The Tower
I
What shall I do with this absurdity –
O heart, O troubled heart – this caricature,
Decrepit age that has been tied to me
As to a dog's tail?
Never had I more
Excited, passionate, fantastical
Imagination, nor an ear and eye
That more expected the impossible –
No, not in boyhood when with rod and fly,
Or the humbler worm, I climbed Ben Bulben's back
And had the livelong summer day to spend.
It seems that I must bid the Muse go pack,
Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend
Until imagination, ear and eye,
Can be content with argument and deal
In abstract things; or be derided by
A sort of battered kettle at the heel.
III
It is time that I wrote my will;
I choose upstanding men
That climb the streams until
The fountain leap, and at dawn
Drop their cast at the side
Of dripping stone; I declare
They shall inherit my pride,
The pride of people that were
Bound neither to Cause nor to State.
Neither to slaves that were spat on,
Nor to the tyrants that spat,
The people of Burke and of Grattan
That gave, though free to refuse –
Pride, like that of the morn,
When the headlong light is loose,
Or that of the fabulous horn,
Or that of the sudden shower
When all streams are dry,
Or that of the hour
When the swan must fix his eye
Upon a fading gleam,
Float out upon a long
Last reach of glittering stream
And there sing his last song.
And I declare my faith:
I mock Plotinus' thought
And cry in Plato's teeth,
Death and life were not
Till man made up the whole,
Made lock, stock and barrel
Out of his bitter soul,
Aye, sun and moon and star, all,
And further add to that
That, being dead, we rise,
Dream and so create
Translunar paradise.
I have prepared my peace
With learned Italian things
And the proud stones of Greece,
Poet's imaginings
And memories of love,
Memories of the words of women,
All those things whereof
Man makes a superhuman,
Mirror-resembling dream.
As at the loophole there
The daws chatter and scream,
And drop twigs layer upon layer.
When they have mounted up,
The mother bird will rest
On their hollow top,
And so warm her wild nest.
I leave both faith and pride
To young upstanding men
Climbing the mountain-side,
That under bursting dawn
They may drop a fly;
Being of that metal made
Till it was broken by
This sedentary trade.
Now shall I make my soul,
Compelling it to study
In a learned school
Till the wreck of body,
Slow decay of blood,
Testy delirium
Or dull decrepitude,
Or what worse evil come –
The death of friends, or death
Of every brilliant eye
That made a catch in the breath –
Seem but the clouds of the sky
When the horizon fades,
Or a bird's sleepy cry
Among the deepening shades.
La torre (I & III)
I
Què n’he de fer de tot aquest absurd
−oh, cor, oh agitat cor− de la caricatura
d’aquesta edat decrèpita que em lliga
com a la cua d’un gos?
Mai no havia
tingut una imaginació tan excitada,
tan fantasiosa i apassionada,
ni ull ni orella esperant, com ara, l’impossible.
Ni a la infantesa quan, amb canya i mosca,
o el cuc humil, m’enfilava al Ben Bulben
amb tot el dia estiuenc pel davant.
Diríeu que ara em toca acomiadar
la Musa, i amb Plotinus i Plató
acontentar la imaginació,
l’ull i l’orella amb arguments i tractes
de qüestions abstractes; o bé servir de riota
com amb un pot bonyegut lligat a la pota.
III
Em toca escriure el testament;
escullo els homes alterosos
que pugen amunt pels torrents
fins a la font, i de matí
avien l’ham vora unes roques
degotejants; i faig saber
que hereteran el meu orgull,
l’orgull d’aquells que no servien
ni cap Causa ni cap Estat,
ni els esclaus a qui s’escopia,
ni els escopidors tirans,
la gent de Burke i de Grattan
lliures per dar i per refusar...;
orgull com el del matí
quan la llum cau directament,
o bé el del corn de l’abundància,
o el de la pluja inesperada
quan els rierols anaven secs,
o el d’aquella hora en la què el cigne
ha de fixar els seus ulls
en un raig que declina,
i flotar al llarg d’un últim
bocí de riu brillant
per fer-hi l’últim cant.
I confesso el que crec:
me n’enric de Plotinus,
ploro davant Plató,
mort i vida no hi foren
fins que l’home ho feu tot,
absolutament tot,
amb una ànima amarga:
sol, lluna, estrelles, tot.
I vull també al·legar
que, un cop morts, ens alcem
i somniem i creem
un Edèn Translunar.
Preparo el repòs amb
obres d’art italianes
I altives pedres gregues,
Fantasies de poetes
i memòries d’amor,
records de mots de dones
i tot allò des d’on
hom forja un sobrehumà
somni, com un mirall.
Com al dalt, a l’esquerda,
les garses xisclen, xerren,
tot posant branquillons;
quan s’hi hagin instal·lat
la mare ocell seurà
damunt del clot, al cim,
i escalfarà el seu niu.
Deixo la fe i l’orgull
als homes alterosos
que, anant muntanya amunt,
una abrandada aurora
potser van a pescar;
jo era de fusta igual
fins que m’espatllà aquest
sedentari treball.
Ara em formaré l’ànima
obligant-la a estudiar
en una escola culta
fins que el cos, arruïnat,
i la sang, decandint-se,
el deliri irascible
o la decrepitud,
o el pitjor mal que vingui
−la mort d’amics, la mort
d’aquells ulls resplendents
que em van tallar l’alè−
semblin només uns núvols
o un crit adormit d’au
quan l’horitzó s’esblaima
entre el pregon foscam.
