The Clerks
I did not think that I should find them there
When I came back again; but there they stood,
As in the days they dreamed of when young blood
Was in their cheeks and women called them fair.
Be sure, they met me with an ancient air,—
And yes, there was a shop-worn brotherhood
About them; but the men were just as good,
And just as human as they ever were.
And you that ache so much to be sublime,
And you that feed yourselves with your descent,
What comes of all your visions and your fears?
Poets and kings are but the clerks of Time,
Tiering the same dull webs of discontent,
Clipping the same sad alnage of the years.
E.A. Robinson
| Dear Friends
Dear Friends, reproach me not for what I do, Nor counsel me, nor pity me; nor say That I am wearing half my life away For bubble-work that only fools pursue. And if my bubbles be too small for you, Blow bigger then your own: the games we play To fill the frittered minutes of a day, Good glasses are to read the spirit through.
And whoso reads may get him some shrewd skill; And some unprofitable scorn resign, To praise the very thing that he deplores; So, friends (dear friends), remember, if you will, The shame I win for singing is all mine, The gold I miss for dreaming is all yours.
E.A. Robinson |
| For a Dead Lady
No more with overflowing light Shall fill the eyes that now are faded, Nor shall another's fringe with night Their woman-hidden world as they did. No more shall quiver down the days The flowing wonder of her ways, Whereof no language may requite The shifting and the many-shaded.
The grace, divine, definitive, Clings only as a faint forestalling; The laugh that love could not forgive Is hushed, and answers to no calling; The forehead and the little ears Have gone where Saturn keeps the years; The breast where roses could not live Has done with rising and with falling.
The beauty, shattered by the laws That have creation in their keeping, No longer trembles at applause, Or over children that are sleeping; And we who delve in beauty's lore Know all that we have known before Of what inexorable cause Makes Time so vicious in his reaping.
E.A. Robinson |
|
＊這是一個不錯的作者，找到的網址也很不錯
雖然都英文，但都很簡單，有很多著名詩人的成名作
大家可以去看看 → http://www.poemtree.com/ 網頁名我翻譯為為詩之樹（獻醜）
一顆由各種詩集所灌溉而成的樹，稱為文化之樹，亦為詩之樹
首頁貼了一段我很喜歡的話
The Poem Tree site is not being developed right now.
I keep it open in case I find the time to get back to it,
but my internet business keeps me incredibly busy.
Published poets can send submissions, but it is not
likely that I'll get to them any time soon. I apologize
to all my readers and contributors.
– Caleb Murdock, editor
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