Adonais XXI Alas! that all we lov'd of him should be, But for our grief, as if it had not been, And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me! Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene The actors or spectators? Great and mean Meet mass'd in death, who lends what life must borrow. As long as skies are blue, and fields are green, Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow, Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow. XXXIV All stood aloof, and at his partial moan Smil'd through their tears; well knew that gentle band Who in another's fate now wept his own, As in the accents of an unknown land He sung new sorrow; sad Urania scann'd The Stranger's mien, and murmur'd: "Who art thou?" He answer'd not, but with a sudden hand Made bare his branded and ensanguin'd brow, Which was like Cain's or Christ's—oh! that it should be so!
XXXIX Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep, He hath awaken'd from the dream of life; 'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep With phantoms an unprofitable strife, And in mad trance, strike with our spirit's knife Invulnerable nothings. We decay Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief Convulse us and consume us day by day, And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.
XLI He lives, he wakes—'tis Death is dead, not he; Mourn not for Adonais. Thou young Dawn, Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee The spirit thou lamentest is not gone; Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan! Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air, Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown O'er the abandon'd Earth, now leave it bare Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair! LIII Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart? Thy hopes are gone before: from all things here They have departed; thou shouldst now depart! A light is pass'd from the revolving year, And man, and woman; and what still is dear Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. The soft sky smiles, the low wind whispers near: 'Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither, No more let Life divide what Death can join together. LV The breath whose might I have invok'd in song Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven, Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng Whose sails were never to the tempest given; The massy earth and sphered skies are riven! I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar; Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, The soul of Adonais, like a star, Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.
