本帖最后由 吕志鲁 于 2015-10-12 09:58 编辑
清纯译诗
《一》
赤脚男孩
约翰·格林利夫·惠梯尔 John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892)
点评： 淳朴的乡村生活，率真的童年时光，浓情的赞叹，热切的关爱。
赤脚男孩，脸蛋晒黑，
小小男子汉，祝福你！
吹响快活的口哨，
裤脚高高卷起；
光鲜的双唇更加红润，
山上的草莓触碰过你的嘴皮；
阳光撒满你的面庞，
划破的帽檐扬扬得意；
我也曾是赤脚的男孩，
由衷地为你感到欣喜！
你是世界上的王子，
成人是社会的仆役。
让百万富翁驱车疾驰飞奔，
拔涉的赤脚一旁轻挪慢移；
你耳听眼见，天宽地阔，
他的金钱怎与你的财富相比！
外有阳光，内有欢乐，
赤脚男孩，祝福你！
一觉醒来是成天的笑声，
啊，无忧的童年，不尽的嘻戏；
你的结实把医生的规矩嘲笑，
你的知识把学校的教室贬低；
野花何时何处开放，
野蜂早晨怎样追寻花蜜；
鸟儿展翅飞翔的奥妙，
林中万物存在的秘密；
乌龟怎样背负甲壳，
鼹鼠如何跌落水底；
树上那里有小虫的密室，
啄木鸟为何把树干敲击；
知更鸟如何喂养幼雏，
黄鹂怎样把窝巢高高挂起；
哪里的草莓长得最为鲜嫩，
哪里的百合开得最为美丽；
躲藏的落花生哪里攀爬藤蔓，
黑蜂怎样东躲西藏，
如何用泥土垒成巧妙的墙壁；
灰黄蜂是怎样的建筑大师，
如何把住房精心设计；
不翻书本，不做作业，
大自然为他解答这所有问题。
投身大自然的怀抱，
与大自然融为一体，
面对面，手牵手，悠游谈心，
赤脚男孩，祝福你！
啊，最为美好的童年时代，
把多少岁月浓缩聚集；
我是周围一切的主宰，
耳听眼见全是待令的奴隶。
鲜花绿树是我不尽的财富，
鸟为我歌唱，蜂为我酿蜜；
松鼠陪我游玩，
鼹鼠帮我铲地；
黑草莓长成我喜欢的模样，
一片紫色盖满石墙树篱；
小溪伴我欢声笑语，
日日夜夜，奔流不息；
在花园墙边与我叙谈，
滔滔不绝，一年四季；
梭鱼池塘沙岸镶边，
满山胡桃一望无际；
还有仙果压弯枝条的果园，
全都是我的领地！
我的视野逐渐扩展，
我的财富不断累积；
就象一件复杂的中国玩具，
眼前的世界多么熟息，
赤脚男孩，天设地造，
一切专门为你设计！
灰白粗糙的石板上摆出佳肴，
象日常的牛奶面包毫不希奇；
白蜡做勺，木头做碗，
开始我盛大的节日宴席！
蓝天撑开帝王的伞盖，
彩云布景，阳光司仪，
紫色帷幕镶嵌金边，
旋风吹卷花纹层层密密；
斑驳的青蛙组成交响乐团，
朝贺的音乐打破沉寂；
响亮的合唱有灯光照明，
昆虫的荧火相继不熄；
我是天地间的君王：
赤脚男孩，喜庆华丽；
小小男子汉，尽情享受吧，
让童年充满欢笑，称心如意！
尽管新割的草场残梗扎人，
尽管满坡的碎石无比尖利，
每个清晨都要处处踏遍，
接受露珠新的洗礼；
赤脚踩过每一个黄昏，
任凉风亲吻温热的足迹：
很快很快，那一双赤脚啊，
即将在骄敖的牢狱接受禁闭；
失去踩踏泥土的自由，
穿上鞋子去出卖体力；
从此走上成人的道路，
终生辛苦，劳作不已：
但愿双脚避开罪恶的禁区，
那就是大吉大利；
但愿双脚躲过险恶的流砂，
那就是终生福气。
啊，愿你尽情享受眼前的欢乐，
赤脚男孩，乘童年尚未匆匆远离！
The Barefoot Boy
BLESSINGS on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still 5
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy,—
I was once a barefoot boy! 10
Prince thou art,—the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy 15
In the reach of ear and eye,—
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood’s painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 20
Health that mocks the doctor’s rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee’s morning chase,
Of the wild-flower’s time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude 25
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young, 30
How the oriole’s nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine; 35
Of the black wasp’s cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!
