一切多么远了

我们曾像早晨的蝉一样软弱
翅膀是湿的
叶片是厚厚的，我们年轻
什么也不知道，不想知道
只知道，梦会飘
会把我们带进白天
云会在风中走路
湖水会把光亮聚成
闪烁的镜子
我们看着青青的叶片
……
一切多么远了

那个夏天还在拖延
那个声音已经停止
----------------------顾城《窗外的夏天》

control

可是站在岁月的这个点上，一切变得模糊起来。有些事情你不想去做，但。。总会有人提醒你。如果我偏离了航道，会不会失控。还是因为我因为走在人们通常的航道上所以变得不受自己控制了呢？去年此时，风也同样如此温暖，但不比今日让人烦躁。

[W.H.Auden]In Memory of W.B.Yeats

I

He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The books were frozen, the airport almost deserted,
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of dying day,
O all the instruments agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
the provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed;he became his admirers.

Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.

But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

II
You were silly like us;your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen:it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolations and the bust griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in;it survives,
A way of happening ,a mouth.

III
Earth,receive an honoured guest:
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.

Time that is intolerant
Of the brave and innocent,
And indifferent in a week
To a beautiful physique,

Worships language and forgives
Everyone by whom it lives;
Pardons cowardice,conceit,
Lays its honours at their feet.

Time that with this strange excuse
Pardoned Kipling and his views,
And will pardon Paul Claudel,
Pardons him for writing well.

In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
and the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hats;

Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
and the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.

Follow poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night.
with your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;

With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;

In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.