发信人: violet (紫罗兰)
标 题: 致云雀/ 雪莱
发信站: 鼓浪听涛 (Fri Apr 18 16:21:15 1997)
致 云 雀
你好, 欢乐的精灵!
你压根儿不像飞鸟,
你从天堂或天堂附近
毫不吝惜地倾倒
如同行云流水一般的心灵的曲调。
你就像一朵火云,
从地面升腾而起,
上升呵又复上升,
飞到蓝色的天际,
歌唱中不断翱翔, 翱翔中歌声不止。
沉入西山的夕阳,
喷散金色的光焰,
把朵朵云霞映亮,
你像无形的欢颜,
刚刚踏上征途, 飘浮而又飞旋。
淡淡的紫色的暮云
在你航程周围消溶,
你像天空的一颗星辰,
在明亮的白昼之中,
虽然隐形, 我却听到你强烈的欢腾,
就像银色的天体
射出一支支利箭,
在清朗的曙色里,
它的明灯渐渐变暗,
直至看不见, 可我们感到它就在眼前。
整个天空和大地
响彻着你的歌声,
恰似夜空明净之时,
月亮透过一片孤云,
洒下银光, 让清辉漫溢于整个天庭。
我们不知你是什么;
什么东西最像你?
从彩虹般的云朵
泻出的晶莹雨滴,
也比不上你的甘霖一般的旋律。
就像是一位诗人
藏身于思想之光,
以心甘情愿的歌吟,
来把世界激荡,
让它去同情它未曾注意的忧患和希望。
就像是名门闺秀
居住在深宫高阁,
为排遣爱的忧愁,
一到幽静的时刻,
便让闺阁荡漾着甜如爱情的音乐。
就像金色的萤火虫
栖身凝露的山谷,
它在花草丛中,
扩散空灵的光束,
它不为人们所见, 因为被花草遮住!
又像一朵玫瑰花,
她在绿叶中安睡,
遇到热风的糟蹋,
直至她的芳菲
以过分的甜蜜灌醉了鲁笨的飞贼。
春雨声响清脆,
落在闪光的草地,
被雨滴唤醒的花卉,
还有其他的东西,
虽然明澈、清新、欢愉, 却不及你的乐曲。
无论你是精灵还是鸟雀,
都请你把美妙的思想
教给我们; 我从未领略:
对爱情或美酒的赞扬
会倾泻出潮水般的心荡神驰的欢畅。
无论婚歌的欢快,
或凯旋曲的豪放,
比起你的歌来,
不过是空洞的夸张,
只让人们感到, 其中缺乏真情实感�
什么样儿的物体
是你欢歌的源泉?
何种波涛、山峦、田地?
怎样的天空或平原?
是出自独特的爱情, 还是与痛苦无缘?
有你清朗的欢欣,
不会再有倦怠,
烦恼郁闷的阴影
决不会向你袭来;
你爱, 但永不知道令人厌腻的爱的悲哀。
无论沉睡还是苏醒,
你对死的理解,
比我们这些凡人
更加透彻、真切,
否则, 你的歌怎会流得这般晶莹清澈?
我们左顾右盼,
渴求虚无之物,
我们最真诚的笑颜
也包含几分凄楚,
我们最甜美的歌曲倾诉最悲哀的思绪。
纵然我们能够摈斥
仇恨、傲慢和恐惧,
纵然从出生之日,
就不曾抛洒泪滴,
我也不知怎样才能够贴近你的欢愉。
一切诗歌的韵律
都比不上你的音响,
一切书本的知识
都比不上你的宝藏,
地面的蔑视者啊, 你的诗艺举世无双。
你必定熟知的欢愉
哪怕教给我一半,
那么, 和谐的狂喜
就会在我唇边弥漫,
世界将会侧耳细听, 就像我现在这般。
发信人: dubliner (都柏林人)
发信站: 鼓浪听涛 (Fri Apr 18 17:33:19 1997)
TO A SKYLARK
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of Heaven
In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear
Until we hardly see--we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud.
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus hymeneal
Or triumphal chaunt
Matched with thine, would be all
But an empty vaunt--
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow
The world should listen then, as I am listening now!