Examples of Another Elegy ¿Àµç(W. H. Auden), ¡°Àå·Ê½Ä ºí·ç½º¡± Funeral Blues Àå·Ê½Ä ºí·ç½º Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with the juicy bone. Silence the pianos and, with muffled drum, Bring out the coffin. Let the mourners come. ½Ã°è¸¦ ¸ðµÎ ¸ØÃç¶ó. Àüȼ±µµ ²÷¾î ¹ö·Á¶ó. À°ÁóÀÌ °¡µæÇÑ »À¸¦ ¹°°í ÀÖ´Â Àú °¾ÆÁöµµ ¸ø ¢°Ô Ç϶ó. ÇÇ¾Æ³ë ¼Ò¸®µµ Á×ÀÌ°í, ¼ûÁ×ÀÎ ºÏ¼Ò¸®¿Í ÇÔ²² °üÀ» ³»¿À¶ó. Á¶¹®°´À» µéÀ̶ó. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling in the sky the message: ¡°He is dead!¡± Put crepe bows around the white necks of the public doves. Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. ºñÇà±â°¡ Èå´À³¢¸ç »ó°øÀ» ¸Éµ¹°Ô Ç϶ó ±×·¯¸é¼ Çϴÿ¡ ÀÌ·¸°Ô ¾²°Ô Ç϶ó. ¡°±×°¡ Á×¾ú´Ù!¡± °ø¿ø¿¡ ÀÖ´Â ºñµÑ±âÀÇ ÇÏ¾á ¸ñ´ú¹Ì¿¡µµ »óÀå(ßÃíñ)À» ¸Å¶ó. °Å¸®ÀÇ ±³Åë¼ø°æµéµµ °ËÀº »ö ¸ñÀå°©À» ³¢¶ó°í Çضó. He was my north, my south, my east and west, My working week and Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song. I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong. ±×´Â ³ªÀÇ ºÏÂÊ°ú ³²ÂÊ, ³ªÀÇ µ¿ÂÊ°ú ¼ÂÊÀ̾ú´Ù. ³ªÀÇ ÀÏÇÏ´Â ÆòÀÏÀÇ ³ª³¯À̾ú°í, ÀÏ¿äÀÏÀÇ ¾È½ÄÀ̾ú´Ù. ³ªÀÇ Á¤¿À¿´°í, ³ªÀÇ ÀÚÁ¤À̾ú°í, ³ªÀÇ À̾߱â, ³ªÀÇ ³ë·¡¿´´Ù. ³ª´Â »ç¶ûÀÌ ¿µ¿øÇÒ ÁÙ ¾Ë¾Ò´Ù. ³»°¡ Ʋ·È´Ù. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one. Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun. Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can come to any good. º°µµ ÀÌÁ¨ ´Ù ÇÊ¿ä¾ø´Ù. º°ºû µûÀ© ´Ù ²¨¹ö·Á¶ó. ´Þµµ °¡¸®°í, Çصµ Ä¡¿ö¶ó. ¹Ù´å¹°µµ ´Ù µû¶ó ¹ö¸®°í, ½£µµ ¸ðµÎ ¹Ð¾î¹ö·Á¶ó. ÀÌÁ¨ ¾Æ¹« °Íµµ ¾Æ¹« ¼Ò¿ëÀÌ ¾øÀ¸´Ï±î. AudenÀÇ ¶Ç ´Ù¸¥ Elegy In Memory of W. B. Yeats by W. H. Auden I He disappeared in the dead of winter: The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted, And snow disfigured the public statues; The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day. What instruments we have agree The day of his death was a dark cold day. ±×´Â Á×À½ °°Àº °Ü¿ï³¯ »ç¶óÁ³´Ù. °³¿ïÀº ¾ó¾ú°í, °øÇ׿£ ÀÎÀûÀÌ ²÷°åÀ¸¸ç, ´« ³»¸° µ¿»óµéÀº Á¦ ¸ð½ÀÀ» ÀÒ¾ú´Ù. »õº®º°Àº Àæ¾Æµå´Â ÇÏ·çÀÇ ÀÔ±¸¿¡¼ °¡¶ó¾É¾Ò´Ù. ¾î¶² ±â±¸·Î Àçµç »ó°ü¾øÀÌ ±×°¡ Á×Àº ³¯Àº ¾îµÓ°í Ãß¿î ³¯À̾ú´Ù. 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. ±×ÀÇ º´¿¡´Â ¾Æ¶û°÷¾øÀÌ ´Á´ëµéÀº Ǫ¸£¸¥ ½£¼ÓÀ» ¿©ÀüÈ÷ ¶Ù¾î´Ù³æ°í, ³óºÎ °°Àº °¹°Àº ±Ù»çÇÑ ¼±Ã¢°¡¿¡ ¹«½ÉÇß°í, ¾ÖµµÇÏ´Â »ç¶÷µéÀº ½ÃÀÎÀÇ Á×À½À» ±×ÀÇ ½Ã¿¡ ¾Ë¸®Áö ¾Ê¾Ò´Ù. 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. ±×·¯³ª ±×¿¡°Ô´Â ±× ¶§°¡ ÀǽÄÀ» °¡Áö°í ¸ÂÀº ¸¶Áö¸· ¿ÀÈÄ¿´°í, °£È£¿øµéÀÌ ¶Ù¾î´Ù´Ï°í ¼Ò¹®ÀÌ ÈäÈäÇß´ø ±×·± ¿ÀÈÄ¿´´Ù. ±×ÀÇ ¸öÀº ±¸¿ª ¸¶´Ù ¹Ý¶õÀ» ÀÏÀ¸Ä×°í ±×ÀÇ ¸¶À½ÀÇ ±¤ÀåÀº ÅÖ ºñ¾ú´Ù. ±×ÀÇ ¸öÀÇ ÁÖº¯ºÎ¿£ ħ¹¬ÀÌ µÚµ¤ÀÌ°í, ±×ÀÇ °¨Á¤ÀÇ °¹°Àº ¶Ò ²÷°å´Ù. ±×·¸°Ô ±×´Â ±×ÀÇ ¼þ¹èÀÚ°¡ µÇ¾ú´Ù. 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. ÀÌÁ¦ ±×´Â ¼ö¹éÀÇ µµ½Ãµé¿¡ »Ñ·ÁÁ³°í, ³¸¼± ¾ÖÂøÀÇ Àå¼Òµé¿¡ ¿ÏÀüÈ÷ ¹ÙÃÄÁ³´Ù. ´Ù¸¥ Á¾·ùÀÇ ³ª¹«°¡ ÀÖ´Â °÷¿¡¼ ÇູÀ» ã°Å³ª ¿Ü±¹ÀÇ ¾ç½ÉÀÇ ±Ô¾à¿¡ µû¶ó ó¹ú¹Þµµ·Ï. Á×Àº ÀÚÀÇ ¸»µéÀº »ê ÀÚÀÇ ¹î¼Ó¿¡¼ º¯ÇüµÇ±â ¸¶·ÃÀ̴ϱî. 