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There are many reasons, but mainly I translate because of the aspect of, “I am part of all that I have met,” in the Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s poem. When I translate others’ work, my inner being expands into something I was not before. Embracing otherness while I suspend myself allows me to harmonize with the earth. I am thirst to share how others experience the world, so I do translate; am a die-hard translator.

ULYSSES -Alfred, Lord Tennyson-

It little profits that an idle king,
By this
still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete
and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and
feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
life to
the lees. All times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with
those
that loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding
drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea. I am become a name;
For
always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known—cities of
men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but
honored of them all—
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on
the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am part of all that I have met;
Yet
all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untraveled world whose
margin fades
Forever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause,
to make an end.
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me

Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence,
something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three
suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire

To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of
human thought.

This is my son, my own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the
isle—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labor, by slow
prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue
them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centered in the
sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness,
and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works
his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
There gloom the dark,
broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought
with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the
sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;

Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Death closes all; but something
ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming
men that strove with gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;

The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many
voices. Come, my friends.
‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push
off, and sitting well in order smite
the sounding furrows; for my purpose
holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars,
until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be that
we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that
strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we
are—
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate,
but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

1842

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