本帖最后由 雨荷风 于 2015-10-8 03:47 编辑
十四行之一
希望天生尤物多多益善，
以使美的玫瑰永远灿烂。
虽然盛开之花终将萎谢，
子嗣的记忆却依然璀璨。
虽然已与自己明眸签约，
燃烧自我发出最亮火焰。
在丰饶之地制造了饥荒，
与己为敌未免过于酷残。
你是天地间清丽的奇葩，
独自引来姹紫嫣红春天。
你的英华蕴于自身花蕊，
小吝啬鬼啊，越算计越惨。
怜悯世人，不然，做个老饕，
坟墓和你吃掉世人大餐。
Sonnet 1
From fairest creatures we desire increase
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed’st thy light’ st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.
十四行之二
当四十严冬包围你额眉，
在美的田野里掘壕开墒。
你万人瞩目的青春华服，
将会化着败絮漫天飞扬。
那时若动问你美貌何处，
丽日华年瑰宝又在何方。
若你说在你凹陷的眼眶，
就是恬不知耻无用揄扬。
倘若你能这样回答的话，
善用美貌将值更多赞赏。
“我这美丽孩子为我作证，
我的丽质在他身上闪光！”
这如同你垂暮又获新生，
看到冷血变暖汩汩流淌。
Sonnet 2
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty & #39;s field,
Thy youth & #39;s proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter’d weed, of small worth held:
Then being asked where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty & #39;s use,
If thou couldst answer this fair child of mine
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse & #39;
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel & #39;st it cold.
十四行之三
揽镜告知你所见的脸庞，
现在理应换成另一模样。
倘若你不进行更新修复，
就是欺世，诅咒母亲不祥。
女人因天赐子宫而美丽，
岂会鄙视你去躬耕其上？
再说，男人哪会愚不可及，
断子绝孙甘将自己埋葬？
你是你母亲的一面明镜，
她则唤回青春四月芬芳。
从暮年之窗，任皱纹满额，
即可看到你的金色时光。
若你活着，却愿被人遗忘，
那就独自死去，连同肖像。
Sonnet 3
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another:
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest.
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear’d womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother’s glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time,
But if thou live, remember’d not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.
08年12月于钓月小筑
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发表于 2008-12-28 11:25:00