惠特曼的诗 WALT  WHITMAN'S  VERSE [复制链接]

A Woman Waits for Me
 


A  woman waits for me  ,she contains all, nothing is lacking,　

Yet all were lacking, if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the right man were lacking.　


Sex contains all,　

Bodies, Souls, meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results, promulgations,　

Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal milk;　　　　   

All hopes, benefactions, bestowals,　

All the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the earth,　

All the governments, judges, gods, follow’d persons of the earth,　

These are contain’d in sex, as parts of itself, and justifications of itself.　


Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of his sex,　

Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers.　


Now I will dismiss myself from impassive women,　

I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those women that are warm-blooded and sufficient for me;　

I see that they understand me, and do not deny me;　

I see that they are worthy of me—I will be the robust husband of those women.　


They are not one jot less than I am,　

They are tann’d in the face by shining suns and blowing winds,   

Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength,　

They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike, retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves,　

They are ultimate in their own right—they are calm, clear, well-possess’d of themselves.　


I draw you close to me, you women!　

I cannot let you go, I would do you good,　

I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own sake, but for others’ sakes;　

Envelop’d in you sleep greater heroes and bards,　

They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me.　


It is I, you women—I make my way,　

I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable—but I love you,　

I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you,　

I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for These States—I press with slow rude muscle,　

I brace myself effectually—I listen to no entreaties,　

I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated within me.　


Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,　

In you I wrap a thousand onward years,　

On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and America,　

The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic girls, new artists, musicians, and singers,　 
The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn,　

I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-spendings,　

I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and you interpenetrate now,　

I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as I count on the fruits of the gushing showers I give now,　

I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death, immortality, I plant so lovingly now.

On the beach at night,

Stands a child with her father,

Watching the east, the autumn sky.


Up through the darkness,

While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading,

Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky,

Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east,

Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter,

And nigh at hand, only a very little above,

Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.


From the beach the child holding the hand of her father,

Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all,

Watching, silently weeps.


Weep not, child,

Weep not, my darling,

With these kisses let me remove your tears,

The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious,

They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition,

Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge,

They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again,

The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure,

The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall again shine.


Then dearest child mournest thou only for jupiter?

Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?


Something there is,

(With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper,

I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,)

Something there is more immortal even than the stars,

(Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,)

Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter

Longer than sun or any revolving satellite,

Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades.

Me imperturbe,standing at ease in Nature,

Master of all or mistress of all, aplomb in the midst of irrational things,

Imbued as they,passive,receptive,silent as they,

Finding my occupation,poverty,notoriety,foibles,crimes,

less important than I thought,

Me toward the Mexican sea, or in Manhattan or Tennessee,

or far north or inland,

A river man ,or a man of the woods or of any farm-life of these

States or of the coast, or the lakes or Kanada,

Me wherever my life is lived, O to be self-balanced for contingencies,

To confront night, storms,hunger,ridicule,accidents,

rebuffs,as th trees and animals do.

From pent-up aching rivers,

From that of myself without which I were nothing,

From what I am determin'd to make illustrious, even if I stand sole

  among men,

From my own voice resonant, singing the phallus,

Singing the song of procreation,

Singing the need of superb children and therein superb grown people,

Singing the muscular urge and the blending,

Singing the bedfellow's song, (O resistless yearning!

O for any and each the body correlative attracting!

O for you whoever you are your correlative body! O it, more than all

  else, you delighting!)

From the hungry gnaw that eats me night and day,

From native moments, from bashful pains, singing them,

Seeking something yet unfound though I have diligently sought it

  many a long year,

Singing the true song of the soul fitful at random,

Renascent with grossest Nature or among animals,

Of that, of them and what goes with them my poems informing,

Of the smell of apples and lemons, of the pairing of birds,

Of the wet of woods, of the lapping of waves,

Of the mad pushes of waves upon the land, I them chanting,

The overture lightly sounding, the strain anticipating,

The welcome nearness, the sight of the perfect body,

The swimmer swimming naked in the bath, or motionless on his back

  lying and floating,

The female form approaching, I pensive, love-flesh tremulous aching,

The divine list for myself or you or for any one making,

The face, the limbs, the index from head to foot, and what it arouses,

The mystic deliria, the madness amorous, the utter abandonment,

(Hark close and still what I now whisper to you,

I love you, O you entirely possess me,

O that you and I escape from the rest and go utterly off, free and lawless,

Two hawks in the air, two fishes swimming in the sea not more

  lawless than we;)

The furious storm through me careering, I passionately trembling.

The oath of the inseparableness of two together, of the woman that

  loves me and whom I love more than my life, that oath swearing,

(O I willingly stake all for you,

O let me be lost if it must be so!

O you and I! what is it to us what the rest do or think?

