A PSALM OF LIFE  ¥Í ©R ¤§ Æg ¬ü ¸Ö

           Henry W. Longfellow  ®Ô«Dù (1807-1882)

 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,        ¤Å¥H«s¶Ëªº¸Ö¥y¦V§Ú¶D»¡

Life is but an empty dream!                 ¤H¥Í¥u¤£¹L¬O³õªÅµêªº¹Ú

For the soul is dead that slumbers         ¦]¬°«å¤§ÆF»î´kµL²§¤w¦º

And things are not what they seem.     ¨Æª««D¥~¦b©ÒÅã¥Ü¤§¼Ò¼Ë

 

Life is real! Life is earnest!                  ¤H¥Í¯u¹ê!¤H¥ÍÄYµÂ!

And the grave is not its goal;               ¼X¹Ó«D¨ä³Ì²×¥Øªº

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,           §A¨Ó¦Û¹Ð¤g¡AÂk¦Ü¹Ð¤g

Was not spoken of the soul.                ¨Ã«D°w¹ïÆF»î¦Ó¨¥

 

Not enjoyment and not sorrow,           «D¨É¼Ö¡A¥ç«D¶Ë´d

Is our destined end or way;                 §Ú­Ìªº¥Ø¼Ð©Î«e³~

But to act, that each tomorrow             ­n­n§V¤O¥H­P¨C­Ó©ú¤é

Finds us farther than today.                 µo²{§Ú­Ì¤ñ¤µ¤é§ó¶i¨B

                                                          

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,           §ÞÃÀ¥Ã«í¡A¥ú³±©ö³u

And our hearts, though stout and brave,        §Ú­Ì¤º¤ßÁö°í±j¡A«i´±

Still, like muffled drums, and beating    ¤´¦p´eÁn¹ªºVÀ»µÛ

Funeral marches to the grave.              °e¸®¦æ¦C¼X³õ­u

 

In the world's broad field of battle,      ¦b¥@¬É¼s¤j¾Ô³õ¤W¡A

In the bivouac of Life,                         ¦b¤H¥Íµu¼È®È³~¤¤¡C

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!           §O¹³¨IÀq³QÅX¤§¤û¸s

Be a hero in the strife!                         ­n·í¾Ä°«¤¤¤§­^¶¯

                                                          

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!       ¤Å«H¥¼¨Ó¡AµL½×¦h»ò´r§Ö

Let the dead past bury its dead!          ¹L¥hªº´NÅý¥¦¹L¥h

Act, -- act in the living Present!           §V¤O¡A§V¤O©ó¤µ´Â

Heart within, and God o'erhead!         ºÉ¤ß¤O¡A¤W»a§È¯§

                                                           

Lives of great men all remind us            °¶¤H¥Í¥­¥O§Ú­Ì¾Ð°_

We can make our lives sublime,           §Ú­Ì¥ç¥i¨Ï¥Í©R±R°ª

And, departing, leave behind us            ¤@¥¹Â÷¶}³o¥@¬É®É

Footprints on the sands of time;           ¯d¤U¤H¥Í¾ú¥vªº¨¬¸ñ

 

Footprints, that perhaps another,         ©Î³\¥t¤@¯è®üªÌ

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,              ´ç¹L¤H¥ÍÄYµÂ¤j®ü

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,     ©t¿W²îÃø¤§§Ì¥S

Seeing, shall take heart again.              ¨£¨ì¨¬¸ñ­«¬B«i®ð

 

Let us, then, be up and doing               Åý§Ú­Ì°_¦Ó¦æ

With a heart for any fate;                     ¥H­±¹ï¥ô¦ó©R¹B¤§¤ß            

Still achieving, still pursuing,                 Ä~Äò¦¨´N¡A»ÚÄò°l¨D

Learn to labor and to wait                    ¾Ç²ß§V¤O»Pµ¥«Ý¡C

 

 

This poem taken from Longfellow's Voices of the Night (1839) seems to give us a great deal of good advice. It tells us not to waste our time but to be up and doing; not to be discouraged by sufferings or failures but to have a heart for any fate; not to judge life by temporary standards but to look to eternal reward.

