April weather。
It blessed the earth till it gave birth
To valour thick as blooms of heather。
Romantic Ireland never dies！
O'Leary lies in fertile ground；
And songs and spears throughout the years
Rise up where patriot graves are found。
Immortal patriots newly dead
And ye that bled in bygone years；
What banners rise before your eyes？
What is the tune that greets your ears？
The young Republic's banners smile
For many a mile where troops convene。
O'Connell Street is loudly sweet
With strains of Wearing of the Green。
The soil of Ireland throbs and glows
With life that knows the hour is here
To strike again like Irishmen
For that which Irishmen hold dear。
Lord Edward leaves his resting place
And Sarsfield's face is glad and fierce。
See Emmet leap from troubled sleep
To grasp the hand of Padraic Pearse！
There is no rope can strangle song
And not for long death takes his toll。
No prison bars can dim the stars
Nor quicklime eat the living soul。
Romantic Ireland is not old。
For years untold her youth will shine。
Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread；
The blood of martyrs is her wine。
The Cathedral of Rheims
（From the French of Emile Verhaeren）
He who walks through the meadows of Champagne
At noon in Fall； when leaves like gold appear；
Sees it draw near
Like some great mountain set upon the plain；
From radiant dawn until the close of day；
Nearer it grows
To him who goes
Across the country。 When tall towers lay
Their shadowy pall
Upon his way；
He enters； where
The solid stone is hollowed deep by all
Its centuries of beauty and of prayer。
Ancient French temple！ thou whose hundred kings
Watch over thee； emblazoned on thy walls；
Tell me； within thy memory…hallowed halls
What chant of triumph； or what war…song rings？
Thou hast known Clovis and his Frankish train；
Whose mighty hand Saint Remy's hand did keep
And in thy spacious vault perhaps may sleep
An echo of the voice of Charlemagne。
For God thou has known fear； when from His side
Men wandered； seeking alien shrines and new；
But still the sky was bountiful and blue
And thou wast crowned with France's love and pride。
Sacred thou art； from pinnacle to base；
And in thy panes of gold and scarlet glass
The setting sun sees thousandfold his face；
Sorrow and joy； in stately silence pass
Across thy walls； the shadow and the light；
Around thy lofty pillars； tapers white
Illuminate； with delicate sharp flames；
The brows of saints with venerable names；
And in the night erect a fiery wall。
A great but silent fervour burns in all
Those simple folk who kneel； pathetic； dumb；
And know that down below； beside the Rhine
Cannon； horses； soldiers； flags in line
With blare of trumpets； mighty armies come。
Suddenly； each knows fear；
Swift rumours pass； that every one must hear；
The hostile banners blaze against the sky
And by the embassies mobs rage and cry。
Now war has come； and peace is at an end。
On Paris town the German troops descend。
They are turned back； and driven to Champagne。
And now； as to so many weary men；
The glorious temple gives them welcome； when
It meets them at the bottom of the plain。
At once； they set their cannon in its way。
There is no gable now； nor wall
That does not suffer； night and day；
As shot and shell in crushing torrents fall。
The stricken tocsin quivers through the tower；
The triple nave； the apse； the lonely choir
Are circled； hour by hour；
With thundering bands of fire
And Death is scattered broadcast among men。
And then
That which was splendid with baptismal grace；
The stately arches soaring into space；
The transepts； columns； windows gray and gold；
The organ； in whose tones the ocean rolled；
The crypts； of mighty shades the dwelling places；
The Virgin's gentle hands； the Saints' pure faces；
All； even the pardoning hands of Christ the Lord
Were struck and broken by the wanton sword
Of sacrilegious lust。
O beauty slain； O glory in the dust！
Strong walls of faith； most basely overthrown！
The crawling flames； like adders glistening
Ate the white fabric of this lovely thing。
Now from its soul arose a piteous moan；
The soul that always loved the just and fair。
Granite and marble loud their woe confess
