Читать книгу Poems - Yeats William Butler, William Butler Yeats - Страница 7

I have come to bid you leave this castle and fly

Out of these woods.

What evil is there here

That is not everywhere from this to the sea?

They who have sent me walk invisible.

So it is true what I have heard men say,

That you have seen and heard what others cannot.

I was asleep in my bed, and while I slept

My dream became a fire; and in the fire

One walked and he had birds about his head.

I have heard that one of the old gods walked so.

It may be that he is angelical;

And, lady, he bids me call you from these woods.

And you must bring but your old foster-mother,

And some few serving men, and live in the hills,

Among the sounds of music and the light

Of waters, till the evil days are done.

For here some terrible death is waiting you,

Some unimagined evil, some great darkness

That fable has not dreamt of, nor sun nor moon

Scattered.

No, not angelical.

This house

You are to leave with some old trusty man,

And bid him shelter all that starve or wander

While there is food and house room.

He bids me go

Where none of mortal creatures but the swan

Dabbles, and there you would pluck the harp, when the trees

Had made a heavy shadow about our door,

And talk among the rustling of the reeds,

When night hunted the foolish sun away

With stillness and pale tapers. No – no – no!

I cannot. Although I weep, I do not weep

Because that life would be most happy, and here

I find no way, no end. Nor do I weep

Because I had longed to look upon your face,

But that a night of prayer has made me weary.

Let Him that made mankind, the angels and devils

And dearth and plenty, mend what He has made,

For when we labour in vain and eye still sees

Heart breaks in vain.

How would that quiet end?

How but in healing?

You have seen my tears

And I can see your hand shake on the floor.

I thought but of healing. He was angelical.

No, not angelical, but of the old gods,

Who wander about the world to waken the heart —

The passionate, proud heart – that all the angels,

Leaving nine heavens empty, would rock to sleep.

Do not hold out to me beseeching hands.

This heart shall never waken on earth. I have sworn,

By her whose heart the seven sorrows have pierced,

To pray before this altar until my heart

Has grown to Heaven like a tree, and there

Rustled its leaves, till Heaven has saved my people.

When one so great has spoken of love to one

So little as I, though to deny him love,

What can he but hold out beseeching hands,

Then let them fall beside him, knowing how greatly

They have overdared?

If the old tales are true,

Queens have wed shepherds and kings beggar-maids;

God's procreant waters flowing about your mind

Have made you more than kings or queens; and not you

But I am the empty pitcher.

Being silent,

I have said all, yet let me stay beside you.

No, no, not while my heart is shaken. No,

But you shall hear wind cry and water cry,

And curlew cry, and have the peace I longed for.

Give me your hand to kiss.

I kiss your forehead.

And yet I send you from me. Do not speak;

There have been women that bid men to rob

Crowns from the Country-under-Wave or apples

Upon a dragon-guarded hill, and all

That they might sift men's hearts and wills,

And trembled as they bid it, as I tremble

That lay a hard task on you, that you go,

And silently, and do not turn your head;

Goodbye; but do not turn your head and look;

Above all else, I would not have you look.

I never spoke to him of his wounded hand,

And now he is gone. (She looks out.)

I cannot see him, for all is dark outside.

Would my imagination and my heart

Were as little shaken as this holy flame!

They are ringing the alarm, and in a moment

They'll be upon us.

Here is the Treasury,

You'd my commands to put them all to sleep.

Some angel or else her prayers protected them.

She has fallen asleep.

We've all the treasure now,

So let's away before they've tracked us out.

I have a plan to win her.

You have time enough

If you would kill her and bear off her soul

Before they are upon us with their prayers;

They search the Western Tower.

That may not be.

We cannot face the heavenly host in arms.

Her soul must come to us of its own will,

But being of the ninth and mightiest Hell

Where all are kings, I have a plan to win it.

Lady, we've news that's crying out for speech.

Who calls?

We have brought news.

What are you?

We are merchants, and we know the book of the world

Because we have walked upon its leaves; and there

Have read of late matters that much concern you;

And noticing the castle door stand open,

Came in to find an ear.

The door stands open,

That no one who is famished or afraid,

Despair of help or of a welcome with it.

But you have news, you say.

