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±×³¯Àº Áö³ª°¬´Ù                     The day id gone    
¹Ý¦ÀÌ´Â º°ÀÌ¿©                   Bright Star,
±×¸®½º Ç׾Ƹ®¿¡ ºÎÄ¡´Â ³ë·¡   Ode on a Grecian Urn
ÀλýÀÇ °èÀý                           The Human Season
 

±×³¯Àº Áö³ª°¬´Ù

                   - ÁÔ Å°Ã÷


±×³¯Àº Áö³ª°¬´Ù
´ÞÄÞÇÔµµ ÇÔ²² »ç¶óÁ®¹ö·È´Ù!

°¨¹Ì·Î¿î ¸ñ¼Ò¸®, Çâ±ßÇÑ ÀÔ¼ú, º¸µå¶ó¿î ¼Õ, ±×¸®°í
ÇÑ°á ºÎµå·¯¿î °¡½¿

µû»ç·Î¿î ¼û°á, »ó³ÉÇÑ ¼Ó»èÀÓ, ¸ÅȤÀûÀÎ ¹ÝÀ½
ºû³ª´Â ´«, ±ÕÇüÀâÈù ÀÚÅÂ, ±×¸®°í °ð°Ô »¸Àº Ç㸮!

»ìÁ³µµ´Ù ²É°ú ±× ¸ðµç ²ÉºÀ¿À¸®ÀÇ ¸Å·ÂµéÀº »ç¶óÁ³µµ´Ù
³» ´«À¸·ÎºÎÅÍ ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿î ¸ð½ÀÀÌ »ç¶óÁ³µµ´Ù
 
¸ñ¼Ò¸®°¡, µû¶æÇÔÀÌ, ÇÏ¾á ³«¿øÀÌ
Çâ±â·Î¿î ĿưÀ» Ä£ »ç¶ûÀÇ ¾Æ´ÁÇÑ ÃàÁ¦ÀÇ ¹ã³·ÀÌ
Àº¹ÐÇÑ È¯Èñ¸¦ À§ÇØ

µÎÅÍ¿î ¾ÏÈæÀÇ ¾¾ÁÙÀ» Âî´Â
Àú³á³è ÀϽÿ¡ ÀÚÃ븦 °¨Ãß¾úµµ´Ù

±×·¯³ª ³»°¡ ¿À´Ã ¿ÂÁ¾ÀÏ »ç¶ûÀÇ ¹Ì»çÃ¥À» ÀоúÀ» ¶§
»ç¶ûÀÇ ½ÅÀº ³ª¸¦ Àáµé°Ô Çϸ®¶ó

³»°¡ ´Ü½ÄÇÏ°í ±âµµÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ» º¸°í¼­.
 


The day id gone, and all its sweets are gone

                       - Jonn Keats


The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!

Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,

Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone,

Bright eyes, accomplish'd shape, and lang'rous waist!

Faded the flower and all its budded charms,

Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,

Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,

Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise --

Vanish'd unseasonably at shut of eve,

When the dusk holiday -- or holinight

Of fragrant-curtain'd Love begins to weave

The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight;

But, as I've read Love's missal through to-day,

He'll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.



¹Ý¦ÀÌ´Â º°ÀÌ¿©

                   - ÁÔ Å°Ã÷

 
¹Ý¦ÀÌ´Â º°ÀÌ¿©, ³»°¡ ³Êó·³ ºÒº¯À̾úÀ¸¸é.
¿Ü·ÎÀÌ È¦·Î ¶³¾îÁ® ¹ãÇϴÿ¡ ºû³ª¸ç

°è¼Ó Á¤ÁøÇϸç ÀáÀÚÁö ¾Ê´Â "ÀÚ¿¬"ÀÇ ¼öµµÀÚ
±×¿Í °°ÀÌ ¿µ¿øÈ÷ ´«¶ß°í ÁöÄÑ º¸¸é¼­

Çö¼¼ Àΰ£ÀÌ »ç´Â ÇØ¾È ±â½¾À» ±ú²ýÀÌ ¾Ä¾î ÁÖ°í
»çÁ¦ °°Àº ÀÏÀ» ÇÏ´Â Ãâ··ÀÌ´Â ¹Ù´å¹°À»
ÁöÄÑ º¸±âµµ Çϸç