What is all else to us? only that we enjoy each other and exhaust

  each other if it must be so;)

From the master, the pilot I yield the vessel to,

The general commanding me, commanding all, from him permission taking,

From time the programme hastening, (I have loiter'd too long as it is,)

From sex, from the warp and from the woof,

From privacy, from frequent repinings alone,

From plenty of persons near and yet the right person not near,

From the soft sliding of hands over me and thrusting of fingers

  through my hair and beard,

From the long sustain'd kiss upon the mouth or bosom,

From the close pressure that makes me or any man drunk, fainting

  with excess,

From what the divine husband knows, from the work of fatherhood,

From exultation, victory and relief, from the bedfellow's embrace in

  the night,

From the act-poems of eyes, hands, hips and bosoms,

From the cling of the trembling arm,

From the bending curve and the clinch,

From side by side the pliant coverlet off-throwing,

From the one so unwilling to have me leave, and me just as unwilling

  to leave,

(Yet a moment O tender waiter, and I return,)

From the hour of shining stars and dropping dews,

From the night a moment I emerging flitting out,

Celebrate you act divine and you children prepared for,

And you stalwart loins.

In paths untrodden,

In the growth by margins of pond-waters,

Escaped from the lite that exhibits itself,

From all the standards hitherto publish'd, from the pleasures,

  profits, conformities,

Which too long I was offering to feed my soul,

Clear to me now standards not yet publish'd, clear to me that my soul,

That the soul of the man I speak for rejoices in comrades,

Here by myself away from the clank of the world,

Tallying and talk'd to here by tongues aromatic,

No longer abash'd, (for in this secluded spot I can respond as I

  would not dare elsewhere,)

Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself, yet contains

  all the rest,

Resolv'd to sing no songs to-day but those of manly attachment,

Projecting them along that substantial life,

Bequeathing hence types of athletic love,

Afternoon this delicious Ninth-month in my forty-first year,

I proceed for all who are or have been young men,

To tell the secret my nights and days,

To celebrate the need of comrades.

I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing,

All alone stood it and the moss hung down from the branches，

Without any companion it grew there uttering joyous leaves of dark green，

And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself，

But I wondered how it could utter joyous leaves standing alone there without its friend near，for I

knew I could not，

And I broke off a twig with a certain number of leaves upon it, and twined around it a little moss,

And brought it away，and I have placed it in sight in my room，

It is not needed to remind me as of my own dear friends,

(For I believe lately I think of little else than of them，)

Yet it remains to me a curious token，it makes me think of manly love；

For all that, and though the live-oak glistens there in Louisiana

solitary in a wide flat space,

Uttering joyous leaves all its life without a friend or lover near,

I know very well I could not.

Out of the cradle endlessly rocking，

Out of the mocking-bird's throat， the musical shuttle，

Out of the Ninth-month midnight，

Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond，

where the child leaving his bed wander'd alone， bareheaded， barefoot，

Down from the shower'd halo，

Up from the mystic play of shadows twining and twisting as if they were alive，

Out from the patches of briers and blackberries，

From the memories of the bird that chanted to me，

From your memories sad brother， from the fitful risings and fallings I heard，

From under that yellow half-moon late-risen and swollen as if with tears，

From those beginning notes of yearning and love there in the mist，

From the thousand responses of my heart never to cease，

From the myriad thence-arous'd words，

From the word stronger and more delicious than any，

From such as now they start the scene revisiting，

As a flock， twittering， rising， or overhead passing，

Borne hither， ere all eludes me， hurriedly，

A man， yet by these tears a little boy again，

Throwing myself on the sand， confronting the waves，

I， chanter of pains and joys， uniter of here and hereafter，

Taking all hints to use them， but swiftly leaping beyond them，

A reminiscence sing.

Once Paumanok，

When the lilac-scent was in the air and Fifth-month grass was growing，

Up this seashore in some briers，

Two feather'd guests from Alabama， two together，

And their nest， and four light-green eggs spotted with brown，

And every day the he-bird to and fro near at hand，

And every day the she-bird crouch'd on her nest， silent， with bright eyes，

And every day I， a curious boy， never too close， never disturbing them，

Cautiously peering， absorbing， translating.

Shine！ shine！ shine！

Pour down your warmth， great sun！

While we bask， we two together.

Two together！

Winds blow south， or winds blow north，

Day come white， or niqht come black，

Home， or rivers and mountains from home，

Singing all time， minding no time，

While we two keep together.

Till of a sudden，

May-be kill'd， unknown to her mate，

One forenoon the she-bird crouch'd not on the nest，

Nor return'd that afternoon， nor the next，

Nor ever appear'd again.

And thenceforward all summer in the sound of the sea，

And at night under the full of the moon in calmer weather，

Over the hoarse surging of the sea，

Or flitting from brier to brier by day，

I saw， I heard at intervals the remaining one， the he-bird，

The solitary guest from Alabama.

Blow！ blow！ blow！

Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok's shore；

I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me.

Yes， when the stars glisten'd，

All night long on the prong of a moss-scallop'd stake，

Down almost amid the slapping waves，

Sat the lone singer wonderful causing tears.

He call'd on his mate，

He pour'd forth the meanings which I of all men know.

Yes my brother I know，

The rest might not， but I have treasur'd every note，

For more than once dimly down to the beach gliding，

Silent， avoiding the moonbeams， blending myself with the shadows，

Recalling now the obscure shapes， the echoes， the sounds and sights after their sorts，

The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing，

I， with bare feet， a child， the wind wafting my hair，

Listen'd long and long.

