[On Air] IN MEMORY OF W. B. YEATS

He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
The snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.

Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.

But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

II

You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.

III

Earth, receive an honoured guest:
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.

In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;

Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.

Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice.

With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress.

In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountains start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
-- W H Auden

I.
He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying dar.
O all the instruments agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,

1.
Scomparve in pieno inverno:
I rivi erano gelati, gli aeroporti quasi deserti,
La neve deformava i monumenti;
Il mercurio sprofondava nella bocca del giorno morente.
Si, tutti gli strumenti affermano concordi
Che il giorno della sua morte fu un giorno freddo e tetro.
Lontano dal suo male
I lupi correvano le foreste sempreverdi,

The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

But for him il was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed: he became his admirers.

Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given aver to unfamiliar affections;
To find his happiness in anorther kind of wood
And be puni,shed tmder a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.

But in the importance and noiose of tomorrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of
the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are
fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of
his freedom;
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
O all the instruments agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.


2.
You were silly like us: your gift survived it all;
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself; mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its saying where executives
Would never want to tamper; it flows south

Il fiume campagnolo non si lasciò tentare dai moli cittadini;
Lingue accorare
Tennero la morte del poeta lontana dalla sua poesia.

Ma fu quello, per lui, l'ultimo pomeriggio che fu lui,
Pomeriggio d'infermiere e dicerie;
Le province del suo corpo si rivoltarono,
Le piazze della sua mente si fecero vuote,
Silenzio invase i sobborghi,
Il fluire dell'essere si spense: egli divenne i suoi ammiratori.

Ora è sparso tra cento città
E consegnato intero ad affetti inconsueti;
Deve cercare la felicità in un'altra specie di bosco,
Essere punito secondo un ignoto codice della coscienza.
Le parole d'un morto
Vengono modificate nelle viscere dei vivi.

Ma nell'importanza e nel frastuono del domani,
Quando gli agenti ruggiranno come belve nell'atrio della Borsa,
E i poveri soffriranno le pene cui sono abituati da tempo,
E ciascuno, entro la cella di se stesso, sarà quasi convinto della
sua libertà;
Alcune migliaia d'uomini penseranno a questo giorno
Come si pensa al giorno nel quale s'è fatta una cosa un poco diversa dal solito.
Si, tutti gli strumenti affermano concordi
Che il giorno della sua morte fu un giorno freddo e tetro.

2

Fosti sciocco come noi: il tuo dono sopravvisse a ogni cosa:
Alla parrocchia di ricche signore, al decadimento del corpo,
A te stesso; l'Irlanda folle trasse versi dalla tua pena.
Oggi l'Irlanda ha la sua follia e il suo maltempo ancora,
Perché la poesia non fa accadere nulla: sopravvive
Nella valle del suo linguaggio, dove i magistrati
Non pensano di portare la loro corruzione; scende verso il sud

From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.

Da fattorie d'isolamento e attive afflizioni,
Crude città in cui crediamo e moriamo; sopravvive,
Un modo d'accadere, una bocca.

3.

Earth, receive an honoured guest;
Wil1iam Yeats is laid to rest:
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.

Terra, ricevi un ospite Onorato;
William Yeats discende nella tua pace:
Stia all'àncora la nave d'Irlanda
Vuota della sua poesia.

Time that is intolerant
Of the brave and innocent,
And indifferent in a week
To a heautiful physique,

Il tempo che non tollera
Gli arditi e gli innocenti,
E in sette giorni dimentica
La bellezza d'un corpo,

Worships language and forgives
Everyone by whom it lives;
Pardons cowardice, conceit,
Lays its honours at their feet.

Adora il linguaggio e perdona
A quanti gli donano vita;
Condona la codardia e l'albagia,
E depone i suoi onori ai loro piedi.

Time that with this strange excuse
Pardoned Kipling and his views,
And will pardon Paul Chaudel,
Pardons him far writing wel1.

Il tempo che con questa strana scusa
Perdonò a Kipling e alle sue idee,
E perdonerà a Paul Claudel,
Perdona a lui d'avere scritto bene.

In the nightmare af the dark
All the dogs af Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;

Ne11'incubo della tenebra
Latrano tutti i cani d'Europa,
E le nazioni vive attendono,
Isolata ciascuna nel suo odio;

Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
L.ocked anrd frozen in each eye.

La vergogna della mente
Ti guarda da ogni volto umano,
E mari di compassione stanno
Chiusi e gelati in ogni occhio.

Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
StilI persuade us to rejoice;

Procedi, poeta, procedi diritto
Sino al fondo della notte,
Con la tua voce suasiva
Riportaci ancora alla gioia.

--
33

With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;

Con un'aratura di poesia
Trasforma in vigneto la maledizione,
Canta il fallimento umano
In estatica angoscia.

In the deserts of the heart
Let the hea1ing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.

Nei deserti del cuore
Fa che sgorghi la fonte che risana,
Nella prigione dei suoi giorni
Insegna all'uomo libero la lode.
W.H.Auden(d. Jan. I939)

 
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