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   ¿ì¿¬    Hap      ÇØÇùÀÇ Æ÷¼º     Channel Firing


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               - Å丶½º Çϵð


¸¸¾à ¾î´À ¿øÇÑÀÇ ½ÅÀÌ ÇÏ´Ã À§¿¡¼­,
"±×´ë, ±«·Î¿ò¿¡ °Ü¿î °Í¾Æ, ¾Ë¾ÆµÎ°Å¶ó.

±×´ëÀÇ ½½ÇÄÀº ³ªÀÇ È¯Èñ¿ä,
±×´ë »ç¶ûÀÇ °á¼ÕÀº ³» Áõ¿ÀÀÇ ÀÌÀÍÀÓÀ»"
ÇÏ°í ³¯ ºÒ·¯ ºñ¿ô´Â´Ù¸é

±×·±´Ù¸é ³ª´Â ±× ¾Ç°¨Á¤ÀÌ ºÎ´çÇÑ ¸¸Å­
µµ¸®¾î °­Ã¶Ã³·³ °ßµð¸ç À̸¦ ¾Ç¹°°í Á×°Ú³×

³ªº¸´Ù ¼¾ ¾î¶² '±Ç´É'ÀÌ ÀÖ¾î ±×ÀÇ ÀÇÁö·Î
³» ¸òÀÇ ´«¹° ½ñ¾Ò³ë¶ó »ý°¢Çϰí Àý¹ÝÀº ¾ÈµµÇϸç.


Çϳª ±×·¸Áö ¾Ê±¸³ª. ¿Ö ±â»ÝÀº »ìÇØµÇ¾î ¾²·¯Áö°í
¿Ö ÃÖ°íÀÇ Èñ¸ÁÀº ÆÄÁ¾ ÈÄ ²É ÇÊÁÙ ¸ð¸£´Â°¡?

'¹«µò ¿ì¿¬'ÀÇ ¼ÕÀÌ ÇØ¿Í ºñ¸¦ ¸·°í.
ÁÖ»çÀ§ ´øÁö´Â ½Ã°£Àº Àç¹Ì»ï¾Æ ½ÅÀ½À» ´øÁö³×......

¹Ý(Úâ) Àå´ÔÀÇ ÀÌ '¿î¸í Èñ·ÕÀÚ'µéÀÌ ³ªÀÇ ¼ø·Ê±æ¿¡
°íÅë°ú ÇÔ²² ÁüÁþ ÃູÀ» Èð»Ñ·Á ³õ¾Ò³×.



Hap

             - Thomas Hardy


If but some vengeful god would call to me

From up the sky, and laugh"thou suffering thing.

Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy,

That thy love's loss is my hate's profiting!


Then would I bear it, clench myself, and die,

Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;

Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I

Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.


But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain,

And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?

-Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain,


And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan...

These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown

Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.



ÇØÇùÀÇ Æ÷¼º

                 - Å丶½º Çϵð


±×³¯ ¹ã ³ÊÀÇ ¾öû³­ Æ÷¼ºÀº ¹«½ÉÈ÷
¿ì¸®°¡ ´©¿î ¸ðµç °üÀ» µÚÈçµé°í

ÇØÇùÀÇ ³×¸ðÁø À¯¸®Ã¢À» ºÎ¼­¶ß·È´Ù.
¿ì¸®´Â ½ÉÆÇÀÇ ³¯ÀÌ ´Ù°¡¿Â °ÍÀ¸·Î ¾Ë°í


¹ú¶± ÀϾ ¾É¾Ò´Ù. ÀÕ´Þ¾Æ
ÀáÀ» ±ü »ç³É°³µéÀÇ ½º»êÇÑ ¿ïºÎ¢À½,

¼º¼Ò¿¡¼­ ÀÔ¿¡ ¹® »§ºÎ½º·¯±â¸¦ ¶³±¸´Â »ýÁã.
È빫Áö ¼ÓÀ¸·Î ¿òÃ÷·¯µå´Â ¹ú·¹µé,


¶Ç, Ç®¹ç¿¡¼­ ħÀ» È긮´Â Á¥¼Ò, µåµð¾î ½ÅÀÇ ÀÌ·¯ÇÑ ¸»¾¸,
"¾Æ´Ï¾ß, ÀÌ°Ç Àú ¹Ù´Ù ¹ÛÀÇ ÇÔÆ÷ »ç°Ý ¿¬½ÀÀÌ´Ù.

³ÊÈñ°¡ Çϰè·Î ¿À±â Àü¿¡µµ ±×·¨ÀÝ´À³Ä?
¼¼»óÀº Áö±Ýµµ ¿¹Àü°ú ¸¶Âù°¡Áö¾ß.