We saw a man,

Heavy with sickness in the bog of Allen,

Whom you had bid buy cattle. Near Fair Head

We saw your grain ships lying all becalmed

In the dark night; and not less still than they,

Burned all their mirrored lanthorns in the sea.

My thanks to God, to Mary and the angels,

That I have money in my treasury,

And can buy grain from those who have stored it up

To prosper on the hunger of the poor.

But you've been far and know the signs of things,

When will this famine end?

Day copies day,

And there's no sign of change, nor can it change,

With the wheat withered and the cattle dead.

And heard you of the demons who buy souls?

There are some men who hold they have wolves' heads,

And say their limbs – dried by the infinite flame —

Have all the speed of storms; others, again,

Say they are gross and little; while a few

Will have it they seem much as mortals are,

But tall and brown and travelled – like us, lady —

Yet all agree a power is in their looks

That makes men bow, and flings a casting-net

About their souls, and that all men would go

And barter those poor vapours, were it not

You bribe them with the safety of your gold.

Praise be to God, to Mary, and the angels

That I am wealthy! Wherefore do they sell?

As we came in at the great door we saw

Your porter sleeping in his niche – a soul

Too little to be worth a hundred pence,

And yet they buy it for a hundred crowns.

But for a soul like yours, I heard them say,

They would give five hundred thousand crowns and more.

How can a heap of crowns pay for a soul?

Is the green grave so terrible a thing?

Some sell because the money gleams, and some

Because they are in terror of the grave,

And some because their neighbours sold before,

And some because there is a kind of joy

In casting hope away, in losing joy,

In ceasing all resistance, in at last

Opening one's arms to the eternal flames,

In casting all sails out upon the wind;

To this – full of the gaiety of the lost —

Would all folk hurry if your gold were gone.

There is a something, Merchant, in your voice

That makes me fear. When you were telling how

A man may lose his soul and lose his God

Your eyes were lighted up, and when you told

How my poor money serves the people, both —

Merchants forgive me – seemed to smile.

I laugh

To think that all these people should be swung

As on a lady's shoe-string, – under them

The glowing leagues of never-ending flame.

There is a something in you that I fear;

A something not of us; were you not born

In some most distant corner of the world?

Away now – they are in the passage – hurry,

For they will know us, and freeze up our hearts

With Ave Marys, and burn all our skin

With holy water.

Farewell; for we must ride

Many a mile before the morning come;

Our horses beat the ground impatiently.

Forgive us, lady, but we heard a noise.

We sat by the fireside telling vanities.

We heard a noise, but though we have searched the house

We have found nobody.

You are too timid,

For now you are safe from all the evil times,

There is no evil that can find you here.

Ochone! Ochone! The treasure room is broken in.

The door stands open, and the gold is gone.

Be silent. (The cry ceases.) Have you seen nobody?

Ochone!

That my good mistress should lose all this money.

Let those among you – not too old to ride —

Get horses and search all the country round,

I'll give a farm to him who finds the thieves.

Demons were here. I sat beside the door

In my stone niche, and two owls passed me by,

Whispering with human voices.

God forsakes us.

Old man, old man, He never closed a door

Unless one opened. I am desolate,

Because of a strange thought that's in my heart;

But I have still my faith; therefore be silent;

For surely He does not forsake the world,

But stands before it modelling in the clay

And moulding there His image. Age by age

The clay wars with His fingers and pleads hard

For its old, heavy, dull and shapeless ease;

But sometimes – though His hand is on it still —

It moves awry and demon hordes are born.

Yet leave me now, for I am desolate,

I hear a whisper from beyond the thunder.

Yet stay an instant. When we meet again

I may have grown forgetful. Oona, take

These two – the larder and the dairy keys.

But take you this. It opens the small room

Of herbs for medicine, of hellebore,

Of vervain, monkshood, plantain, and self-heal.

The book of cures is on the upper shelf.

Why do you do this, lady; did you see

Your coffin in a dream?

Ah, no, not that.

But I have come to a strange thought. I have heard

A sound of wailing in unnumbered hovels,

And I must go down, down – I know not where —

Pray for all men and women mad from famine;

Pray, you good neighbours.

Mary, Queen of angels,

And all you clouds on clouds of saints, farewell!