¿ï¨ú¦Û®Ô«Dù(1839¥Xª©)ªº¡§©]¤§­µ¡¨¡A³o­º¸Ö´£¨Ñ§Ú­Ì³\¦h©¾§i¡C¥¦§i¶D§Ú­Ì¤£­n®ö¶O§Ú­Ìªº¥ú³±¦Ó­n°_¦Ó¦æ¡Q¤£­n¦]¨ü­W©Î¥¢±Ñ·P¨ìªq³à¡A¦Ó­n¾Ö¦³­±¹ï¥ô¦ó©R¹B¤§¤ß¡Q¥²­n¥H¼È®Éªº¼Ð·Çµû§P¤H¥Í¡A¦Ó­n´Á¬ß¥Ã«íªºº¹½à¡C

 

Henry W(adsworth) Longfellow (1807-1882): American poet and college professor, extremely popular and almost universally respected during his lifetime. His poetical style is simple, sincere, and musical. The melody of his poetry is unsurpassed by that of other American authors.

®Ô«Dù (1807-1882) ¬ü°ê¸Ö¤H¤Î¤j¾Ç±Ð±Â¡A¦b¥L¦³¥Í¤§¤é·¥¨ü¤j²³Åwªï¨Ã¥B´X¥G¨ü¨ì¥þ¥@¬Éªº·q¥õ¡C¥Lªº¸Öªº¤åÅ鲩ö¡A¸ÛÀµ¡A´I¸`«µ·P¡C¥Lªº¸ÖªºÃý«ß¬O¨ä¥L¬ü°ê¸Ö¤Hªº¸ÖªºÃý«ß©ÒµLªk¶W¶Vªº¡C

 

Longfellow combined considerable learning with an enlightened understanding of the people, and he expressed the lives and ideals of humbler Americans in poems that they could not forget. Amist the rising democracy of his days, Longfellow became the national bard. His more popular poems strongly reflected the optimistic sentiment and the love of a good lesson that characterized the humanitarian spirit of the people.

®Ô«Dù±N²W³Õªº¾ÇÃÑ©M¹ï¤H­Ì³z¹ýªºÁA¸Ñµ²¦X¡A¦P®É¥L±N¸û§C¶¥¼h¤§¬ü°ê¤Hªº¥Í¬¡©M²z·Qªí¹F©ó¥O¥L­ÌÃø¥H§ÑÃhªº¸Ö½g¤¤¡C¦b¥L¨º®É¥Nªº¥Á¥D°ªº¦Án®ö¤¤¡A®Ô«Dù¦¨¬°¥þ°êªº¹C°Û¸Ö¤H¡C¥L¨º¨Ç¸û¨üÅwªïªº¸Ö½g±j¯P¦a¤ÏÀ³¼ÖÆ[ªº±¡·P©MÅã¥Ü¥Á²³¤H¹Dºë¯«¯S¼x¤§¨}¦n°V¥Üªº³ß·R¡C

 

Acquainted with the Night ·t©]ªº¬G¤Í

 

I have been one acquainted with the night. §Ú¬O·t©]ªº¬G¤Í
I have walked out in rain--and back in rain.
´¿¸g¦b«B¤¤¥~¥XÂk¨Ó
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
¬ï¶V¹L¥«°Ï³Ì°¾»·ªº¿O¤õ

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
¨£¨ì¤F³Ì¥O¤H¤ß¸Hªº«Ñ¤l
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
´Xµf©M©]¨µ¤HÀ¿¨­¦Ó¹L
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
§ÚÁ`««¤U¥Ø¥ú ¤£Ä@¦h»¡

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
¤]´¿°±¤U¸}¨B«Ì®§¶ÉÅ¥
When far away an interrupted cry
»·¤è¶Ç¥XÂ_Äòªº©I¥sÁn
Came over houses from another street,
¶V¹L«Î¦t ¨Ó¦Û¥t¤@­ÓµóÀY

