THE FERRYMAN.

With hands on oars the ferryman

Strove where the stubborn current ran,

With a green reed between his teeth.

But she who hailed him from the bank,

Beyond the waves, among the rushes rank

That rim the rolling heath,

Into the mists receded more and more.

The windows, with their eyes,

And the dials of the towers upon the shore,

Watched him, with doubled back,

Straining and toiling at the oar,

And heard his muscles crack.

Of a sudden broke an oar,

Which the current bore

On heavy waves down to the sea.

And she who hailed him from the mist,

In the blustering wind, appeared

More madly still her arms to twist,

Towards him who never neared.

The ferryman took to the oar remaining

With such a might,

That all his body cracked with straining,

And his heart shook with feverish fright.

A sudden shock, the rudder tore,

And the current bore

This remnant to the sea.

The windows on the shore,

Like eyes with fever great,

And the dials of the towers, those widows straight

That in their thousands throng

A river bank, were obstinately staring

At this mad fellow obstinately daring

His crazy voyage to prolong.

And she who hailed him there with chattering teeth,

Howled and howled in the mists of night,

With head stretched out in frantic fright

To the unknown, the vast, and rolling heath.

The ferryman, as a statue stands,

Bronze in the storm that paled his blood,

With the one oar firm in his hands,

Beat the waves, and bit the flood.

His old hallucinated eyes

See the lit distances rejoice,

Whence reaches him the lamentable voice,

Under the freezing skies.

His last oar breaks,

His last oar the current takes,

Like a straw, down to the sea.

The ferryman exhausted sank

Upon his bench, with sweat that poured,

His loins with vain exertion sore,

A high wave struck on the lee-board,

He looked, behind him lay the bank:

He had not left the shore.

The windows and the dials gazed,

With eyes they opened wide, amazed,

Where all his strength to ruin ran;

But the old, stubborn ferryman

Kept all the same, for God knows when,

The green reed in his teeth, even then.

Contemporary Belgian Poetry Selected and Translated by Jethro Bithell · 第 210 / 232 题