William Butler Yeats - In Memory Of Major Robert Gregory [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

                                                           1

                           Now that we're almost settled in our house
                           I'll name the friends that cannot sup with us
                           Beside a fire of turf in the ancient tower,
                           And having talked to some late hour
                           Climb up the narrow winding stair to bed:
                           Discoverers of forgotten truth
                           Or mere companions of my youth,
                           All, all are in my thoughts to-night, being dead.

                                                           2

                           Always we'd have the new friend meet the old,
                           And we are hurt if either friend seem cold,
                           And there is salt to lengthen out the smart
                           In the affections of our heart,
                           And quarrels are blown up upon that head;
                           But not a friend that I would bring
                           This night can set us quarrelling,
                           For all that come into my mind are dead.

                                                           3

                           Lionel Johnson comes the first to mind,
                           That loved his learning better than mankind,
                           Though courteous to the worst; much falling he
                           Brooded upon sanctity
                           Till all his Greek and Latin learning seemed
                           A long blast upon the horn that brought
                           A little nearer to his thought
                           A measureless consummation that he dreamed.

                                                           4

                           And that enquiring man John Synge comes next,
                           That dying chose the living world for text
                           And never could have rested in the tomb
                           But that, long travelling, he had come
                           Towards nightfall upon certain set apart
                           In a most desolate stony place,
                           Towards nightfall upon a race
                           Passionate and simple like his heart.

                                                           5

                           And then I think of old George Pollexfen,
                           In muscular youth well known to Mayo men
                           For horsemanship at meets or at race-courses,
                           That could have shown how purebred horses
                           And solid men, for all their passion, live
                           But as the outrageous stars incline
                           By opposition, square and trine;
                           Having grown sluggish and contemplative.

                                                           6

                           They were my close companions many a year,
                           A portion of my mind and life, as it were,
                           And now their breathless faces seem to look
                           Out of some old picture-book;
                           I am accustomed to their lack of breath,
                           But not that my dear friend's dear son,
                           Our Sidney and our perfect man,
                           Could share in that discourtesy of death.

                                                           7

                           For all things the delighted eye now sees
                           Were loved by him; the old storm-broken trees
                           That cast their shadows upon road and bridge;
                           The tower set on the stream's edge;
                           The ford where drinking cattle make a stir
                           Nightly, and startled by that sound
                           The water-hen must change her ground;
                           He might have been your heartiest welcomer.

                                                           8

                           When with the Galway foxhounds he would ride
                           From Castle Taylor to the Roxborough side
                           Or Esserkelly plain, few kept his pace;
                           At Mooneen he had leaped a place
                           So perilous that half the astonished meet
                           Had shut their eyes, and where was it
                           He rode a race without a bit?
                           And yet his mind outran the horses' feet.

                                                           9

                           We dreamed that a great painter had been born
                           To cold Clare rock and Galway rock and thorn,
                           To that stern colour and that delicate line
                           That are our secret discipline
                           Wherein the gazing heart doubles her might.
                           Soldier, scholar, horseman, he,
                           And yet he had the intensity
                           To have published all to be a world's delight.

                                                           10

                           What other could so well have counselled us
                           In all lovely intricacies of a house
                           As he that practised or that understood
                           All work in metal or in wood,
                           In moulded plaster or in carven stone?
                           Soldier, scholar, horseman, he,
                           And all he did done perfectly
                           As though he had but that one trade alone.

                                                           11

                           Some burn damp fagots, others may consume
                           The entire combustible world in one small room
                           As though dried straw, and if we turn about
                           The bare chimney is gone black out
                           Because the work had finished in that flare.
                           Soldier, scholar, horseman, he,
                           As 'twere all life's epitome.
                           What made us dream that he could comb grey hair?

                                                           12

                           I had thought, seeing how bitter is that wind
                           That shakes the shutter, to have brought to mind
                           All those that manhood tried, or childhood loved,
                           Or boyish intellect approved,
                           With some appropriate commentary on each;
                           Until imagination brought
                           A fitter welcome; but a thought
                           Of that late death took all my heart for speech.