Listen'd to keep， to sing， now translating the notes，

Following you my brother.

Soothe！ soothe！ soothe！

Close on its wave soothes the wave behind，

And again another behind embracing and lapping， every one close，

But my love soothes not me， not me.

Low hangs the moon， it rose late，

It is lagging——O I think it is heavy with love， with love.

O madly the sea pushes upon the land，

With love， with love.

O night！ do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers？

What is that little black thing I see there in the white？

Loud！ loud！ loud！

Loud I call to you， my love！

Hiqh and clear I shoot my voice over the waves，

Surely you must know who is here， is here，

You must know who I am， my love.

Low-hanging moon！

What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow？

O it is the shape， the shape of my mate！

O moon do not keep her from me any longer.

Land！ land！ O land！

Whichever way I turn， 0 I think you could give me my mate back again if you only would，

For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look.

O rising stars！

Perhaps the one I want so much will rise， will rise with some of you.

O throat！ 0 trembling throat！

Sound clearer through the atmosphere！

Pierce the woods， the earth，

Somewhere listening to catch you must be the one I want.

Shake out carols！

Solitary here， the niqht's carols！

Carols of lonesome love！ death's carols！

Carols under that lagging， yellow， waning moon！

O under that moon where she droops almost down into the sea！

O reckless despairing carols.

But soft！ sink low！

Soft！ let me just murmur，

And do you wait a moment you husky-nois'd sea，

For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me，

So faint， I must be still， be still to listen，

But not altogether still， for then she miqht not come immediately to me.

Hither my love！

Here I am！ here！

With this just-sustain'd note I announce myself to you，

This gentle call is for you my love， for you.

Do not be decoy'd elsewhere，

That is the whistle of the wind， it is not my voice，

That is the fluttering， the fluttering of the spray，

Those are the shadows of leaves.

O darkness！ 0 in vain！

0 I am very sick and sorrowful.

O brown halo in the sky near the moon， drooping upon the sea！

O troubled reflection in the sea！

O throat！ 0 throbbing heart！

And I singing uselessly， uselessly all the niqht.

0 past！ 0 happy life！ 0 songs of joy！

In the air， in the woods， over fields，

Loved！ loved！ loved！ loved！ loved！

But my mate no more， no more with me！

We two together no more.

The aria sinking，

All else continuing， the stars shining，

The winds blowing， the notes of the bird continuous echoing，

With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning，

On the sands of Paumanok's shore gray and rustling，

The yellow half-moon enlarged， sagging down， drooping， the face of the sea almost touching，

The boy ecstatic， with his bare feet the waves， with his hair the atmosphere dallying，

The love in the heart long pent， now loose， now at last tumultuously bursting，

The aria's meaning， the ears， the soul， swiftly depositing，

The strange tears down the cheeks coursing，

The colloquy there， the trio， each uttering，

The undertone， the savage old mother incessantly crying，

To the boy's soul's questions sullenly timing， some drown'd secret hissing，

To the outsetting bard.

Demon or bird！ （said the boy's soul，）

Is it indeed toward your mate you sing？ or is it really to me？

For I， that was a child， my tongue's use sleeping， now I have heard you，

Now in a moment I know what I am for， I awake，

And already a thousand singers， a thousand songs， clearer，louder and more sorrowful than yours，

A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me，never to die.

O you singer solitary， singing by yourself， projecting me，

O solitary me listening， never more shall I cease perpetuating you，

Never more shall I escape， never more the reverberations，

Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me，

Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there in the night，

By the sea under the yellow and sagging moon，

The messenger there arous'd， the fire， the sweet hell within，

The unknown want， the destiny of me.

O give me the clew！ （it lurks in the night here somewhere，）

O if I am to have so much， let me have more！

A word then， （for I will conquer it，）

The word final， superior to all，

Subtle， sent up——what is it？——I listen；

Are you whispering it， and have been all the time， you sea-waves？

Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands？

Whereto answering， the sea，

Delaying not， hurrying not，

Whisper'd me through the night， and very plainly before daybreak，

Lisp'd to me the low and delicious word death，

And again death， death， death， death，

Hissing melodious， neither like the bird nor like my arous'd child's heart，

But edging near as privately for me rustling at my feet，

Creeping thence steadily up to my ears and laving me softly all over，

Death， death， death， death， death.

Which I do not forget，

But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother，

That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok's gray beach，

With the thousand responsive songs at random，

My own songs awaked from that hour，

And with them the key， the word up from the waves，

The word of the sweetest song and all songs，

That strong and delicious word which， creeping to my feet，

（Or like some old crone rocking the cradle， swathed in sweet garments， bending aside，）

The sea whisper'd me

Shut not your doors to me proud libraries,

For that which was lacking on all your well-fill'd shelves, yet

  needed most, I bring,

Forth from the war emerging, a book I have made,

The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing,

A book separate, not link'd with the rest nor felt by the intellect,

But you ye untold latencies will thrill to every page.