But not to call me back or say good-by;
¤£¬O¥l³ê ¤£¦b¹D§O
And further still at an unearthly height
»·Â÷¬õ¹Ðªº»aªÆ
One luminary clock against the sky
°ªÄaµÛ¨º®y¥úÄÁ

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
«ÅºÙ ®É¶¡¨S¦³¬O«D
I have been one acquainted with the night.
¦Ó§Ú ¬O·t©]ªº¬G¤Í

¸Ö¤H¦b³o­º¸Ö¤¤·Q­n¶Ç¹Fªº­õ²z¬O¤°»ò©O¡H¡u·t©]¡v©M¡u¥úÄÁ¡v¶H¼x¤°»ò¡H¡u®É¶¡¨S¦³¬O«D¡v¤S¬O¤°»ò·N«ä¡H¨C¤@­ÓŪªÌ¾¨¥i¥H¦³¤£¦Pªº»â®©©M¸ÑÄÀ¡A¦ý¤]·|¤£¬ù¦Ó¦P¦a²£¥Í¤@¥÷¬Û¦üªº·Pı-©t¿W¡C³o¥÷©t¿W¡A¤]³\¹³´H­·¤¤·æÁYªº¹C¤l¡Aºò»qµÛ¥~®M¡AëÄëĦa¿W¦æ¦b²§¶m¡A¥¢¸¨¤F¤°»ò¡HÃh©ÀµÛ¤°»ò¡K

 

BECAUSE I COULD NOT STOP FOR DEATH¦]§Ú¤£¯à°±­Ô¦º¯«

           Emily Dickinson ¨f¶Ô¥Í (1830-1886)

 

Because I could not stop for Death, ¦]§Ú¤£¯à°±­Ô¦º¯«

He kindly stopped for me; ¦º¯«¦n·N¦a°±­Ô§Ú

The carriage held but just ourselves°¨¨®¶È­¼¸üÍ¢»P§Ú

And Immortality. ¥~¥[¤W¥Ã¥Í

                   

We slowly drove, he knew no haste, °¨¨®½w½w¦a¦Ó¦æ

And I had put away¦º¯«ª¾±x¤£»°¦£

My labor, and my leisure too, ¥u¦]Í¢®ï¶Ô¦n§

For his civility. §^±N§@®§¸m¤@®Ç

 

We passed the school, where children strove §Ú­Ì¸g¹L¤F¾Ç®Õ

At recess, in the ring; ¾Çµ£¤U½Ò¾Þ³õ©b

We passed the fields of gazing grain, §Ú­Ì¸g¹L¦î¥ßªº½_¥Ð

We passed the setting sun. §Ú­Ì¸g¹L¸¨¤é

           

Or rather, he passed us; ¹ç»¡¸¨¤é¸g¹L§Ú­Ì

The dews drew quivering and chill, ÅS¤ô±a¨Ó¤F´H·N

For only gossamer my gown, ¥u¦]§^¦çªA³æÁ¡

My tippet only tulle. ³ò¤y¥u¬O¬Xµ·º÷

 

We paused before a house that seemed§Ú­Ì°±©ó¤@«Î«e   

A swelling of the ground; µS¦p¥Y°_¤§¦a­±

The roof was scarcely visible, «Î³»´X¥G¬Ý¤£¨£

The cornice in the ground. ÁôÂéó¦a¤U­¸ÀÑ      

 

Since then ¡¦tis centuries, and yet¦Û¸Óµ{«á¤w¼Æ¦Ê¦~

Feels shorter than the day·Pı¤£¤ñ·í¤éªø¤[

I first surmised the horses¡¦ heads·íªì±À´ú°¨¨®ÀY

Were toward eternity. ´Â¥Ã«í¤è¦VÁÚ¶i

 

In this poem, Dickinson describes dying and immortality in the dominant metaphor of a carriage on a journey.

