=雪歌译诗=
罗伯特 弗罗斯特 （Robert Frost） 诗选9首
01 看不见远方和深处的眺望
沿沙滩走去的人们
转身望去一个方向。
他们背朝陆地。
他们整日里看着大海。
船体不断升高
当它渐渐地驶来。
潮湿的地面如同镜子
倒映着一只站立的鸥鸟。
或许每块土地都有不同;
但不论在哪儿情形可能都一样——
潮水一遍遍涌上海岸，
人们望着大海。
他们看不清远方。
他们看不到深处。
但又有什么事物能够
阻止他们持续眺望？
2018年9月10日 译
01 Neither Out Far Nor In Deep
The people along the sand
All turn and look one way.
They turn their back on the land.
They look at the sea all day.
As long as it takes to pass
A ship keeps raising its hull;
The wetter ground like glass
Reflects a standing gull
The land may vary more;
But wherever the truth may be--
The water comes ashore,
And the people look at the sea.
They cannot look out far.
They cannot look in deep.
But when was that ever a bar
To any watch they keep?
02 进来
当我来到树林的边缘，
画眉鸟的音乐——听！
假如此刻的林外仍是黄昏，
林中已经一片黑暗。
虽然它还可以歌唱，
但林中的黑暗太深，让鸟
即使借助灵巧的翅膀，
仍然难以更好地渡过夜晚。
沉沦在西边天际的落日
最后的夕光仍在挣扎
只为多听一首歌
出自那画眉的胸腔。
画眉鸟的乐声绵延
在一柱柱的黑暗中——
几乎像一种召唤
诱人进入黑暗和背哀。
没门儿，我为看星星而出门；
我才不会进来。
我的意思是即算被邀请也不;
况且我并未收到。
02 Come In
As I came to the edge of the woods,
Thrush music -- hark!
Now if it was dusk outside,
Inside it was dark.
Too dark in the woods for a bird
By sleight of wing
To better its perch for the night,
Though it still could sing.
The last of the light of the sun
That had died in the west
Still lived for one song more
In a thrush's breast.
Far in the pillared dark
Thrush music went --
Almost like a call to come in
To the dark and lament.
But no, I was out for stars;
I would not come in.
I meant not even if asked;
And I hadn't been.
03 雪夜逗留在树林边
我想我知道这片林子谁家的。
虽然他就住在这村子里；
但他不会看见我驻足在这儿
看着他的树林被雪覆盖。
我的小马驹定在疑惑不解
一年中最黑暗的夜晚
逗留在树林和冰冻的湖泊中间
附近没有一间农舍的空地上
他摇动了挽具的铃铛
询问是不是哪里出了错。
除此之外，唯一的声音
只有绒毛般的雪片随风飘拂。
可爱的，漆黑的，深邃的树林，
但我要信守我的承诺，
让我在睡觉前多赶几里路，
让我在睡觉前多赶几里路。
03 Stopping by Woods on a snowy Evening
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 promise to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
04 未选择的路
两条路在金灿灿的树林里分了岔，
抱歉我不能都走一遍
我只是路过，长久地伫立
尽可能地望向路的远方
直到它蜿蜒着消失在矮树丛里；
那就选择另一条路，公平而言，
也许还有更好的理由，
因为它长满杂草，更为诱人
尽管穿过那一片
需要付出的差不多一样。
那个早晨，两条路同样铺满了
未被脚步踩脏的落叶，
哦，那我把起初的一条留待以后！
但我又知道路连接着路，
只怕我再也不会回来。
我会在叹息中说起这事儿
多年以后在某个地方：
两条路在
树林里分了岔，而我——
我选择了人迹更加稀落的，
这造成了所有的不同。
04 The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler,long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other,as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood,and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
05 被忽视的时候
他们任由我们沿这条路走去，
确信我们是他们中选错路的两个，
我们有时坐在路边，不起眼的地方，
神情顽皮，游移，宛如天使，尝试着
我们体验不到背弃的感觉。
05 In Neglect
They leave us so to the way we took,
As two in whom them were proved mistaken,
That we sit sometimes in the wayside nook,
With mischievous, vagrant, seraphic look,
And try if we cannot feel forsaken.