¶Ç´Â ³ÐÀº µé°ú »êºÀ¿À¸®¿¡ ³»·Á µ¤ÀÎ
ù ´«ÀÇ ±ú²ýÇÔÀ» ÀÀ½ÃÇϸ®¶ó--

¾Æ´Ï--¾ðÁ¦³ª ÇѰᰰÀÌ ¾ðÁ¦³ª º¯ÇÔ¾øÀÌ
¾Æ¸§´Ù¿î ³» ¿¬ÀÎÀÇ °¡½¿À» º£°³ »ï¾Æ¼­

ºÎµå·¯¿î ±× ±âº¹ÀÇ ¾Æ¶ûÀ» ¿µ¿øÈ÷ ´À³¢¸ç
¾Æ¸§´Ù¿î ¹ø³ú·Î Ç×»ó ÁöÄѺ¸¸é¼­

¾ðÁ¦³ª ¾ðÁ¦±îÁö³ª ±×³àÀÇ ¿©¸° ¼û°áÀ» µéÀ¸¸ç
±æÀÌ »ì°í Áö°í--¾Æ´Ï ³Ì ÀÒ°í Á×°í Áö°í



Bright Star, Would I Were Steadfast as Thou Art

                               - Jonn Keats


Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art--

   Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

   Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

   Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

   Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--

No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,

   Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

   Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever--or else swoon to death.



±×¸®½º Ç׾Ƹ®¿¡ ºÎÄ¡´Â ³ë·¡

                       - ÁÔ Å°Ã÷


³Ê´Â ´õ·´ÇôÁöÁö ¾ÊÀº ±×´ë·ÎÀÎ Á¤ÀûÀÇ ½ÅºÎ
³Ê´Â ħ¹¬°ú ±â³ª±ä ¼¼¿ù ¼Ó¿¡ ÀÚ¶ó³­ ¾çÀÚ
³Ê´Â ½£¼ÓÀÇ ¿ª»ç°¡.

¿ì¸® ½ÃÀÎÀÇ ³ë·¡º¸´Ù ´õ ¸ÚÀÖ°Ô ²Éó·³ ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿î ³ë·¡¸¦
ÀÌ·¸µí ÀüÇØ ÁÙ ¼ö ÀÖ´Ù´Ï-.

³× µÑ·¹¿¡ °¨µµ´Â °ÍÀº ¾î¶² Àü¼³Àΰ¡?

Á×À½¿¡ °üÇØ¼±°¡, ¿µ¿øÇÑ °ÍÀΰ¡? ±× ¸ðµÎ¿¡ °üÇØ¼±°¡?
ÅÛÆä °ñÂ¥±âÀΰ¡, ¾ÆÄ«µð¾Æ ¾ð´öÀÇ ÀÏÀΰ¡?
»ç¶÷µéÀÇ ÀÏÀΰ¡, ½ÅµéÀÇ ÀÏÀΰ¡, ½Å°ú Àΰ£ ¸ðµÎÀÇ ÀÏÀΰ¡?

¾î¶² »ç¶÷µéÀϱî, ¾î¶² ½ÅµéÀϱî? µµ¸ÁÄ¡·Á´Â °ÍÀº ¾î¶² ¼Ò³àÀϱî?
ÀÌ ¾ó¸¶³ª ¹ÌÄ£µíÇÑ ±¸¾ÖÀΰ¡, µµ¸ÁÄ¡·Á´Â ¸öºÎ¸²Àΰ¡?
¾î¶² ÇǸ®ÀÌ¸ç ¾î¶² ºÏÀΰ¡?  ¾ó¸¶³ª ¹ÌÄ£µíÇÑ È¯ÈñÀΰ¡?


±Í¿¡ µé¸®´Â ¼±À² ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿ì³ª ±Í¿¡ ¿ï¸®Áö ¾Ê´Â ¼±À²Àº ´õ¿í ¾Æ¸§´ä´Ù.
ÀÚ, ³× ºÎµå·¯¿î ÇǸ®¸¦ °è¼Ó ºÒ¾î¶ó.

À°½ÅÀÇ ±Í¿¡´Ù ºÒÁö ¸»°í ´õ¿í Ä£¹ÐÈ÷
¿µÈ¥À» ÇâÇØ ¼Ò¸®¾ø´Â ³ë·¡¸¦ ºÒ·¯¶ó.

³ª¹« ±×´Ã¿¡ ÀÖ´Â ÀþÀºÀÌ¿©, ³× ³ë·¡´Â ¸ØÃß´Â ÀÏÀÌ ¾ø°í
ÀÌ ³ª¹«µéÀÇ ÀÙµµ ¶³¾îÁöÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù.