¦b¦¹¸Ö¤¤¡A©ó°¨¨®®È¦æªº¥D­nÁô³ë¤¤´y­z¦º¤`»P¥Ã«í(¥Ã¥Í)¡C

 

In Stanza 1, Death, accompanied by Immortality, stops to pick up the speaker in a carriage. In stanzas 2-4, they journey, leaving earthly life behind them ("labor," "leisure," "children," "grain," "setting sun"). In stanza 5, they pause before the grave ("swelling of the ground"), and stanza 6 depicts the speaker "centuries" later, speaking from "eternity."

¦b²Ä¤@¸`¤¤¡A¦º¯«¥Ñ¥Ã¥Í³­¦ñµÛ¡A¦b¤@³¡°¨¨®¤¤°±¤U¨Óªï±µ±Ô­zªÌ¡C¦b²Ä¤G¸`¨ì²Ä¥|¸`¤¤¡A¥L­Ì½ñ¤W®È³~¡A±N¥@«Uªº¥Í¬¡©ß©ó¸£«á¡C(¡§³Ò°Ê¡¨¡A¡§¥ð¶¢¡¨¡A¡§¤l¤k¡¨¡A¡§¤­½\¡¨¡A¡§¸¨¤é¡¨) ¦b¦a¤­¸`¤¤¡A¥L­Ì¦b¹Ó«e°±¤U¨Ó (¡§¥Y°_ªº¦a­±¡¨) ¦Ó²Ä¤»¼ä´y¼g±Ô­zªÌ¦b¼Æ¥@¬ö«á¡A¦Û¡§¥Ã«í¡¨¤¤Á¿­z·í¦~©Òµo¥Íªº¨Æ¡C

 

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) : a major American poet of the 19th century. Born in Amherst, Massachusetts, Dickinson lived there a recluse and died a spinster. Her cryptic lyrics, composed mostly in ballad meter, are metaphysical in style, original in language, and precise in imagery. Nature, love, life, time, death, and eternity were her favorite themes. In early 20th century she was looked upon as a forerunner of the Imagist school of poetry.

¨f¶Ô¥Í (1830-1886): 19¥@¬ö¬ü°ê¥D­n¸Ö¤H¡C¥Í©ó³Â¬ÙÂĽѶë¦{¡A¦w©i´µ¯S¥«¡A¨f¶Ô¥Í¦b¨º²z¹LµÛÁô¤hªº¥Í¬¡¡A¥¼±B¥h¥@¡C¦o¦h¥H­z¨ÆÃý«ß¼g§@¯«±K§ç±¡¸Ö¡A¤åÅé(¤W¬O)©â¶H(ªº)¡Q»y¤å(¤W¬O)¿W³Ð(ªº)¡A·N¶H(¤W¬O)©P±K(ªº)¡C¦ÛµM¡A¥Í©R¡A®É¶¡¦º¤`¤Î¥Ã«í¬O¦o³ß·Rªº¥DÃD¡C¦b20¥@¬öªì¦o³Qµø¬°·N¶H¸Ö¾Ç¬£ªº¥ýÅX¡C

 