06 柴禾堆
一个阴沉的日子里走在冰冷的沼泽地带，
我停下脚步，说：“就从这儿往回走吧。
不，我将走得更远——我们来打赌。”
冻硬的雪地托住了我，随时随地
挽救我沉陷的脚。满眼都是笔直的树，
又细又高，排成整齐的一行行，
每一处都相似，根本不能标志，也无法命名，
来确认我究竟到了这儿
还是另一处地方：反正我已离家很远。
一只小鸟飞在我的前方。他小心翼翼
总是出现在与我隔开一棵树的距离，
不声不响，保密着他的名字，
谁又会蠢到去考虑他在想些什么。
他以为我追着他，是为了一根羽毛——
尾巴上白色的那支；像一个
把什么话都当真的人。
其实他只要朝斜侧飞去就能明白。
当一个柴禾垛出现在面前我立马
把他甩在了脑后，并让那小小的恐惧
抓着他脱离了我本应去的地方，
连祝他晚安之类的话也没留下一句。
他最后停下，站在柴禾垛的后面。
那是一捆枫木，劈好了，
码成堆，规规整整，四乘四乘八。
从没见过这么整齐的。
这附近的积雪里找不到足迹。
看这砍削的痕迹，它肯定不是今年备下的，
甚至早于去年或前年。
木块已发灰，树皮有些剥落
整个柴垛有点儿沉陷。铁丝
一圈又一圈地捆扎好。
撑着它的一边是棵还在生长
的树，另一边支着一根桩和支柱，
摇摇欲坠。我觉得只可能
是有人忙着新的活计才能
拉下了他的一堆手工制品，
付出了劳动，动用了斧头，
却把它遗忘在远离壁炉的地方，
顶多只能给冰冻的沼泽取暖，
用那腐烂产生的，缓慢而无烟的燃烧。
06 The Wood-Pile
Out walking in the frozen swamp one grey day
I paused and said, "I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther--and we shall see."
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went down. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tall slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather--
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled--and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting,
Or even last year's or the year's before.
The wood was grey and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labour of his axe,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.
07 补墙
有些东西不喜欢墙，
它们在墙下拱起冰冻的鼓包，
把墙上的圆石块晃落到太阳底下；
造成的裂缝能让两个人并排通过。
而猎人造成的破坏又不一样：
我修补他们留下的狼藉，
把兔子从藏身的地方撵出来，
他们就推倒所有的石块，
只为了让汪汪叫的狗开心。那些缺口
我是说，被破坏时没有人看到或听见，
但到了春天补墙时，它们就在那儿了。
我通知了住在山那边的邻居；
有一天我们碰头，沿墙走了一遍，
我们把墙又一次在我们中间垒好。
当我们走时墙隔开了我们。
落在自己一边的石头我们各自垒好。
一些形如面包，一些接近球状
我们必须用上咒语才使它们稳当：
“好好呆着，等我们转过身去！“
为了对付它们我们的手指被磨得粗糙。
哦，这只是另一种户外游戏，一人在一边。
如此而已：我们其实并不需要墙：
他那儿都是松树而我这里是个苹果园。
我对他说，我的苹果树绝不会跨过界线
到松树下偷吃他的松果。
而他却说：“有了篱笆才有好邻居。”
春天适合我调侃，我不确定
能不能在他的脑瓜子里种上我的想法：
“为什么有它们才有好邻居？难道
我们养牛了吗？但是这儿没有牛。
当我垒一堵墙之前，我想知道
我把什么圈了进来，又把什么围在墙外，
我要用墙防着谁。
有些东西不喜欢墙，
它们希望墙塌掉！“我本当告诉他是“精灵”，
但那并不完全是精灵，我宁愿
他自己说出来。我看见他杵在那儿，
双手牢牢地抓着一块石头，搬运，
像个旧石器时代武装的野蛮人。
他移动在黑暗中，我感觉，
不光是树林和树荫构成的黑暗。
他不会跨出父辈的谚语，
也从不怀疑它的权威性。
他又说了一遍：“有了篱笆才有好邻居。”
07 Mending Wall
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper bowlders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the bowlders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use spell to make them balance:
“Stay where you are until our backs are turned!”
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple-orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only say, “Good fences make good neighbors.”
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a motion in his head:
“Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down!” I could say “elves” to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there,
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness, as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying.
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbors.”
08 丝绸帐篷
她就像田野里的一顶丝绸帐篷
一个明媚的夏日的正午，当微风
吹干了露珠，也让绳索松弛，
它就随着一根根牵索，轻松而温柔地摆动
支撑在中央的一棵雪松，
是它指向天堂的尖顶
表明它的灵魂是存在的
看似不依赖于任何一根绳索，
也不受制于它们，只是松垮地牵系着
被无数爱和思想的丝绸结
连接着地面上，罗盘一样旋转的万物
而只要其中的一根稍稍收紧
在夏日变幻莫测的空气中，
最轻微的束缚都能被感知。
08 The Silken Tent
She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when a sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of its soul
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To everything on earth the compass round,
And only by one's going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air,
Is the slightest bondage made aware.
