Wiki on Adonais
Adonais: An Elegy on the Death of John Keats, Author of Endymion, Hyperion, etc. (/ˌ©¡doʊˈneɪ.ɪs/) is a pastoral elegy written by Percy Bysshe Shelley for John Keats in 1821, and widely regarded as one of Shelley's best and most well-known works.
The poem, which is in 495 lines in 55 Spenserian stanzas, was composed in the spring of 1821 immediately after 11 April, when Shelley heard of Keats' death (seven weeks earlier). It is a pastoral elegy, in the English tradition of John Milton's Lycidas. Shelley had studied and translated classical elegies.
It was published by Charles Ollier in July 1821 (see 1821 in poetry) with a preface in which Shelley made the mistaken assertion that Keats had died from a rupture of the lung induced by rage at the unfairly harsh reviews of his verse in the Quarterly Review and other journals.
The English Protestant Cemetery in Rome
Adonais
II(2)
Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,
When thy Son lay, pierc'd by the shaft which flies
In darkness?(the ananymity of the review of Endymion) where was lorn(forlorn) Urania(She had originally been the Muse of astronomy, but the name was also an epithet for Venus. Shelley converts Venus Urania into the mother of Adonais)
When Adonais died? With veiled eyes,
'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise
She sate, while one, with soft enamour'd breath,
Rekindled all the fading melodies,
With which, like flowers that mock the corse(corpse) beneath,
He had adorn'd and hid the coming bulk(A heap, or a dead body, carcase) of Death.
LII(52)
The One remains, the many change and pass;
Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly;
Life, like a dome of many-colour'd glass,
Stains the white radiance of Eternity,
Until Death tramples it to fragments.(Earthly life colors["stains"] the pure white light of the One, which is the source of all light. The azure sky, flower, etc., exemplify earthly colors that, however beautiful, fall far short of the "glory" of the pure Light that they transmit but also refract["transfuse"])—Die, If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek!
Follow where all is fled!—Rome's azure sky,
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak
The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak.
¿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.
¼öÀºÁÖ´Â ¸Ó¹°¾î°¡´Â ÇÏ·çÀÇ ÀÔ±¸¿¡¼ ¶Ò ¶³¾îÁ³´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,
³óÃÌÀÇ °¹°Àº ¸Ê½ÃÀÖ´Â ¼±Ã¢°¡¸¦ ¹«½ÉÇÏ°Ô Áö³ªÃÆÀ¸¸ç,
±×ÀÇ ½Ã´Â ½ÃÀÎÀÇ Á×À½À» ¾ËÁö ¸øÇß´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 ±×¶§°¡ Á¤½ÅÀÌ ÀÖ¾ú´ø ¸¶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 ±¤ÀåµéÀº ÅÖ ºñ¾ú¾ú´Ù.
±× ÁÖº¯ºÎµµ ħ¹¬À¸·Î 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,
Àͼ÷Ä¡¾ÊÀº ¾ÖÁ¤¿¡ ¿ÏÀüÈ÷ ¹ÙÃÄÁ³´Ù.
¶Ç ´Ù¸¥ ½£¿¡¼ ÇູÀ» ã°Å³ª
³¸¼± 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» Âü¾Æ³»°í ÀÖÀ» ¶§,
±×¸®°í ±× ¸ðµÎ°¡ °¢°¢ ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ¹æ¾È¿¡¼ ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ÀÚÀ¯¸¦ °ÅÀÇ È®½ÅÇÏ°í ÀÖÀ» ¶§,
¸î õ ¸íÂëÀº ±×³¯À» Á¶±Ý »ö´Ù¸¥ ³¯,
´Ù¼Ò ÀÌ·ÊÀûÀÎ 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.
ºÎÀ¯ÇÑ ºÎÀεéÀÇ ±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¿¡¼ »ì¾Æ³²´Â´Ù.
°ü¸®µéÀº °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
±× ³«ÈÄµÈ ¸¶À»·ÎºÎÅÍ Èê·¯³ª¿Í »ì¾Æ³²´Â´Ù.
ÀϾÀÇ ÇÑ ¹æ½ÄÀ¸·Î,
ÇϳªÀÇ ÀÔÀ¸·Î.
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¶ó´Â 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 ¼ûÀºÃ¤ ±â´Ù¸°´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
°¢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 ¾ï¾Ð¾ø´Â ¸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.
±×¸®°í Àΰ£ÀÇ ½ÇÆи¦ ³ë·¡Ç϶ó
°íÅëÀÇ Èñ¿ ¼Ó¿¡¼.
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 Ç϶ó
°¨¿Á°°Àº ÀÏ»ó ¼Ó ÀÚÀ¯Àο¡°Ô
Âù¾çÇÏ´Â ¹ýÀ» °¡¸£Ä¡¶ó.
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