威廉·布利斯·卡门

在这里你会发现长诗帐棚后面诗人威廉·布利斯·卡门

帐棚后面

我相当喜欢那座老房子,我必须像个熟悉的小精灵一样住在那里;可是我永远也不会有家的感觉。我喜欢漫游。日复一日,我徘徊探索,从这门到那门;如此多的宝藏吸引着好奇的心灵。多么模糊的历史啊!我几乎不知道我最喜欢哪个房间;这面朝西,望向奇异的山峦,那里是太阳照耀的地方?当我的租约到期,我也可以去哪里?或者这一幅画是为了早晨和东方,在那里,一个人可以饱览若隐若今的风帆,第一个捕捉到它们的外国冰雹,或窥探它们的包,然后是向极点靠拢的苍白的夏日黄昏!当金绿色的影子在夜晚漫步世界时,那么安静,那么明亮,我的灵魂充满了惊奇和喜悦。 There at the window many a time of year, Strange faces peer, Solemn though not unkind, Their wits in search of something left behind Time out of mind; As if they once had lived here, and stole back To the window crack For a peep which seems to say, "Good fortune, brother, in your house of clay!" And then, "Good day!" I hear their footsteps on the gravel walk, Their scraps of talk, And hurrying after, reach Only the crazy sea-drone of the beach In endless speech. And often when the autumn noons are still, By swale and hill I see their gipsy signs, Trespassing somewhere on my border lines; With what designs? I forth afoot; but when I reach the place, Hardly a trace, Save the soft purple haze Of smouldering camp-fires, any hint betrays Who went these ways. Or tatters of pale aster blue, descried By the roadside, Reveal whither they fled; Or the swamp maples, here and there a shred Of Indian red. But most of all, the marvellous tapestry Engrosses me, Where such strange things are rife, Fancies of beasts and flowers, and love and strife, Woven to the life; Degraded shapes and splendid seraph forms, And teeming swarms Of creatures gauzy dim That cloud the dusk, and painted fish that swim, At the weaver's whim; And wonderful birds that wheel and hang in the air; And beings with hair, And moving eyes in the face, And white bone teeth and hideous grins, who race From place to place; They build great temples to their John-a-nod, And fume and plod To deck themselves with gold, And paint themselves like chattels to be sold, Then turn to mould. Sometimes they seem almost as real as I; I hear them sigh; I see them bow with grief, Or dance for joy like any aspen leaf; But that is brief. They have mad wars and phantom marriages; Nor seem to guess There are dimensions still, Beyond thought's reach, though not beyond love's will, For soul to fill. And some I call my friends, and make believe Their spirits grieve, Brood, and rejoice with mine; I talk to them in phrases quaint and fine Over the wine; I tell them all my secrets; touch their hands; One understands Perhaps. How hard he tries To speak! And yet those glorious mild eyes, His best replies! I even have my cronies, one or two, My cherished few. But ah, they do not stay! For the sun fades them and they pass away, As I grow gray. Yet while they last how actual they seem! Their faces beam; I give them all their names, Bertram and Gilbert, Louis, Frank and James, Each with his aims; One thinks he is a poet, and writes verse His friends rehearse; Another is full of law; A third sees pictures which his hand can draw Without a flaw. Strangest of all, they never rest. Day long They shift and throng, Moved by invisible will, Like a great breath which puffs across my sill, And then is still; It shakes my lovely manikins on the wall; Squall after squall, Gust upon crowding gust, It sweeps them willy nilly like blown dust With glory or lust. It is the world-ghost, the time-spirit, come None knows wherefrom, The viewless draughty tide And wash of being. I hear it yaw and glide, And then subside, Along these ghostly corridors and halls Like faint footfalls; The hangings stir in the air; And when I start and challenge, "Who goes there?" It answers, "Where?" The wail and sob and moan of the sea's dirge, Its plangor and surge; The awful biting sough Of drifted snows along some arctic bluff, That veer and luff, And have the vacant boding human cr