Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Fairy snow, fairy snow,
Blowing, blowing everywhere,
Would that I
Too, could fly
Lightly, lightly through the air.
Like a wee, crystal star
I should drift, I should blow
Near, more near,
To my dear
Where he comes through the snow.
I should fly to my love
Like a flake in the storm,
I should die,
I should die,
On his lips that are warm.
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
[groupid=885]西部诗人[/groupid]作者: 叶如钢 时间: 2015-11-28 15:54
欣赏一组优美翻译。
点赞。作者: 叶如钢 时间: 2015-11-28 18:45
弗罗斯特这首诗我以前翻译过, 在这里也贴出过。 现提上来供参考。作者: 吕志鲁 时间: 2015-11-29 06:38
很想看看先生的译作。作者: 叶如钢 时间: 2015-11-29 08:14