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. ±×·¯³ª ³»ÀÏÀÇ Á߿伺°ú ¶°µé½âÇÔ ¼Ó¿¡¼, °Å°£²ÛµéÀÌ Áõ±Ç°Å·¡¼ÒÀÇ ¹Ù´Ú¿¡ ¼¼ Áü½Âó·³ °íÇÔÄ¡°í ÀÖÀ» ¶§, ±×¸®°í °¡³ÇÑ ÀÚµéÀÌ ÀÌÁ¦´Â Àͼ÷ÇØÁø °íÅëÀ» ¿©ÀüÈ÷ Âü¾Æ³»°í ÀÖÀ» ¶§, ±×¸®°í ±× ¸ðµÎ°¡ °¢°¢ ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ¹æ¾È¿¡¼ ±×ÀÇ ÀÚÀ¯¸¦ °ÅÀÇ È®½ÅÇÏ°í ÀÖÀ» ¶§, ¸î õ ¸íÂëÀº ±×³¯À» Á¶±Ý »ö´Ù¸¥ ³¯, ´Ù¼Ò ÀÌ·ÊÀûÀÎ ¾î¶² ÀÏÀ» Çß´ø, ±×·± ³¯·Î »ý°¢ÇÏ°Ô µÉ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. What instruments we have agree The day of his death was a dark cold day. ¾î¶² ±â±¸·Î Àçµç »ó°ü¾øÀÌ ±×°¡ Á×Àº ³¯Àº ¾îµÓ°í Ãß¿î ³¯À̾ú´Ù. 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 isolation and the busy griefs, Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives, A way of happening, a mouth. ±×´Â ¿ì¸®Ã³·³ ¾î¸®¼®¾ú´Ù. ÇÏÁö¸¸ ±×ÀÇ Àç´ÉÀº ±× ¸ðµç °ÍÀ» ³Ñ¾î »ì¾Æ³²¾Ò´Ù. ´ÄÀº ºÎÀεéÀÌ »ç´Â ±³±¸¿Í, À°Ã¼ÀûÀÎ ¼è¶ô°ú, ÀÚ±â Àڽŵµ. ¹ÌÄ£ ¾ÆÀÏ·£µå´Â ±×¸¦ ±«·ÓÇô ½Ã·Î ¹Ð¾î ³Ö¾ú´Ù. ¾ÆÀÏ·£µå´Â ¿©ÀüÈ÷ ¹ÌÃÆ´Ù. ±× ³¯¾¾ ¶ÇÇÑ ±×·¸´Ù. ½Ã´Â ¾Æ¹« °Íµµ ÀϾ°Ô ÇÒ ¼ö ¾øÀ¸´Ï±î. ÇÏÁö¸¸ ½Ã´Â ÀÚ½ÅÀÌ ÅÂ¾î³ °è°î, ±â¾÷ ÀÓ¿øµéÀº °áÄÚ »ó°üÇÏ°í ½ÍÁö ¾ÊÀº °è°î, ±× °è°î¿¡¼ »ì¾Æ³²¾Æ ³²ÂÊÀ¸·Î È帣°í, °í¸³µÈ ³óÀå°ú ºÐÁÖÇÑ ½½ÇÄ ¿ì¸®°¡ ±× ¾È¿¡¼ ¹Ï°í Á׾´Â ±× »ý°æÇÑ ¸¶À»·ÎºÎÅÍ Èê·¯³ª¿Í »îÀÇ ÇÑ ¹æ½Äº¸´Ù ÇÑ »ç¶÷ÀÇ ÀÔº¸´Ù ´õ ¿À·¡ »ì¾Æ³²¾Ò´Ù. III Earth, receive an honoured guest: William Yeats is laid to rest. Let the Irish vessel lie Emptied of its poetry. ´ëÁö¿©, ¾î¼ ³ª¿Í ÀÌ ÈǸ¢ÇÑ ¼Õ´ÔÀ» ¸ÂÀÌÇ϶ó. Àª¸®¾ö ¿¹ÀÌÃ÷°¡ ¿©±â ´©¿ö ¾È½ÄÇÑ´Ù. ¾ÆÀÏ·£µå ¹è´Â ±× ½Ã¸¦ ³»·Á³õ¾Æ¶ó. In the nightmare of the dark All the dogs of Europe bark, And the living nations wait, Each sequestered in its hate; ¾ÏÈæÀÇ ¾Ç¸ù ¼Ó¿¡¼ À¯·´ÀÌ ¸ðµç °³µéÀÌ Â¢´Â´Ù. »ì¾ÆÀÖ´Â ³ª¶óµéÀº ¸ðµÎ Áõ¿À¸¦ Ç°°í ¼û¾îÀÖ´Ù. Intellectual disgrace Stares from every human face, And the seas of pity lie Locked and frozen in each eye. ¸ðµç »ç¶÷µéÀº ÁöÀû ±¼¿å°¨À¸·Î ¼·Î¸¦ ÀÀ½ÃÇÑ´Ù. ¿¬¹ÎÀÇ ¹Ù´Ù´Â °Ý¸®µÈ ä ³õ¿©ÀÖ°í °¢ÀÚÀÇ ´« ¼Ó¿¡ ²Ç²Ç ¾ó¾îÀÖ´Ù. Follow, poet, follow right To the bottom of the night, With your unconstraining voice Still persuade us to rejoice; ½ÃÀÎÀÌ¿©, µû¸£¶ó. ¹ãÀÇ ¹Ø¹Ù´Ú±îÁö µû¶ó°¡¶ó. ±×´ëÀÇ ÇعæÀÇ ¸ñ¼Ò¸®·Î ¿©ÀüÈ÷ ¿ì¸®¸¦ ±â»ÝÀ¸·Î ÀεµÇ϶ó. With the farming of a verse Make a vineyard of the curse, Sing of human unsuccess In a rapture of distress; ½Ã ÇÑÆíÀ» ÁöÀ½À¸·Î ÀúÁÖÀÇ Æ÷µµ¹çÀ» ¸¸µé¶ó. °íÅëÀÇ Èñ¿ ¼Ó¿¡¼ Àΰ£ÀÇ ÆиÁÀ» ³ë·¡Ç϶ó. In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountain start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise. °¡½¿ÀÇ »ç¸· ¼Ó¿¡¼ Ä¡À¯ÀÇ »ù¹°ÀÌ ¼Ú¾Æ³ª°Ô ÇÏ¶ó °¨¿ÁÀÇ ³ª³¯ ¼Ó¿¡¼ ÀÚÀ¯Àο¡°Ô Âù¾çÇÏ´Â ¹ýÀ» °¡¸£Ä¡¶ó. A Romantic Elegy: An Elegy on himself Requiem in Amadeus
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Adonais
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