英诗中译：诗行难述君妩媚_莎士比亚

无心剑

Sonnet 17 诗行难述君妩媚
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.'
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termed a poet's rage
And stretched meter of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice, in it, and in my rhyme.
将来谁会相信我的诗文，
倘若处处对你赞美备至？
而天知道它不过是座坟，
又岂能显露你一半风姿！
倘若能描绘你美目流光，
清新诗行述尽万般妩媚。
后世会说“这诗人撒谎，
凡间面容岂有天国光辉！”
于是这些诗卷日渐泛黄，
仿佛饶舌老头遭人蔑视，
而你真容已成诗人狂想，
犹如远古歌谣言过其实。
但倘若那时你还有后代，
将与此诗重现你的光彩！
译于2008年7月16日。
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Who in the future will ever believe my poetry if I praise you as you deserve? Though, I have to admit, my poetry is like a tomb that actually hides what you are really like and doesn't manage to show even half of your true qualities. If I could capture in my writing how beautiful your eyes are and create new verses to list all of your wonderful attributes, decades from now people would say, "This poet lies. No human face was ever so divine." In this way, my poems (yellowed with age), would be scorned, like old men who talk too much without saying anything true, and what is really your due would be dismissed as a poet's madness, the false verses of an old song. But if some child of yours were still alive then, you would live twice: in the child, and in my poetry.

刘雅谧

小白一个 顶一下

吴春宇

前排坐下，向楼主学习。