W. B. Yeats - On Woman 汉译

May God be praised for woman  

That gives up all her mind,  

A man may find in no man  

A friendship of her kind  

That covers all he has brought      

As with her flesh and bone,  

Nor quarrels with a thought  

Because it is not her own.  

Though pedantry denies,  

It’s plain the Bible means  

That Solomon grew wise  

While talking with his queens.  

Yet never could, although  

They say he counted grass,  

Count all the praises due   

When Sheba was his lass,  

When she the iron wrought, or  

When from the smithy fire  

It shuddered in the water:  

Harshness of their desire   

That made them stretch and yawn,  

Pleasure that comes with sleep,  

Shudder that made them one.  

What else He give or keep  

God grant me—no, not here, 

For I am not so bold  

To hope a thing so dear  

Now I am growing old,  

But when if the tale’s true  

The Pestle of the moon  

That pounds up all anew  

Brings me to birth again—  

To find what once I had  

And know what once I have known,  

Until I am driven mad, 

Sleep driven from my bed,  

By tenderness and care,  

Pity, an aching head,  

Gnashing of teeth, despair;  

And all because of some one  

Perverse creature of chance,  

And live like Solomon  

That Sheba led a dance.