Cloud and Wind                      ¶³©M­·
¡]Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1828-1882¡^       ¡]¤×§J±jĶ¡^
Love, should I fear death most for you or me?      
·R¤H¡A§Ú¸Ó¦]§A¦Ó¬ÈÄߦº¤`ÁÙ¬O¬°¦Û¤v¡H
Yet if you die, can I not follow you,             
¦p§A¥ý¥h¤F¡A§ÚÃø¹D¯à¤£°lÀH§A
Forcing the straits of change? Alas! but who 
¦Ó¹H©í©R¹B¡H­ü¡I¦ý¦³½Ö¯à
Shall wrest a bond form night's inveteracy,   
¦V¹xÂ}ªº«Õ­ßª§¨ú¨ì¬ù©w
Ere yet my hazardous soul put forth, to be    
¦b§ÚªºÆF»î«_ÀI¤§«e´£¨Ñ«OÃÒ
Her warrant against all her haste might rue?-        
³o¯ëªº¥^«P¤£­P³y¦¨®¬«ë¡H
Ah! In your eyes so reached what dumb adieu,    
°Ú¡I§A²ö«D¥u¬Ý¨ì±IÀRªºÂ÷§O
What unsunned gyres of waste eternity?      
¤£¨£¤Ñ¤éªº¯î­ìµLÃäµL»Ú¦a½ü°j¡H
And if I die the first, shall death be then        
¦p§Ú¥ý§A¦Ó¥h ¦º¤`¬O§_¦n¤ñ
A lampless watchtower whence I see you weep?-       
«Õ·tªº§ó¶ð §Ú¦b¨º¨à¬ÝµÛ§A­úª_¡H
Or (woe is me!) a bed wherein my sleep      
§í¦n¤ñ¡]¯u¬O¶Ë¤ß¡I¡^ºÎºf §Ú¤w¦w¹ì
Ne'er notes (as death's dear cup at last you drain)       
¤£¦A¾å±o¡]·í§A¤w§â¦º¤`ªº¬ÃÅS¶¼ºÉ¡^
The hour when you too learn that all is vain   
§A¦ó®É¤]µo²{¤@¤Á³£¬O®{µM
And that Hope sows what Love shall never reap?        
·R±¡³ºµLªk¦¨¥þ³o¤@´[±¡Ä@¡H

 

                    Crossing  the  Bar ³u

                  Alfred, Lord Tennyson  ¦ý¥§¥Í

                          1809-1892

A few days before he died, Tennyson gave instructions that this lyric should be put at the end of all editions of his poems.

Sunset and evening star,                                              ¸¨¤é±ß¬P¤¤¡A

And one clear call for me!                                           §ÚÅ¥¨ì©Û³ê¡I

And may there be no moaning of the bar,                     §Ú±N°Ê¨­¥X®ü¡A

When I put out to sea.                                                ½Ð¤Å¬°§ÚªºÂk¥h´d«s¡C

 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,                      ¼é¤ô§Ï©»¼ôºÎµÛ¡A

Too full for sound and foam,                                        º¡¼é®É­Ô®ü¤ô¥­ÀR¡A

When that which drew from out the boundless deep  ±qµLÃä¨L¬v±²¨Óªº¼é¤ô

Turns again home.                                                       ²{¦b¤S±N°h¦^¡C

 

Twilight and evening bell,                                             Á¡¼Ç±ßÄÁÁnÅT¡A

And after that the dark!                                               ©]¹õº¥¸¨¡I

And may there be no sadness of farewell,                    §Ú±N­¼¼éÂk¥h¡A

When I embark;                                                        ©M§Ú¹D§O¡A½Ð¤Å«s¶Ë¡F

 

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place      ±q³o¹Ð¥@ªº´ä¤f¥X®ü¡A

The flood may bear me far,                                         ¯EÃvªº¤j®ü¤ô±N§Ú»·¸ü

I hope to see my Pilot face to face                              ·í§Ú¶V¹L²LÅy¡A(²LÅy¶H¼x¦º¤`)

When I have crossed the bar.                                      §Ú¬ß¿Ë²´¬Ý¨ìÍ¢ªº¸tÃC¡C

 

