荒原（The Waste Land）．1922．
「在庫瑪耶我親眼看見那位女巫
被吊在甕中，每當孩童問她：女巫姑，妳想怎樣？
她總是回答說：我想死啊。」
給艾茲拉．龐德（Ezra Pound）
更靈巧的名手。
"Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi
in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Σιβυλλα
τι θελεις; respondebat illa: αποθανειν θελω."
For Ezra Pound
il miglior fabbro.
Ⅰ.埋葬
四月最是殘酷的季節，孕育著
紫丁香於死寂的土原，摻雜著
追憶與慾情，以春雨
撩撥萎頓的根莖。
冬天使我們溫暖，覆蓋著
大地以遺忘的雪泥，以
枯乾的球根滋養短暫的生命。
夏天突然襲來，從史坦勃爾格．熱湖那邊
帶來一陣驟雨；我們在柱廊裡避雨，
太陽一出，又走進荷芙公園，
喝了咖啡，聊了一小時。
我不是露西亞人，立陶宛出身，我是道地的德國人。
我們幼年時，住在我的堂兄
大公的宅邸，他帶我出去坐雪橇
我真的害怕。他說，瑪琍亞，
瑪琍亞，緊緊扶著呀。就這樣我們滑了下去。
在那山中，誰都感到逍遙自在。
夜裡我大半看書，冬天就到南方。
這些蟠纏的根鬚是什麼？從這亂石的
廢堆裡生出什麼枝椏？人子喲
祢說不出，祢無從猜想，因祢知道的
只是一堆破碎的形象，曝晒在烈日下，
那裡枯木不能成蔭，蟋蟀給不了安慰，
而乾燥的岩石沒有水聲。只有
影子在這紅色的岩石下，
（走進這紅色岩石的影子裡吧），
我將顯示給你某種異樣的東西，
那不是早晨在你背後大踏步的你的影子
也不是傍晚在你面前迎遇你的你的影子；
我要顯示給你的只是一把骨灰的恐怖吧了。
微風清爽地吹著
吹向了家鄉，
我愛爾蘭之子喲
你停泊何方？
「一年前你首先給我風信子花；
「以後人家就叫我風信子姑娘。」
─可是後來我們從風信子花園回來，
妳手臂抱滿了花，頭髮潤濕，我說不出
話來，兩眼迷茫，活著麼？
死了麼？我什麼也不知道，
只是望著那光的核心─寂靜。
那海洋空無而荒涼。
叟索斯特力士夫人，有名的千里眼，
患了重感冒，仍然公認為
歐洲最賢慧的女人，
占算著一疊邪惡的紙牌。呃，她說
這張是你的牌，溺死的腓尼基水手，
（你看！他的眼眸成了珍珠。）
這張是貝拉多娜，岩間美女，
歷經滄桑的美人。
這張是三支杖的男人，這張是輪盤
這張是獨眼商人，而這一張
空白的紙牌是他拿在背後的東西，
不能給我看到。我找不到那張
絞首的男人哇。怕是被水淹死囉。
我看到了成群的人們，捲成漩渦走著。
謝謝你。要是碰到伊瑰夫人
就告訴她我會親自帶去她的命運星座：
這年頭大家都得非常小心哪。
虛幻的都市
在冬天黎明時那鳶色的霧中
人群湧過了倫敦橋上，那麼多，
我沒想到死還沒處置的人有那麼多。
偶爾吐出短促的嘆息，
每個人的眼睛盯住腳前。
湧上了山坡，又湧下威廉王街，
再湧到聖瑪琍．宇諾斯教堂
彌撒的鐘聲在最後第九下敲出死沉沉的餘音。
那裡我遇到一個熟人，「史替生!」就這叫住他。
「美拉耶海戰時你我在同一艦隊呀！
「去年你在花園裡種下的屍體，
「已經長芽了嗎？今年會開花嗎？
「或是突然下了霜把苗床毀壞啦？
「呃，狗雖是人類的朋友，可別讓牠接近，
「不然狗爪準會把它又挖了出來！
「諸位！偽善的讀者喲！─我的同胞，─我的兄弟喲！」
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 arch-duke’s,
My cousin’s, 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.5 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, that’s friend to men,
“Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
“You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable, —mon frère!”
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