本帖最后由 戴盛莲 于 2015-10-24 06:30 编辑
秋时译诗
吕志鲁
《一》
秋
托马斯·欧内斯特·休姆(Thomas Ernest Hulme 1883-1917)英国诗人
点评
羞月像脸膛红红的农夫, 繁星像面庞白皙的孩子,比喻新颖。
迎着秋夜的一丝凉意,
我在门外漫步,
看那羞月斜依树篱,
有如脸膛红红的农夫。
我脚步未停,默默点头招呼;
繁星像城里的孩子面庞白皙, 周围环绕,沉思无语。
Autumn
Thomas Ernest Hulme
A touch of cold in the Autumn night --
I walked abroad,
And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge
Like a red-faced farmer.
I did not stop to speak, but nodded,
And round about were the wistful stars
With white faces like town children.
《二》
秋颂
约翰·济慈
点评
秋天是收获的季节,充满了甜蜜芬芳。小虫的曲调,知更鸟的呼哨,羊羔的咩咩叫唤,群燕的唧唧喳喳是秋天的音乐。秋天的收获丰盛香甜,秋天的景色烂漫迷醉,秋天的乐音恢弘婉转。
1 雾气腾腾的季节,果实垒垒的时光,
催熟万物,有把你当作挚友的太阳;
如何把福佑赐予大地,
你与他紧密协商:
让檐下藤蔓爬遍,葡萄串串,
让屋旁生苔老树苹果满枝,熟透飘香;
让榛子果仁香甜饱满,
让葫芦肚皮滚圆鼓胀;
催动更多的蓓蕾不断勃发,
驱使迟到的花朵为蜜蜂绽放;
弄得蜂群相信温暖的日子永无穷尽,
因为夏天早已让蜂巢灌满蜜浆。 2 谁不见你总是守候你的库房?
席地而坐,你会陪伴粮仓。
走出门外人们抬眼寻找,
会发现扬场的风让你发丝飘荡;
或者酣睡在收割中的田垄,
沉醉于罂粟花的馥郁芬芳,
只因野花夹杂其间,
你的镰刀会放过一丛半行。
有时你似乎在拾起散落的庄稼,
跨过溪流,残穗稳稳顶在头上;
或者你久久不肯离开榨汁的机架,
把那渗出的果汁耐心凝望。 3 春天之歌在何方?啊,春天之歌在何方?
你也有你的音乐,不必为此冥思苦想;
当细浪般的云层映出柔和的夕照,
残梗凌乱的田野抹上玫瑰色的霞光;
在那河边的柳树丛中,
小虫一起把悲哀的曲调奏响,
时起时落,随着轻风悠悠飘扬;
篱笆里,蟋蟀同声吟唱,
园中的知更鸟呼哨嘹亮;
山涧那边长大的羊羔咩咩叫唤,
唧唧喳喳,空中的燕子群集飞翔。
To Autumn
John Keats
1 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun,
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells. 2 Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair sort-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Dows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers.
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. 3 Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a waiful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles form a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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