William Butler Yeats
Dublin, June 13, 1865 – Roquebrune-Cap-Martin, Jan. 28, 1939
Sailing To Byzantium
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
---Those dying generations---at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
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Hajózás Byzantiumba
Vénnek nem jó e táj. Az ifjak itt
egymás nyakán, a fán a madarak
– halandó népség – zengik dalaik,
lazacos zúgók, ángolnás tavak,
hal, vad nyárvégtiben dicsérgetik,
mi csak tenyész, él-hal a nap alatt,
buja zsongásba hullva megvetik
az időtlen szellem remekeit.
Egy éhes ember szánandó dolog,
boton rongyos kabát csupán, hacsak
nem esd a lélek, énekel s zokog
halottasingben is rongyainak,
– nem dal-iskola ez, hanem konok
buvárlata önnön csodáinak,
ezért hajóztam tengereken át,
látni Byzantium szent városát.
Kik Isten szent tüzében állotok,
bölcsek, a fal arany mozaikár,
a szent tűzből peregve szálljatok,
lelkem énekmestert ugyan kiván!
Szívjátok fel szívem; vágyban sajog,
s halandó testhez kötve mostohán,
nem ért ahhoz; vigyétek hát ti be
a halhatatlanság remekibe!
Lelkem többé, levetvén testemet,
semmi természeti formát nem ölt;
de milyet görög aranymívesek
keze zománc-aranyból remekelt,
ébren tartván álmos császár-szemet,
vagy dall, ha egy aranyboltívre ült,
Bizánc urainak s úrnőinek
arról, mi volt, mi van, s mi még lehet.
Fordította: Jékely Zoltán
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Sailing To Byzantium
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
---Those dying generations---at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
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Jedrenje u Vizantiju
Nije ovo zemlja za starce. Mladi
Jedno drugom u zagrljaju, na drveću ptice –
Taj rod na umoru – sa svojim pesmama,
Lososov slap, skušom bogata mora –
Riba, čovek, ptica, celog leta slave
Sve što je stvoreno, rođeno i što mre.
Pa zaneti čulnom svirkom previde
Spomenike uma koji ne stari.
Ostareo čovek je tričava stvar,
Ritav kaput na štapu, sem ako
Duša ne zapljeska i ne zapoje, sve glasnije
Za svaku ritu smrtne haljine,
Al nema ni škole pevanja, postoji samo
Izučavanje spomenika sopstvene veličine.
Stoga preplovih mora da dođem
Do svetoga grada Vizantije.
O mudraci u božjem svetom plamu
Ko u zlatnom mozaiku na zidu.
Dođite iz svetog plama, izvite se u spirali,
Budite učitelji pesme mojoj duši.
Razorite mi srce; željom bolno,
I za zver na umoru vezano,
Ono ne zna šta je; vodite me
Nekuda u lukavstvo večnosti.
Kad jednom van prirode budem, ja neću
Uzeti telesni oblik nijedne prirodne stvari,
Već onakav oblik kakav zlatari grčki
Od kovanog zlata i zlatnog emalja prave
Da njima dremljivog cara održe budnim;
Ili ću sesti na zlatnu granu da pevam
Gospodi i damama Vizantije,
O onom što je bilo, što biva il što će doći.
Prevod: Milica Mihajlović
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