“因为我在古米亲眼看见西比尔吊在笼子里。孩子们问她：你要什么，西比尔？

她回答道：我要死。”

献给艾兹拉·庞德

更卓越的巧匠

一、死者的葬礼

四月最残忍，从死了的

土地滋生丁香，混杂着

回忆和欲望，让春雨

挑动着呆钝的根。

冬天保我们温暖，把大地

埋在忘怀的雪里，使干了的

球茎得一点点生命。

夏天来得意外，随着一阵骤雨

到了斯坦伯吉西；我们躲在廊下，

等太阳出来，便到郝夫加登

去喝咖啡，又闲谈了一点钟。

我不是俄国人，原籍立陶宛，是纯德国种。

我们小时侯，在大公家做客，

那是我表兄，他带我出去滑雪撬，

我害怕死了。他说，玛丽，玛丽，

抓紧了呵。于是我们冲下去。

在山中，你会感到舒畅。

我大半夜看书，冬天去到南方。

这是什么根在抓着，是什么树杈

从这片乱石里长出来？人子呵，

你说不出，也猜不着，因为你只知道

一堆破碎的形象，受着太阳拍击，

而枯树没有阴凉，蟋蟀不使人轻松，

干石头发不出流水的声音。只有

一片阴影在这红色的岩石下，

（来吧，请走进这红岩石下的阴影）

我要指给你一件事，它不同于

你早晨的影子，跟在你后面走

也不象你黄昏的影子，起来迎你，

我要指给你恐惧是在一撮尘土里。

风儿吹得清爽，

吹向我的家乡，

我的爱尔兰孩子，

如今你在何方？

“一年前你初次给了我风信子，

他们都叫我风信子女郎。”

——可是当我们从风信子花园走回，天晚了，

你的两臂抱满，你的头发是湿的，

我说不出话来，两眼看不见，我

不生也不死，什么也不知道，

看进光的中心，那一片沉寂。

荒凉而空虚是那大海。

索索斯垂丝夫人，著名的相命家，

患了重感冒，但仍然是

欧洲公认的最有智慧的女人，

她有一副鬼精灵的纸牌。这里，她说，

你的牌，淹死的腓尼基水手，

（那些明珠曾经是他的眼睛。看！）

这是美女贝拉磨娜，岩石的女人，

有多种遭遇的女人。

这是有三根杖的人，这是轮盘，

这是独眼商人，还有这张牌

是空白的，他拿来背在背上，

不许我看见。我找不到。

那绞死的人。小心死在水里。

我看见成群的人，在一个圈里转。

谢谢你。如果你看见伊奎通太太，

就说我亲自把星象图带过去：

这年头人得万事小心呵。

不真实的城，

在冬天早晨棕黄色的雾下，

一群人流过伦敦桥，呵，这么多

我没有想到死亡毁灭了这么多。

叹息，隔一会短短地嘘出来，

每个人的目光都盯着自己的脚。

流上小山，流下威廉王大街，

直到圣玛丽·乌尔诺教堂，在那里

大钟正沉沉桥着九点的最后一响。

那儿我遇到一个熟人，喊住他道：

“史太森！你记得我们在麦来船上！

去年你种在你的花园里的尸首，

它发芽了吗？今年能开花吗？

还是突然霜冻搅乱了它的花床？

哦，千万把狗撵开，那是人类之友，

不然他会用爪子又把它掘出来！

你呀，伪善的读者——我的同类，我的兄弟！”

"Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis

vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:

Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo."

I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers.

Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee

With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,

And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,

And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.

Bin gar keine Russin, stamm aus Litauen, echt deutsch.

And when we were children, staying at the archdukes,

My cousins, he took me out on a sled,

And I was frightened. He said, Marie,

Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.

In the mountains, there you feel free.

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water. Only

There is shadow under this red rock,

(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),

And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Frisch weht der Wind

Der Heimat zu

Mein Irisch Kind,

Wo weilest du?

"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;

"They called me the hyacinth girl."

––Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,

Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not

Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither

Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,

Looking into the heart of light, the silence.

Oed und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,

Had a bad cold, nevertheless

Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,

With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,

Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,

(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)

Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,

The lady of situations.

Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,

And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,

Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,

Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find

The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.

I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.

Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,

Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:

One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City,

Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,

A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,

I had not thought death had undone so many.

Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,

And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.

Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,

To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours

With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.

There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying "Stetson!

"You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!

"That corpse you planted last year in your garden,

"Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?

"Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?

"Oh keep the Dog far hence, thats friend to men,

"Or with his nails hell dig it up again!

"You! hypocrite lecteur! - mon semblable, - mon frere!"