For, eschewing books and tasks, 40
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy,—
Blessings on the barefoot boy! 45
Oh for boyhood’s time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees, 50
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone; 55
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 60
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too; 65
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
Oh for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread; 70
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O’er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 75
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frogs’ orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 80
I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard, 85
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: 90
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt’s for work be shod,
Made to treat the mills of toil, 95
Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 100
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
《二》
美丽的乡野姑娘
威廉•卡伦•布赖恩特(William Cullen Bryant 1794—1879)美国诗人
点评 对大自然浓厚的兴趣驱使诗人塑造了一位大自然中清纯的精灵---“美丽的乡野姑娘”
啊，美丽的乡野姑娘，
浓阴密林是你出生的地方；
绿色枝条，依稀天影，
是你儿时眼中唯有的景象。
浓阴中玩耍，
密林里流浪，
周围所有的美丽，
聚集心中，挂在脸上。
你的秀发暗影绰绰，
映着丛林岩石微微闪亮；
你的步履是阵阵清风，
在树叶间嬉戏游荡。
你的眼睛是清澈的泉水，
平静的水面映照云影天光；
你的睫毛是幽幽芳草，
溪水映衬，倩影摇晃。
密林深处，无人造访，
纯洁无暇一如你的胸膛；
充满宁静幽僻的气氛，
那是一个神圣的殿堂。
O, Fairest Of The Rural Maids!
O, fairest of the rural maids!
Thy birth was in the forest shades;
Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky,
Were all that met thine infant eye.
Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child,
Were ever in the sylvan wild,
And all the beauty of the place
Is in thy heart and on thy face.
The twilight of the trees and rocks
Is in the light shade of thy locks;
Thy step is as the wind, that weaves
Its playful way among the leaves.
Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene
And silent waters heaven is seen;
Their lashes are the herbs that look
On their young figures in the brook.
The forest depths, by foot unpressed,
Are not more sinless than they breast;
The holy peace, that fills the air.
《三》
孤独的割麦人
威廉•华兹华斯 Willian Wordsworth
点评 这是献给辛勤刈麦女、孤独歌者的清纯赞美诗。诗人请路人止步，以免搅扰刈麦女孤独的歌唱；诗人求过客绕道，不要阻断劳作者倾吐心声。在诗人看来，这歌声比夜莺还要婉转，比杜鹃更加动听，在空谷远远荡漾，在脑海久久回响；在读者看来，诗作是现实高雅的变奏，是生活华彩的乐章。
看那远处的麦地中间，
有一位孤独的高原姑娘！
不要靠近，悄悄躲开，
她独自一人在收割歌唱！
形只影单，边割边捆，
曲调带着寂寞忧伤；
听啊，那歌声悠悠，
把深遂的山谷震响。
夜莺难与她的歌声相比，
让精疲力竭的游人神清气爽；
即使身处阿拉伯燥热的沙漠，
也会感到绿洲的阴凉；
胜似春日杜鹃的啼号，
动人心魄，荡气回肠；
即使遥远的赫布利底群岛，
宁静的大海也会掀起巨浪。
她的歌声谁能听懂，
她的曲调谁会欣赏？
是在诉说哀怨的往事，
还是感叹古代的战场？
或者只是哼唱小曲，
絮叨每天每日的家常？
或者倾吐难免的失落、痛苦，
还有充满人生的悲伤？
尽管姑娘的歌唱无人听懂，
那歌声似乎无尽地悠长；
只见她一边吟唱一边割麦，
弓身弯腰，手中镰刀挥扬；
我摒气凝神,专心倾听，
不觉来到高高的山岗，
那歌声虽已戛然而止，
余音却还在心中久久回荡。
The Solitary Reaper
BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listen'd, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
来自群组: 中国诗社 |
发表于 2015-10-6 09:54
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