[텍스트] T.S. 엘리엇, The Dry Salvages (No. 3 of "Four Quartets")

• 출처: T. S. Eliot. Four Quartets. Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2014.
• 자료 1: 구글도서
• 자료 2: http://www.davidgorman.com/4Quartets/3-salvages.htm
• 해설 1: https://www.shmoop.com/four-quartets/dry-salvages-section-1-summary.html

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(The Dry Salvages─presumably les trois sauvages─is a small group of rocks,
with a beacon, off the N.E. coast of Cape Ann, Massachusetts.
Salvages is pronounced to rhyme with ^assuages^.
Groaner : a whistling buoy.)


I

I do not know much about gods; but I think that the rive

Is a strong brown god─sullen, untamed and intractable,

Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier;

Useful, untrustworthy, as a converyor of commerce;

Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.

The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten

By the dwellers in the cities─ever, however, implacable.

Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer reminder

Of what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitited

By worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.

His rhythm was present in the nursery bedroom,

In the rank ailanthus of the April dooryard,

In the smell of grapes on the autumn table,

And the evening circle in the winter gaslight.


   The river is within us, the sea is all about us;

The sea is the land's edge also, the granite

Into which it reaches, the beaches where it tosses

Its hints of earlier and other creation:

The starfish, the horseshoe crab, the whale's backbone;

The pools where it offers to our curiosity

The more delicate algae and the sea anemone.

It tosses up our losses, the torn seine,

The shattered lobsterpot, the broken oar

And the gear of foreign dead men. The sea has many voices,

Many gods and many voices.

                              The salt is one the briar rose,

The fog is in the fir tress.

                            The sea howl

And the sea yelp, are different voices

Often together heard: the whine in the rigging,

The menace and caress of wave that breaks on water,

The distant rot in the granite teeth,

And the wailing warnng from the approaching headland

Are all sea voices, and the heaving groaner

Rounded homewards, and the seagull:

And under the oppression of the silent fog

The tolling bell

Measures time not out time, rung by the unhurried

Ground swell, a time

Older than the time of chronometers, older

Than time counted by anxious worried women

Lying awake, calculating the future,

Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel

And piece together the past and the future,

Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception,

The future futureless, before the morning watch

When time stops and time is never ending;

And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning,

Clangs

The bell.



II

II

Where is there an end of it, the soundless wailing,

The silent withering of autumn flowers

Dropping their petals and remaining motionless;

Where is there an end to the drifting wreckages,

The prayer of the bone on the beach, the unprayable

Prayer at the calamitous annunciation?


  There is no end, but adition: the trailing

Consequences of further days and hours,

While emotion takes to itself the emotionless

Years of living among the breakage

Of what was believed in as the most reliable─

And therefore the fittest for renunciation.


  There is the final additin, the failing

Pride or resentment at failing powers,

The unattached devotion which might pass for devotionless,

In a drifting boat with a slow leakage,

The silent listening to the undeniable

Clamour of the bell of the last annunication.


  ( ... ... )