アルカディアの森は死に
古代の喜びは終わった
かつて世界は夢を口に育ち
今は「灰色の真理」を絵の具に遊ぶ
だがなお眠られぬ頭を返し続ける彼女
けれど病める子らよ
クロノスの歌う割れた調べに踊り
侘しく回り過ぎゆくものの中で
言葉だけが本当に善きものなのだ
戦える王たち、言葉を嘲笑う者たちは今どこに？
十字架にかけて問う
戦える王たちは今どこに？
口ごもる小学生が
もつれた物語を読みながら言う
虚ろな言葉が今や彼らの栄光だ
かつての王たちは死んだ
さまよえる地上そのものがきっと
突如燃えあがるひとつの言葉に過ぎないのだ
永遠の夢想を破る鐘の鳴り渡る場で
一瞬だけ聞こえる言葉に過ぎないのだ
だから塵の世の事実を崇めるな
真理を激しく餓え求めるな
これもまた真なのだから
お前の労苦が生み出すものは全て
新たな夢に 新たな夢になりはしないか
真理はお前の心の内の他に無いのだ
だから天文学者から学ぶな
光学にて回り過ぎゆく星の軌道を追う
彼らの言葉を求めるな
これもまた真なのだから
冷たい星の禍いが彼らの心を真二つに引き裂き
死はすべて彼ら人間の真理を覆う
波濤の歌う海に行き
こだまを秘めた巻貝をあつめ
その唇にお前の物語を語るのだ
お前の苛立つ言葉を美しき音色で歌い変え
ひとときお前を慰めよう
哀しみに歌い消え
死して真珠の同胞となりゆくまで
そう だから歌え
言葉だけが本当に善きものなのだから
これもまた真なのだから
私は行かねばならない
水仙と百合のゆれる墓へ
眠る土の下に埋葬された哀れなファウヌス
夜明け前に楽しき歌を聞かせ喜ばせよう
あの牧神が歓喜の声をあげた日々は果て
私はなお夢をみる
草を踏み露の間を歩む
ほの暗き彼の姿を
かつて夢のうちにあった世界の若き日を歌う
私の喜びの歌に身を痛めて歩む姿を
だがああ 彼女はもう夢をみない お前が夢をみるのだ！
額の罌粟の花は美しいのだから
夢をみよ、夢を これもまた真なのだから
The Song of the Happy Shepherd
The woods of Arcady are dead,
And over is their antique joy;
Of old the world on dreaming fed;
Grey Truth is now her painted toy;
Yet still she turns her restless head:
But O, sick children of the world,
Of all the many changing things
In dreary dancing past us whirled,
To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,
Words alone are certain good.
Where are now the warring kings,
Word be-mockers?–By the Rood,
Where are now the warring kings?
An idle word is now their glory,
By the stammering schoolboy said,
Reading some entangled story:
The kings of the old time are dead;
The wandering earth herself may be
Only a sudden flaming word,
In clanging space a moment heard,
Troubling the endless reverie.
Then nowise worship dusty deeds,
Nor seek, for this is also sooth,
To hunger fiercely after truth,
Lest all thy roiling only breeds
New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth
Saving in thine own heart. Seek, then,
No learning from the starry men,
Who follow with the optic glass
The whirling ways of stars that pass–
Seek, then, for this is also sooth,
No word of theirs–the cold star-bane
Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain,
And dead is all their human truth.
Go gather by the humming sea
Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell,
And to its lips thy story tell,
And they thy comforters will be,
Rewording in melodious guile
Thy fretful words a little while,
Till they shall singing fade in ruth
And die a pearly brotherhood;
For words alone are certain good:
Sing, then, for this is also sooth.
I must be gone: there is a grave
Where daffodil and lily wave,
And I would please the hapless faun,
Buried under the sleepy ground,
With mirthful songs before the dawn.
His shouting days with mirth were crowned;
And still I dream he treads the lawn,
Walking ghostly in the dew,
Pierced by my glad singing through,
My songs of old earth’s dreamy youth:
But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou!
For fair are poppies on the brow:
Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.