»ç¶û¿¡ ºüÁø »ç¶÷¾Æ, ³Ê´Â °áÄÚ ÀÔ¸ÂÃâ ¼ö ¾øÀ¸¸®¶ó.
¸ñÇ¥ °¡±îÀÌ¿¡ ´ê±ä ÇØµµ-.

±×·¯³ª ½½ÆÛ ¸»¾Æ¶ó. ³Ê ºñ·Ï Å©³ªÅ« ±â»ÝÀ» ¾òÁö ¸øÇÒÁö¶óµµ
±×³à´Â ºû¹Ù·¡´Â ÀÏ ¾øÀ¸¸Å
¿µ¿øÈ÷ »ç¶ûÇ϶ó, ±×³à´Â ¿µ¿øÈ÷ ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿ì¸®¶ó. 


¾Æ¾Æ ³Ê¹«³ªµµ Çູ°Ü¿î ³ª¹µ°¡ÁöµéÀÌ¿©!
ÀÙÀº Áö´Â ÀÏ ¾ø°í, º½¿¡ ÀÛº°À» °íÇÏ´Â Àϵµ ¾ø´Ù.

¶ÇÇÑ Çູ°Ü¿î ¿¬ÁÖÀÚ¿©, ÇǰïÇÒ ÁÙ ¸ð¸£°í
¿µ¿øÈ÷ »õ·Î¿î ³ë·¡¸¦ ¿µ¿øÈ÷ ¿¬ÁÖÇÒÁö´Ï

´õ¿í Çູ½º·± »ç¶ûÀÌ¿©! ³Ê¹«³ª Çູ°Ü¿î »ç¶ûÀÌ¿©!
¾ðÁ¦³ª µû½ºÇÏ°í ¿µ¿øÈ÷ Áñ°Å¿ö¶ó.

¾ðÁ¦±îÁö³ª ºÒŸµí Ãß±¸ÇÏ°í ¾ðÁ¦±îÁö³ª Àþµµ´Ù.
»ì¾ÆÀÖ´Â Àΰ£ÀÇ Á¤¿­À̶õ
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À̸¶´Â ºÒŸ¸ç Çô´Â Ÿ¿Ã¶ó ³× »ç¶û¿¡ ¹ÌÄ¡´Â °ÍÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï´Ù.


ÀÌ Èñ»ý ÀǽĿ¡ Âü¿©ÇÏ´Â »ç¶÷µéÀº ´©±¸Àΰ¡?
¿À¿À! ½Åºñ·Î¿î »çÁ¦¿©, ¸íÁÖ¿Í °°Àº ¸ö¿¡´Ù ȭȯÀ» Àå½ÄÇϰí
ÇÏ´ÃÀ» ¿ì·¯·¯ ¿ì´Â ¼Û¾ÆÁö¸¦ ¾î¶² ÃʷϺû Á¦´ÜÀ¸·Î µ¥·Á°¡´Â°¡?

ÀÌ °Å·èÇÑ ¾ÆÄ§, ¿©±â ¸ðÀÎ »ç¶÷µéÀÌ ³²°ÜµÎ°í ¿Â °ÍÀº
°­º¯ÀÇ ÀÛÀº ¸¶À»ÀÌ´ø°¡, ¹Ù´å°¡ÀÇ ¸¶À»ÀÌ´ø°¡?

¾Æ´Ï¸é ÆòÈ­·Î¿î ¼ºÃ¤·Î µÑ·¯½ÎÀÎ »êÀ§ÀÇ ¸¶À»ÀÌ´ø°¡?
Á¶±×¸¸ ¸¶À»ÀÌ¿©, ³× °Å¸®´Â ¿µ¿øÈ÷ Á¶¿ëÇØÁú °ÍÀ̸®¶ó.
±×¸®°í ȲÆóÇØÁú °Å¶ó°í ¸»ÇÏ´Â »ç¶÷Àº ¾Æ¹«µµ ¾øÀ¸¸®¶ó.


¿À¿À ¾ÆÆ¼Ä«ÀÇ Çüü¿©! ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿î ¸ð½ÀÀÌ¿©!
´ë¸®¼® ³²ÀÚ¿Í ¿©ÀÚ°¡ Á¶°¢µÇ¾î ÀÖ°í
½£ÀÇ ³ª¹µ°¡Áöµé°ú ¹âÇôÁø °¥´ëµµ ÀÖ±¸³ª.