09 指令
抽出身来，从我们无法承受的当前，
回到一个纯真的年代，粗枝大叶的
被焚烧过、溶解过、断裂的
有如墓园里，曝露于天气的大理石像，
一间不再是屋子的屋子
座落在一个废弃的农场
位于一个被荒废的镇子。
那里的路，如果你想让人指引
而你内心充满了迷失
可能看似一个曾经的采石场——
旧日的小镇上跪拜着整块的巨石
长久以来就已失去了覆盖的伪装。
在一本书中有关于它的记载：
除了马车铁轮的磨损
岩脊上暴露着东南西北向的条条刻痕，
那是一个巨大的冰川，脚撑着北极
用凿子雕琢的作品。
你不必在意他的某种寒冷
据说仍徘徊在潘瑟山的这一侧。
你也不必在意那种种折磨
从四十个地洞里传来的窥视
仿佛与藏在四十个木桶里的眼睛对视。
至于树林带给你的激动
那阵急匆匆传递到树叶上，轻微的沙沙声，
就把它算作突如其来的新鲜经历。
不到二十年前这一切都在哪儿？
它们总想着遮盖住几棵
带着啄木鸟疤痕的老苹果树。
唱一首让你自己振作起来的歌吧
关于一个人下班走在回家的路上，
他可能正是走在你前面的那人
或者驾着一辆马车，装着谷物，嘎吱作响。
这陌生的旅途，终点就在乡野的尽头
两种乡村的文明在交融中
褪色。它们都已消逝。
在此刻，如果你已迷失了自我
别再攀爬你的阶梯，举起一块“歇业“的牌子
拒绝除了我的所有人。
让自己放松。如今
唯一保留的只有方寸之地。
原先那是孩子们过家家的屋子，
一棵松树下一堆豁口的餐盘，
儿童游戏房里的一堆玩具。
悲哀啊，为这些小物什就能使他们开心。
也为那间不再像屋子的屋子，
那只是一处不显眼的地窖的入口
如今慢慢地合拢，像一道面团上的凹痕。
这不是游戏房，而是一间正经的屋子。
你所去的地方连着你的命运
是从这屋子里流出的小溪，
冷如泉水，因为还没有远离这源头，
涓涓细流高贵而纯真。
（我们知道咆哮在山谷中的溪流
会在荆棘上把自己撕扯得粉碎。）
在河边，我把一只破碎的高脚杯
仿佛在咒语中破碎的一只圣杯
埋在一棵弯作拱形的老雪松下
坏蛋们总找不到它，正如
圣 马克说的，因此他们得不到救赎。
（我从孩子们的游戏房里偷出了杯子。）
给你水，这是你的水源地。
喝吧。重拾自我，不再困惑。
09 Directive
Back out of all this now too much for us,
Back in a time made simple by the loss
Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off
Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,
There is a house that is no more a house
Upon a farm that is no more a farm
And in a town that is no more a town.
The road there, if you'll let a guide direct you
Who only has at heart your getting lost,
May seem as if it should have been a quarry –
Great monolithic knees the former town
Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered.
And there's a story in a book about it:
Besides the wear of iron wagon wheels
The ledges show lines ruled southeast-northwest,
The chisel work of an enormous Glacier
That braced his feet against the Arctic Pole.
You must not mind a certain coolness from him
Still said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain.
Nor need you mind the serial ordeal
Of being watched from forty cellar holes
As if by eye pairs out of forty firkins.
As for the woods' excitement over you
That sends light rustle rushes to their leaves,
Charge that to upstart inexperience.
Where were they all not twenty years ago?
They think too much of having shaded out
A few old pecker-fretted apple trees.
Make yourself up a cheering song of how
Someone's road home from work this once was,
Who may be just ahead of you on foot
Or creaking with a buggy load of grain.
The height of the adventure is the height
Of country where two village cultures faded
Into each other. Both of them are lost.
And if you're lost enough to find yourself
By now, pull in your ladder road behind you
And put a sign up CLOSED to all but me.
Then make yourself at home. The only field
Now left's no bigger than a harness gall.
First there's the children's house of make-believe,
Some shattered dishes underneath a pine,
The playthings in the playhouse of the children.
Weep for what little things could make them glad.
Then for the house that is no more a house,
But only a belilaced cellar hole,
Now slowly closing like a dent in dough.
This was no playhouse but a house in earnest.
Your destination and your destiny's
A brook that was the water of the house,
Cold as a spring as yet so near its source,
Too lofty and original to rage.
(We know the valley streams that when aroused
Will leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.)
I have kept hidden in the instep arch
Of an old cedar at the waterside
A broken drinking goblet like the Grail
Under a spell so the wrong ones can't find it,
So can't get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn't.
(I stole the goblet from the children's playhouse.)
Here are your waters and your watering place.
Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.
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发表于 2018-9-26 19:26
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