按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
And gold the bread and viands manifold。
Around it； silent； motionless； and sad；
Were seated gallant knights in armor clad；
And ladies beautiful with plume and zone；
But they were stone； their hearts within were stone；
And the vast hall was filled in every part
With silent crowds； stony in face and heart。
Long at the scene； bewildered and amazed
The trembling clerk in speechless wonder gazed；
Then from the table； by his greed made bold；
He seized a goblet and a knife of gold；
And suddenly from their seats the guests upsprang；
The vaulted ceiling with loud clamors rang；
The archer sped his arrow； at their call；
Shattering the lambent jewel on the wall；
And all was dark around and overhead；
Stark on the door the luckless clerk lay dead！
The writer of this legend then records
Its ghostly application in these words：
The image is the Adversary old；
Whose beckoning finger points to realms of gold；
Our lusts and passions are the downward stair
That leads the soul from a diviner air；
The archer； Death； the flaming jewel； Life；
Terrestrial goods； the goblet and the knife；
The knights and ladies； all whose flesh and bone
By avarice have been hardened into stone；
The clerk； the scholar whom the love of pelf
Tempts from his books and from his nobler self。
The scholar and the world！ The endless strife；
The discord in the harmonies of life！
The love of learning； the sequestered nooks；
And all the sweet serenity of books；
The market…place； the eager love of gain；
Whose aim is vanity； and whose end is pain！
But why； you ask me； should this tale be told
To men grown old； or who are growing old？
It is too late！ Ah； nothing is too late
Till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate。
Cato learned Greek at eighty； Sophocles
Wrote his grand Oedipus； and Simonides
Bore off the prize of verse from his compeers；
When each had numbered more than fourscore years；
And Theophrastus； at fourscore and ten；
Had but begun his Characters of Men。
Chaucer； at Woodstock with the nightingales；
At sixty wrote the Canterbury Tales；
Goethe at Weimar； toiling to the last；
Completed Faust when eighty years were past。
These are indeed exceptions； but they show
How far the gulf…stream of our youth may flow
Into the arctic regions of our lives。
Where little else than life itself survives。
As the barometer foretells the storm
While still the skies are clear； the weather warm；
So something in us； as old age draws near；
Betrays the pressure of the atmosphere。
The nimble mercury； ere we are aware；
Descends the elastic ladder of the air；
The telltale blood in artery and vein
Sinks from its higher levels in the brain；
Whatever poet； orator； or sage
May say of it； old age is still old age。
It is the waning； not the crescent moon；
The dusk of evening； not the blaze of noon：
It is not strength； but weakness； not desire；
But its surcease； not the fierce heat of fire；
The burning and consuming element；
But that of ashes and of embers spent；
In which some living sparks we still discern；
Enough to warm； but not enough to burn。
What then？ Shall we sit idly down and say
The night hath come； it is no longer day？
The night hath not yet come； we are not quite
Cut off from labor by the failing light；
Something remains for us to do or dare；
Even the oldest tree some fruit may bear；
Not Oedipus Coloneus； or Greek Ode；
Or tales of pilgrims that one morning rode
Out of the gateway of the Tabard inn；
But other something； would we but begin；
For age is opportunity no less
Than youth itself； though in another dress；
And as the evening twilight fades away
The sky is filled with stars； invisible by day。
A BOOK OF SONNETS
THREE FRIENDS OF MINE
I
When I remember them； those friends of mine；
Who are no longer here； the noble three；
Who half my life were more than friends to me；
And whose discourse was like a generous wine；
I most of all remember the divine
Something； that shone in them； and made us see
The archetypal man； and what might be
The amplitude of Nature's first design。
In vain I stretch my hands to clasp their hands；
I cannot find them。 Nothing now is left
But a majestic memory。 They meanwhile
Wander together in Elysian lands；
Perchance remembering me； who am bereft
Of their dear presence； and； remembering； smile。
II
In Attica thy birthplace should have been；
Or the Ionian Isles； or where the seas
Encircle in their arms the Cyclades；
So wholly Greek wast thou in thy serene
And childlike joy of life； O Philhellene！
Around thee would have swarmed the Attic bees；
Homer had been thy friend； or Socrates；
And Plato welcomed thee to his demesne。
For thee old legends breathed historic breath；
Thou sawest Poseidon in the purple sea；
And in the sunset Jason's fleece of gold！
O； what hadst thou to do with cruel Death；
Who wast so full of life； or Death with thee；
That thou shouldst die before thou hadst grown old！
III
I stand again on the familiar shore；
And hear the waves of the distracted sea
Piteously calling and lamenting thee；
And waiting restless at thy cottage door。
The rocks； the sea…weed on the ocean floor；
The willows in the meadow； and the free
Wild winds of the Atlantic welcome me；
Then why shouldst thou be dead； and come no more？
Ah； why shouldst thou be dead； when common men
Are busy with their trivial affairs；
Having and holding？ Why； when thou hadst read
Nature's mysterious manuscript； and then
Wast ready to reveal the truth it bears；
Why art thou silent！ Why shouldst thou be dead？
IV
River； that stealest with such silent pace
Around the City of the Dead； where lies
A friend who bore thy name； and whom these eyes
Shall see no more in his accustomed place；
Linger and fold him in thy soft embrace
And say good night； for now the western skies
Are red with sunset； and gray mists arise
Like damps that gather on a dead man's face。
Good night！ good night！ as we so oft have said
Beneath this roof at midnight in the days
That are no more； and shall no more return。
Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone to bed；
I stay a little longer； as one stays
To cover up the embers that still burn。
V
The doors are all wide open； at the gate
The blossomed lilacs counterfeit a blaze；
And seem to warm the air； a dreamy haze
Hangs o'er the Brighton meadows like a fate；
And on their margin； with sea…tides elate；
The flooded Charles； as in the happier days；
Writes the last letter of his name； and stays
His restless steps； as if compelled to wait。
I also wait； but they will come no more；
Those friends of mine； whose presence satisfied
The thirst and hunger of my heart。 Ah me！
They have forgotten the pathway to my door！
Something is gone from nature sin