Adonais

 

Wiki on Adonais

 

Adonais: An Elegy on the Death of John Keats, Author of Endymion, Hyperion, etc. (/ˌ©¡dˈn.ɪs/) is 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.


 
XXI(21) 

 
       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(low)
       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(34) 

 
       All stood aloof, and at his partial(Favouring a particular person or thing excessively or especially; biased or prejudiced in a person's favour) 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(bloodied) brow,
Which was like Cain's or Christ's(like that which God had branded Cain for murdering Abel-or like that left by Christ's crown of thorns)—oh! that it should be so! 

 
 

 

XXXIX(39) 

 
       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. 

 
    "On July 3, 1969, two days before the Rolling Stones were to headline a free music festival in Hyde Park, their former guitarist Brian Jones drowned in his swimming pool.  What was supposed to have been a party became, instead, a memorial. About half a million people saw the Stones perform. Before they played, Jagger read out Shelley's poem Adonais, and 3,500 white butterflies were released..." from The Times Magazine

 

 
 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

LV(55) 

 
       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;(Mary Shelley in 1839 asked: "Who but will regard as a prophecy the last stanza of the 'Adonais'?")
       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. ÀüÈ­¼±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 Å¾ °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.

 

 

 

 

 

  Related Binaries

Elegy_ [M.H._Abrams]_Glossary_of_Literary_Terms,_7th_edit(BookFi.org).pdf A definition of Elegy by Abrams   


 

 

 

 

 

 

  Related Links

My own article on Adonais