Dear white
Dear white, something you got to know            ¿Ë·Rªº¥ÕºØ¤H¡A¦³´X¥ó¨Æ§A¥²¶·ª¾¹D¡C 
When I was born, I was black.                         ·í§Ú¥X¥Í®É¡A§Ú¬O¶Â¦âªº 
When I grow up, I am black.                            §Úªø¤j¤F¡A§Ú¬O¶Â¦âªº 
When I'm under the sun, I'm black.   §Ú¦b¶§¥ú¤U¡A§Ú¬O¶Â¦âªº 
When I'm cold, I'm black.                 §Ú´H§N®É¡A§Ú¬O¶Â¦âªº 
When I'm afraid, I'm black.                              §Ú®`©È®É¡A§Ú¬O¶Â¦âªº 
When I'm sick, I'm black.                 §Ú¥Í¯f¤F¡A§Ú¬O¶Â¦âªº 
When I die, I'm still black.                                ·í§Ú¦º¤F¡A§Ú¤´¬O¶Â¦âªº¡C 
you---white people,                                         §A---¥ÕºØ¤H 
When you were born, you were pink.               ·í§A¥X¥Í®É¡A§A¬O¯»¬õ¦âªº 
When you grow up, you become white.            §Aªø¤j¤F¡AÅܦ¨¥Õ¦âªº 
You're red under the sun.                  §A¦b¶§¥ú¤U¡A§A¬O¬õ¦âªº 
You're blue when you're cold.                          §A´H§N®É¡A§A¬O«C¦âªº 
You are yellow when you're afraid.   §A®`©È®É¡A§A¬O¶À¦âªº 
You're green when you're sick.                         §A¥Í¯f®É¡A§A¬Oºñ¦âªº 
You're gray when you die.                                ·í§A¦º®É¡A§A¬O¦Ç¦âªº 
And you, call me "color"?                  ¦Ó§A¡A«o¥s§Ú¡u¦³¦â¤HºØ¡v¡H 
 
³o½g­^¤åµu¸Ö¨Ó¦Ûºô¸ô¹q¤l«H¥ó¡A«n«D¶Â¥ÕºØ±Ú¹jÂ÷¬Fµ¦´¿Åý«D¬w­ì¦í¥Á¶Â¤H¾D¨ì 

³\¦h¤£¥­µ¥ªº«Ý¹J¡A¦Ó¥»¸Ö§@ªÌ§Y¥H¤Ñ¥Í½§¦âªº®t²§¡A¨Óªí¹F¤ß¤¤ªº¤£º¡»PµL©`¡C

 

Death¡ABe Not Proud

By John Donne¡]1572¡ã1631¡^
 Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
¦º¯«§A¥ð±o·N ¾¨ºÞ¦³¤H»¡§A
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
¥û¾îµL¤ñ §A¤]¨S¤°»ò¤F¤£°_
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
§A¦Ñ·Q¹Ü¤H©Ê©R «o±`¤£¯àºÙ¤ß
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
¥i¼¦§r¦º¯« §Ú¤]¤£·|Åý§A¦p·N
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
¥ð¾Í©M¨IºÎ¬O§A³h¥Fªº¼Ð°O
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
¨ä¹ê§A±aµ¹¤H­Ì§ó¦hªº¼Ö½ì
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
¦n¤HÁö³£³Q§A¸m©ó¦º¦a
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
¦ý¨äÆF»î¸Ñ²æ §ÎÅé¤]±o¥H¦w®§
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
§A¬O¤Ì¹B¦M¾÷¼É§g¨g®{ªº¥£Áõ
And dost with poison, war and sickness dwell,
§A©M¬rÃľԪ§¯e¯f¨Yòc¤@®ð
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
¾~¤ù²Å©G ¤]¦³¨Ï¤Hªø¯vªºªk¤O
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
¤ñ§AÁÙ¦æ §A¾Ì¤°»ò¯«®ð¡H
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
¯B¥Í¤@´K ¿ô¨Ó´N¬O¥Ã¥Í
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
¤£´_¦º¤` ¦º¤`ªº¬O§A ¦º¯«¡I

Down By the Salley Gardens¬h¶é¤U
¡]William Butler Yeats, 1865-1939¡^¡]¤×§J±jĶ¡^
Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.
§Ú¦b¬h¶é©M¤ß·Rªº¤H¬Û·|
¦o¬ï¹L¬hªK¦Ó¨Ó¨B¼i¬Õ¥Õ¦p³·
¦o­n§Ú¬Ý²H·R±¡¦p¾ð±éªººñ¸­
§Ú·í®É¦~¤ÖµLª¾°õ·N¤£±µ¨üÄU¸Ñ

