Writing
写作

I have brought this world about my ears, and eke
The other; that's to say, the clergy, who
Upon my head have bid their thunders break
In pious libels by no means a few.
And yet I can't help scribbling once a week,
Tiring old readers, nor discovering new.
In youth I wrote because my mind was full,
And now because I feel it growing dull.

But“why then publish? ”—There are no rewards
Of fame or profit when the world grows weary.
I ask in turn—Why do you play at cards?
Why drink? Why read—To make some hour less dreary.
It occupies me to turn back regards
On what I've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery;
And what I write I cast upon the stream,
To swim or sink—I have had at least my dream.

我把这个世界放在耳边，
还有其他人；也就是说，那些教士们，
他们让天上的雷在我的头上爆炸，
又虔诚地将我诽谤一番。
可是我还是忍不住每星期写一篇，
老读者已厌烦，却没有新读者出现。
年轻时，我是因为脑子里有东西才写，
现在是因为头脑变得贫乏而写。

但是“何必发表呢？”——没有名声的嘉奖，
也赚不了什么钱，世界已开始厌倦。
我倒要问一下——你们为什么要打牌呢？
为什么喝酒？为什么读书？为了让时间不那么难熬。
而我的奖励却建筑在回顾
过去的所见所思，欢乐抑或悲伤；
我把自己写的东西扔进溪流里，
任它沉浮——至少我曾有过梦。