³Ê´Â ħ¹¬ÀÇ ¸ð½À, Â÷°¡¿î Àü¿øÀÌ¿©!
¿ì¸®¸¦ »ý°¢ÇÏÁö ¸øÇÏ°Ô ÇÏ°í ¿µ¿øÇϱ¸³ª.

»ç¶÷ÀÌ ³ªÀ̵é¾î ÇÑ ¼¼´ë¸¦ ¸¶°¨ÇÒ ¶§µµ ³Ê´Â ³²¾Æ¼­ ÀÌ·¸°Ô ¸»Çϸ®¶ó.
'¾Æ¸§´Ù¿î °ÍÀº Áø¸®¿ä, Áø¸®´Â ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀÌ´Ù.' - À̰ÍÀÌ ³ÊÈñ »ç¶÷µéÀÌ
ÀÌ ¼¼»ó¿¡¼­ ¾Æ´Â °Í ÀüºÎÀ̰í, ¾Ë¾Æ¾ß ÇÒ °ÍÀº ÀÌ »ÓÀÌ´Ù.



Ode on a Grecian Urn

                         - John Keats


Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,

   Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

   A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:

What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape

   Of deities or mortals, or of both,

       In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

   What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

       What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?


Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

   Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,

   Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

   Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

       Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;

   She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

       For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!


Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

   Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;

And, happy melodist, unwearied,

   For ever piping songs for ever new;

More happy love! more happy, happy love!

   For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,

       For ever panting, and for ever young;

All breathing human passion far above,

   That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,

       A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.


Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

   To what green altar, O mysterious priest,

Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

   And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?

What little town by river or sea shore,

   Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

       Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?

And, little town, thy streets for evermore

   Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

       Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.


O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede

   Of marble men and maidens overwrought,

With forest branches and the trodden weed;

   Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought

As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

   When old age shall this generation waste,

       Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,

   "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all

       Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."



ÀλýÀÇ °èÀý

               - ÁÔ Å°Ã÷


ÇÑ ÇØ°¡ ³× °èÀý·Î ä¿öÁ® ÀÖµí,
Àλý¿¡µµ ³× °èÀýÀÌ ÀÖ³ª´Ï;

¿ø±â ¿Õ¼ºÇÑ »ç¶÷ÀÇ º½Àº ±×ÀÇ ¸¶À½ÀÌ
¸ðµç °ÍÀ» ºÐ¸í ¾Æ¸§´ä°Ô ¹Þ¾ÆµéÀÌ´Â ¶§À̸ç,

±×ÀÇ ¿©¸§¿£ È­»çÇϸç
º½ÀÇ ´ÞÄÞÇÏ°í ¹ß¶öÇÑ »ý°¢À» »ç¶ûÇÏ¿©,
µÇ»õ±èÁúÇÏ´Â ¶§ÀÌ´Ï, ±×ÀÇ ²ÞÀÌ Çϴà õÁ¤±îÁö
³ôÀÌ ³¯¾Æ¿À¸£´Â ºÎǬ ²ÞÀ» ²Ù°í,

±×ÀÇ ¿µÈ¥¿¡ °¡À» ¿À³ª´Ï,
±×´Â ²ÞÀÇ ³¯°³¸¦ Á¢°í,
¿Ã¹Ù¸¥ °ÍµéÀ» ³õÄ£ À߸ø°ú Ÿ¸À»,
¿ïŸ¸® ¹Û ½Ç°³ÃµÀ» ¹«½ÉÈ÷ ÃÄ´Ù º¸µí,
¹æ°üÇÏ¿© ü³äÇÏ´Â ¶§·Î´Ù.

±×¿¡°Ô °Ü¿ï ¶ÇÇÑ ¿À¸®´Ï â¹éÇÏ°Ô Àϱ׷¯Áø ¸ð½ÀÀ¸·Î,
±×·¸Áö ¾ÊÀ¸¸é Á×À½ÀÇ ±æÀ» ¸ÕÀú °¡ ÀÖÀ» °ÍÀÌ´Ï.



The Human Season

                     - John Keats


Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;

   There are four seasons in the mind of man:

He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear

   Takes in all beauty with an easy span:

He has his Summer, when luxuriously

   Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves

To ruminate, and by such dreaming high

   Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings

   He furleth close; contented so to look

On mists in idleness--to let fair things

   Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,

Or else he would forego his mortal nature.


to George

 

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