Easter 1916
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our wingèd horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse –
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
September 25, 1916
Pasqua de 1916
Me’ls he trobat al cap al tard
tornant, amb cares vívides,
de taulells i escriptoris
d’antigues mansions grises.
Els he passat amb un breu gest del cap
o amb mots cortesos i anodins,
o ens hem parat uns instant i parlat
amb mots cortesos i anodins
i, en deixar-los, rumiava
algun acudit agut
per complaure un company
vora del foc, al club,
convençut que ells i jo
vivíem en un país de riure;
tot ha canviat, ha canviat totalment:
ens ha nascut una beutat terrible.
Aquella dona passà els dies
en ignorant bona fe;
a les nits discutia
fins a fer-se estrident.
¿Hi hagué mai veu més dolça
que la seva, de jove,
quan caçava amb llebrer?
Aquest home era mestre,
genet del corser alat;
el seu amic assolia
tot just la plenitud.
Potser hagués guanyat fama:
tan sensible semblava
i audaç de pensament.
A aquell altre jo el creia
borratxo i presumptuós.
Va ferir amargament
algú proper al meu cor,
però l’incloc al cant;
renuncià al seu paper
a la banal comèdia,
i també ha estat canviat,
transformat totalment:
ens ha nascut una beutat terrible.
Els cors amb un sol fi
tant estiu com hivern,
es tornen com de pedra,
destorben el corrent.
El cavall que ve pel camí,
el genet i els ocells que van
vagant d’un núvol a un altre
canvien a cada instant;
l’ombra d’un núvol al corrent
canvia a cada minut;
una ferradura patina
i el cavall cau dins del riu;
les polles d’aigua es banyen,
la polla crida el gall;
viuen minut a minut:
la pedra, al mig, no es mou.
Massa sacrifici pot
transformar els cors en pedra.
Fins quan no n’hi haurà prou?
Que ho digui el cel. Nosaltres
direm nom rere nom
com la mare anomena
el fillet que s’adorm
després d’un jorn furiós.
No és un cap al tard més?
No; no és la nit, és la mort;
innecessària, després de tot?
Perquè Anglaterra podria,
al capdavall, ser fidel.
Sabem llur somni; ens basta
saber que somniaren i han mort;
i si un excés d’amor
els enfollí fins a morir?
Ho escric aquí en vers:
MacDonagh i MacBride
I Connolly i Pearse,
ara i en temps a venir
allí on el verd predomina
han estat canviats, canviats totalment:
ens ha nascut una beutat terrible.
Easter 1916
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our wingèd horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse –
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
September 25, 1916
Pasqua de 1916
Me’ls he trobat al cap al tard
tornant, amb cares vívides,
de taulells i escriptoris
d’antigues mansions grises.
Els he passat amb un breu gest del cap
o amb mots cortesos i anodins,
o ens hem parat uns instant i parlat
amb mots cortesos i anodins
i, en deixar-los, rumiava
algun acudit agut
per complaure un company
vora del foc, al club,
convençut que ells i jo
vivíem en un país de riure;
tot ha canviat, ha canviat totalment:
ens ha nascut una beutat terrible.
Aquella dona passà els dies
en ignorant bona fe;
a les nits discutia
fins a fer-se estrident.
¿Hi hagué mai veu més dolça
que la seva, de jove,
quan caçava amb llebrer?
Aquest home era mestre,
genet del corser alat;
el seu amic assolia
tot just la plenitud.
Potser hagués guanyat fama:
tan sensible semblava
i audaç de pensament.
A aquell altre jo el creia
borratxo i presumptuós.
Va ferir amargament
algú proper al meu cor,
però l’incloc al cant;
renuncià al seu paper
a la banal comèdia,
i també ha estat canviat,
transformat totalment:
ens ha nascut una beutat terrible.
Els cors amb un sol fi
tant estiu com hivern,
es tornen com de pedra,
destorben el corrent.
El cavall que ve pel camí,
el genet i els ocells que van
vagant d’un núvol a un altre
canvien a cada instant;
l’ombra d’un núvol al corrent
canvia a cada minut;
una ferradura patina
i el cavall cau dins del riu;
les polles d’aigua es banyen,
la polla crida el gall;
viuen minut a minut:
la pedra, al mig, no es mou.
Massa sacrifici pot
transformar els cors en pedra.
Fins quan no n’hi haurà prou?
Que ho digui el cel. Nosaltres
direm nom rere nom
com la mare anomena
el fillet que s’adorm
després d’un jorn furiós.
No és un cap al tard més?
No; no és la nit, és la mort;
innecessària, després de tot?
Perquè Anglaterra podria,
al capdavall, ser fidel.
Sabem llur somni; ens basta
saber que somniaren i han mort;
i si un excés d’amor
els enfollí fins a morir?
Ho escric aquí en vers:
MacDonagh i MacBride
I Connolly i Pearse,
ara i en temps a venir
allí on el verd predomina
han estat canviats, canviats totalment:
ens ha nascut una beutat terrible.