Poems. William Butler YeatsЧитать онлайн книгу.

      No, not angelical.

      This house

      You are to leave with some old trusty man,

      And bid him shelter all that starve or wander

      While there is food and house room.

      He bids me go

      Where none of mortal creatures but the swan

      Dabbles, and there you would pluck the harp, when the trees

      Had made a heavy shadow about our door,

      And talk among the rustling of the reeds,

      When night hunted the foolish sun away

      With stillness and pale tapers. No – no – no!

      I cannot. Although I weep, I do not weep

      Because that life would be most happy, and here

      I find no way, no end. Nor do I weep

      Because I had longed to look upon your face,

      But that a night of prayer has made me weary.

      Let Him that made mankind, the angels and devils

      And dearth and plenty, mend what He has made,

      For when we labour in vain and eye still sees

      Heart breaks in vain.

      How would that quiet end?

      How but in healing?

      You have seen my tears

      And I can see your hand shake on the floor.

      I thought but of healing. He was angelical.

      No, not angelical, but of the old gods,

      Who wander about the world to waken the heart —

      The passionate, proud heart – that all the angels,

      Leaving nine heavens empty, would rock to sleep.

      Do not hold out to me beseeching hands.

      This heart shall never waken on earth. I have sworn,

      By her whose heart the seven sorrows have pierced,

      To pray before this altar until my heart

      Has grown to Heaven like a tree, and there

      Rustled its leaves, till Heaven has saved my people.

      When one so great has spoken of love to one

      So little as I, though to deny him love,

      What can he but hold out beseeching hands,

      Then let them fall beside him, knowing how greatly

      They have overdared?

      If the old tales are true,

      Queens have wed shepherds and kings beggar-maids;

      God's procreant waters flowing about your mind

      Have made you more than kings or queens; and not you

      But I am the empty pitcher.

      Being silent,

      I have said all, yet let me stay beside you.

      No, no, not while my heart is shaken. No,

      But you shall hear wind cry and water cry,

      And curlew cry, and have the peace I longed for.

      Give me your hand to kiss.

      I kiss your forehead.

      And yet I send you from me. Do not speak;

      There have been women that bid men to rob

      Crowns from the Country-under-Wave or apples

      Upon a dragon-guarded hill, and all

      That they might sift men's hearts and wills,

      And trembled as they bid it, as I tremble

      That lay a hard task on you, that you go,

      And silently, and do not turn your head;

      Goodbye; but do not turn your head and look;

      Above all else, I would not have you look.

      I never spoke to him of his wounded hand,

      And now he is gone. (She looks out.)

      I cannot see him, for all is dark outside.

      Would my imagination and my heart

      Were as little shaken as this holy flame!

      They are ringing the alarm, and in a moment

      They'll be upon us.

      Here is the Treasury,

      You'd my commands to put them all to sleep.

      Some angel or else her prayers protected them.

      She has fallen asleep.

      We've all the treasure now,

      So let's away before they've tracked us out.

      I have a plan to win her.

      You have time enough

      If you would kill her and bear off her soul

      Before they are upon us with their prayers;

      They search the Western Tower.

      That may not be.

      We cannot face the heavenly host in arms.

      Her soul must come to us of its own will,

      But being of the ninth and mightiest Hell

      Where all are kings, I have a plan to win it.

      Lady, we've news that's crying out for speech.