The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?“
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?“ and, “Do I dare?“
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!“)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!“)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here抯 no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all“--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,**
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.“

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean I
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.“

No I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

J·阿尔弗瑞德·普鲁弗洛克的情歌

假如我认为，我是回答
一个能转回阳世间的人，
那么，这火焰就不会再摇闪。
但既然，如我听到的果真
没有人能活着离开这深渊，
我回答你就不必害怕流言。

那么我们走吧，你我两个人，
正当朝天空慢慢铺展着黄昏
好似病人麻醉在手术桌上；
我们走吧，穿过一些半清冷的街，
那儿休憩的场所正人声喋喋；
有夜夜不宁的下等歇夜旅店
和满地蚌壳的铺锯末的饭馆；
街连着街，好象一场讨厌的争议
带着阴险的意图
要把你引向一个重大的问题……
唉，不要问，“那是什么？”
让我们快点去作客。

在客厅里女士们来回地走，
谈着画家米开朗基罗。

黄色的雾在窗玻璃上擦着它的背，
黄色的烟在窗玻璃上擦着它的嘴，
把它的舌头舐进黄昏的角落，
徘徊在快要干涸的水坑上；
让跌下烟囱的烟灰落上它的背，
它溜下台阶，忽地纵身跳跃，
看到这是一个温柔的十月的夜，
于是便在房子附近蜷伏起来安睡。

呵，确实地，总会有时间
看黄色的烟沿着街滑行，
在窗玻璃上擦着它的背；
总会有时间，总会有时间
装一副面容去会见你去见的脸；
总会有时间去暗杀和创新，
总会有时间让举起问题又丢进你盘里的
双手完成劳作与度过时日；
有的是时间，无论你，无论我，
还有的是时间犹豫一百遍，
或看到一百种幻景再完全改过，
在吃一片烤面包和饮茶以前。

在客厅里女士们来回地走，
谈着画家米开朗基罗。

呵，确实地，总还有时间
来疑问，“我可有勇气？”“我可有勇气？”
总还有时间来转身走下楼梯，
把一块秃顶暴露给人去注意——
（她们会说：“他的头发变得多么稀！”）
我的晨礼服，我的硬领在腭下笔挺，
我的领带雅致而多彩，用一个简朴的别针固定——
（她们会说：“可是他的胳膊腿多么细！”）
我可有勇气
搅乱这个宇宙？
在一分钟里总还有时间
决定和变卦，过一分钟再变回头。

因为我已经熟悉了她们，熟悉了她们所有的人——
熟悉了那些黄昏，和上下午的情景，
我是用咖啡匙子量走了我的生命；
我熟悉每当隔壁响起了音乐
话声就逐渐低微而至停歇。
所以我怎么敢开口？

而且我已熟悉那些眼睛，熟悉了她们所有的眼睛——
那些眼睛能用一句成语的公式把你盯住，
当我被公式化了，在别针下趴伏，
那我怎么能开始吐出
我的生活和习惯的全部剩烟头？
我又怎么敢开口？

而且我已经熟悉了那些胳膊，熟悉了她们所有的胳膊——
那些胳膊带着镯子，又袒露又白净
（可是在灯光下，显得淡褐色毛茸茸！）
是否由于衣裙的香气
使得我这样话离本题？
那些胳膊或围着肩巾，或横在案头。
那时候我该开口吗？
可是我怎么开始？

是否我说，我在黄昏时走过窄小的街，
看到孤独的男子只穿着衬衫
倚在窗口，烟斗里冒着袅袅的烟？……

那我就会成为一对蟹螯
急急爬过沉默的海底。

啊，那下午，那黄昏，睡得多平静！
被纤长的手指轻轻抚爱，
睡了……倦慵的……或者它装病，
躺在地板上，就在你我脚边伸开。
是否我，在用过茶、糕点和冰食以后，
有魄力把这一刻推到紧要的关头？
然而，尽管我曾哭泣和斋戒，哭泣和祈祷，
尽管我看见我的头（有一点秃了）用盘子端了进来，
我不是先知——这也不值得大惊小怪；
我曾看到我伟大的时刻闪烁，
我曾看到那永恒的“侍者”拿着我的外衣暗笑，
一句话，我有点害怕。

而且，归根到底，是不是值得
当小吃、果子酱和红茶已用过，
在杯盘中间，当人们谈着你和我，
是不是值得以一个微笑
把这件事情一口啃掉，
把整个宇宙压缩成一个球，
使它滚向某个重大的问题，
说道：“我是拉撒路，从冥界
来报一个信，我要告诉你们一切。”——
万一她把枕垫放在头下一倚，
说道：“唉，我意思不是要谈这些；
不，我不是要谈这些。”

那么，归根到底，是不是值得，
是否值得在那许多次夕阳以后，
在庭院的散步和水淋过街道以后，
在读小说以后，在饮茶以后，在长裙拖过地板以后，——
说这些，和许多许多事情？——
要说出我想说的话绝不可能！
仿佛有幻灯把神经的图样投到幕上：
是否还值得如此难为情，
假如她放一个枕垫或掷下披肩，
把脸转向窗户，甩出一句：
“那可不是我的本意，
那可绝不是我的本意。”

不！我并非哈姆雷特王子，当也当不成；
我只是个侍从爵士，为王家出行，
铺排显赫的场面，或为王子出主意，
就够好的了；无非是顺手的工具，
服服帖帖，巴不得有点用途，
细致，周详，处处小心翼翼；
满口高谈阔论，但有点愚鲁；
有时候，老实说，显得近乎可笑，
有时候，几乎是个丑角。

呵，我变老了……我变老了……
我将要卷起我的长裤的裤脚。

我将把头发往后分吗？我可敢吃桃子？
我将穿上白法兰绒裤在海滩上散步。
我听见了女水妖彼此对唱着歌。

我不认为她们会为我而唱歌。

我看过她们凌驾波浪驶向大海，
梳着打回来的波浪的白发，
当狂风把海水吹得又黑又白。

我们留连于大海的宫室，
被海妖以红的和棕的海草装饰，
一旦被人声唤醒，我们就淹死。