ºÓÀº ÀüÀïÀ» ´õ¿í ºÓ°Ô ÇÏ·Á°í ¸ðµç ³ª¶óµéÀÌ
¼¼Â÷°Ô Èû¾²°í ÀÖ¾î. ¹ÌÄ£ µí ³¯¶Ù¸é¼­µµ

ÀúµéÀÌ ±×¸®½ºµµ¸¦ À§ÇÏ¿© ÇÏ´Â ÀÏ ¾øÀ½Àº
³ÊÈñ°¡ ÀÌ·± ¹®Á¦¿¡ ¹«·ÂÇÔ°ú ¸¶Âù°¡Áö.


Áö±ÝÀº ½ÉÆÇÀÇ ½Ã°¢ÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï¾ß.
Àúµé Áß¿¡´Â Ãູ¹Þ´Â °Íµµ ÀÖÀ¸´Ï±î.

¶Ç À̰ÍÀÌ ½ÉÆÇÀ̶ó¸é µÎ·Á¿ö¼­¶óµµ
ÀúµéÀº Áö¿ÁÀÇ ¹Ø¹Ù´ÚÀ» Çì¸ÅÀÏ Å״ϱî.


ÇÏÇÏ ³»°¡ ½ÉÆÇÀÇ ³ªÆÈÀ» ºÒ ¶§´Â
Á» ´õ ¶ß°Å¿ï °Å¾ß.
(±×·¯³ª ¼³¸¶ ³»°¡ ±×·± ÀÏÀ» ÇÏ·ª?
 ³ÊÈñµéÀº »ç¶÷ÀÌ´Ï ¿µ¿øÇÑ ¾È½ÄÀ» ¾Ö´ÞÇÁ°Ô ¿øÇÒÅÙµ¥.)"


±×·¡¼­ ¿ì¸®µéÀº ´Ù½Ã ÀÚ¸®¿¡ ´©¿ü´Ù.
"¼¼»óÀÌ Á» Á¤½ÅÀ» Â÷¸±±î?" ´©±º°¡ ¸»Çß´Ù.

"ÇÏ´À´ÔÀÌ ÀÌ ¹«½ÉÇÑ ¼¼±â¿¡
¿ì¸®¸¦ Çϰè·Î º¸³»¼ÌÀ» ¶§º¸´Ù ³ª¾ÆÁú±î?"


±×·¯ÀÚ ¸¹Àº ÇØ°ñµéÀÌ ¸Ó¸®¸¦ Àú¾ú´Ù.
³ªÀÇ ÀÌ¿ô »ç¶÷ '¼Â°·Î' ¸ñ»ç´Â ÀÌ·¸°Ô ¸»Çß´Ù.

"À̽¿¡¼­ ¼³±³ÇÏ¸ç º¸³½ »ç½Ê³âÀ»,
´ã¹è³ª ÇÇ¿ì°í ¼úÀ̳ª ¸Ô¾î¾ß Çß¾ú¾î."


´Ù½Ã±Ý ´ëÆ÷ ¼Ò¸®°¡ ¹ãÀ» µÚÈçµé¾ú´Ù.
º¹¼öÀÇ °áÀǸ¦ ¾Ë¸®´Â »ç³ª¿î ¼Ò¸®,

¸Ö¸® ³»·úÀÇ ½ºÅä¿Àư ž°ú ij¹Ð·Ô
¶Ç º° ¶á ½ºÅæÇîÁö±îÁö ¿ï·ÁÆÛÁ³´Ù.



Channel Firing

                 - Thomas Hardy


That night your great guns,unawares,

Shook all our ciffins as we lay,

And broke the channel window-squares,

We thought it was the Judgment-day


And sat upright. While drearisome

Arose the howl of wakened hounds:

The mouse let fall the altar-crumb,

The worms drew back into the mounds,


The glebe cow drooled. Till God called,"No;

It's gunnery practice out at sea

Just as before you went below;

The world is as it used to be:


"All nations striving strong to make

Red war yet redder Mad as hatters

They do no more for Christes sake

Than you who are helpless in such matters.


"That this is not the judgment-hour

For some for them's a blessed thing,

For if it were, they'd have to scour

Hell's floor for so much threatening....


"Ha,ha. It will be warmer when

I blow the trumpet if indeed

I ever do; for you are men,

And rest eternal sorely need."


So down we lay again. "I wonder,

Will the world ever saner be,"

Said one, "than when He sent us under

In our indifferent century!"


And many a skeleton shook his head.

"Instead of preaching forty year,"

My neighbour Parson Thirdly said,

"I wish I had stuck to pipes and beer."


Again the guns disturbed the hour,

Roaring their readiness to avenge,

As far inland as Stourton Tover,

And Camelot, and starlit Stonehenge."

 

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