The Tower
I
What shall I do with this absurdity –
O heart, O troubled heart – this caricature,
Decrepit age that has been tied to me
As to a dog's tail?
Never had I more
Excited, passionate, fantastical
Imagination, nor an ear and eye
That more expected the impossible –
No, not in boyhood when with rod and fly,
Or the humbler worm, I climbed Ben Bulben's back
And had the livelong summer day to spend.
It seems that I must bid the Muse go pack,
Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend
Until imagination, ear and eye,
Can be content with argument and deal
In abstract things; or be derided by
A sort of battered kettle at the heel.
III
It is time that I wrote my will;
I choose upstanding men
That climb the streams until
The fountain leap, and at dawn
Drop their cast at the side
Of dripping stone; I declare
They shall inherit my pride,
The pride of people that were
Bound neither to Cause nor to State.
Neither to slaves that were spat on,
Nor to the tyrants that spat,
The people of Burke and of Grattan
That gave, though free to refuse –
Pride, like that of the morn,
When the headlong light is loose,
Or that of the fabulous horn,
Or that of the sudden shower
When all streams are dry,
Or that of the hour
When the swan must fix his eye
Upon a fading gleam,
Float out upon a long
Last reach of glittering stream
And there sing his last song.
And I declare my faith:
I mock Plotinus' thought
And cry in Plato's teeth,
Death and life were not
Till man made up the whole,
Made lock, stock and barrel
Out of his bitter soul,
Aye, sun and moon and star, all,
And further add to that
That, being dead, we rise,
Dream and so create
Translunar paradise.
I have prepared my peace
With learned Italian things
And the proud stones of Greece,
Poet's imaginings
And memories of love,
Memories of the words of women,
All those things whereof
Man makes a superhuman,
Mirror-resembling dream.
As at the loophole there
The daws chatter and scream,
And drop twigs layer upon layer.
When they have mounted up,
The mother bird will rest
On their hollow top,
And so warm her wild nest.
I leave both faith and pride
To young upstanding men
Climbing the mountain-side,
That under bursting dawn
They may drop a fly;
Being of that metal made
Till it was broken by
This sedentary trade.
Now shall I make my soul,
Compelling it to study
In a learned school
Till the wreck of body,
Slow decay of blood,
Testy delirium
Or dull decrepitude,
Or what worse evil come –
The death of friends, or death
Of every brilliant eye
That made a catch in the breath –
Seem but the clouds of the sky
When the horizon fades,
Or a bird's sleepy cry
Among the deepening shades.
La torre (I & III)
I
Què n’he de fer de tot aquest absurd
−oh, cor, oh agitat cor− de la caricatura
d’aquesta edat decrèpita que em lliga
com a la cua d’un gos?
Mai no havia
tingut una imaginació tan excitada,
tan fantasiosa i apassionada,
ni ull ni orella esperant, com ara, l’impossible.
Ni a la infantesa quan, amb canya i mosca,
o el cuc humil, m’enfilava al Ben Bulben
amb tot el dia estiuenc pel davant.
Diríeu que ara em toca acomiadar
la Musa, i amb Plotinus i Plató
acontentar la imaginació,
l’ull i l’orella amb arguments i tractes
de qüestions abstractes; o bé servir de riota
com amb un pot bonyegut lligat a la pota.
III
Em toca escriure el testament;
escullo els homes alterosos
que pugen amunt pels torrents
fins a la font, i de matí
avien l’ham vora unes roques
degotejants; i faig saber
que hereteran el meu orgull,
l’orgull d’aquells que no servien
ni cap Causa ni cap Estat,
ni els esclaus a qui s’escopia,
ni els escopidors tirans,
la gent de Burke i de Grattan
lliures per dar i per refusar...;
orgull com el del matí
quan la llum cau directament,
o bé el del corn de l’abundància,
o el de la pluja inesperada
quan els rierols anaven secs,
o el d’aquella hora en la què el cigne
ha de fixar els seus ulls
en un raig que declina,
i flotar al llarg d’un últim
bocí de riu brillant
per fer-hi l’últim cant.
I confesso el que crec:
me n’enric de Plotinus,
ploro davant Plató,
mort i vida no hi foren
fins que l’home ho feu tot,
absolutament tot,
amb una ànima amarga:
sol, lluna, estrelles, tot.
I vull també al·legar
que, un cop morts, ens alcem
i somniem i creem
un Edèn Translunar.
Preparo el repòs amb
obres d’art italianes
I altives pedres gregues,
Fantasies de poetes
i memòries d’amor,
records de mots de dones
i tot allò des d’on
hom forja un sobrehumà
somni, com un mirall.
Com al dalt, a l’esquerda,
les garses xisclen, xerren,
tot posant branquillons;
quan s’hi hagin instal·lat
la mare ocell seurà
damunt del clot, al cim,
i escalfarà el seu niu.
Deixo la fe i l’orgull
als homes alterosos
que, anant muntanya amunt,
una abrandada aurora
potser van a pescar;
jo era de fusta igual
fins que m’espatllà aquest
sedentari treball.
Ara em formaré l’ànima
obligant-la a estudiar
en una escola culta
fins que el cos, arruïnat,
i la sang, decandint-se,
el deliri irascible
o la decrepitud,
o el pitjor mal que vingui
−la mort d’amics, la mort
d’aquells ulls resplendents
que em van tallar l’alè−
semblin només uns núvols
o un crit adormit d’au
quan l’horitzó s’esblaima
entre el pregon foscam.