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.
§Ú¦bªeÃä©M¤ß·Rªº¤H¸I­±
¦o§âÅÖÅ֥ɤâ·f¤W§Ú«e¶ÉªºªÓ
¦o­n§Ú¬Ý²H¤H¥Í¦pªe³ö¤Wªº«C¯ó
§Ú·í®É¦~¤ÖµLª¾¦p¤µ«o²\¤U¦p¼é

 

1923¦~Àò¿Õ¨©º¸¤å¾Ç¼úªº·Rº¸Äõ¸Ö¤H¸­·O¡]William Butler Yeats, 1865-1939¡^´¿¸g·P¹Ä¡G¦b¦~»´ªº®É­Ô¡A¥LªºÁ[´µ¬O¦~¦Ñªº¡A¦b¦~¦Ñªº®É­Ô¡A¥LªºÁ[´µ¤SÅܦ~»´¤F¡C·N«ä¬O¥L¦b¦~»´®É°l¨D´¼¼z¡A«o¦b¦~¦Ñ¬OÛC¼}«C¬K¡]¤@¯ë¤H¤S¦ó¹Á¤£¬O¦p¦¹©O¡H¡^¡C¸Ö¤H©ó1889¦~¦b­Û´°ªì¹J­[¼w©£¡]Maud Gonne, 1866-1953¡^®ÉÅ嬰¤Ñ¤H¡A¥L¦b¡m½b¡n¡]The Arrow¡^¤@¸Ö¤¤°l¾Ðªì¨£­[¼w©£®Éªº¦L¶H¡G "­×ªø°ª¶Q¡A­±ÀU»P¯Ý©Ð¦pÄ«ªGªá¤@¯ë²H¶®"¡]Tall and noble but with face and bosom delicate in colour as apple blossom¡^¡CÁöµM¸Ö¤H¹ï­[¼w©£¤@¨£Á鱡¦Ó²×¥Í¤£¯à¦Û©Þ¡A¦ý­[¼w©£¤@¦A©Úµ´¥Lªº¨D±B­¢¨Ï¸Ö¤H¥u¦n§â¼ö±¡Äéª`¦b¤å¾Çªº³Ð§@¤W¡C
¥»¤å©Ò­n¤¶²Ðªº¡m¬h¶é¤U¡n³o­º¸Ö¬O¸­·O®Ú¾Ú¥Lªº¬G¶m"«ä¨Ó·¾"¡]Sligo¡^¤@¦ì¦Ñ¹A°ü°Û¤£§¹¾ãªººqµü§ï¼g¦Ó¦¨ªº¡A»y¨¥Â²³æ½è¾ë¡A¨C­Ó¦r³Ì¦h¥u¦³¨â­Ó­µ¸`¡A¦]¦¹µú°Û©Ê«Ü°ª¡A¥þ¸Ö°£¤F³Ì«á¥b¦æ¥Î²{¦b¦¡¤§¥~¨ä¾l³£¬O¹L¥h¦¡¡C¸­·O»{¬°¸Öºqªº»ù­È¦b©ó¤º®eªº´¼¼z¦Ó«D§Î¦¡¡A©Ò¥H¥Lªº¸Öºq¯S§O´I©ó"¶H¼x©Ê"¡Ð¥ÑŪªº¤H®Ú¾Ú­Ó¤Hªº·P¨ü¨Ó½á¤©·N¸q¡A´N¹³¥L¦Û¤v»¡ªº¡G¸Ö¤HÁ`¬O¼g¥L­Ó¤Hªº¸gÅç¦ý±q¤£ª½»¡¡A¦Ó¬OÀç³y¤Ûı¡C¬h¾ð¡]salley¡^¦b­·¤¤·nÂ\¤£©w¡A¶H¼x¤H¥ÍªºÄÆ·nµL§U¡B¤£¥i®»ºN¡F¾ð±éªººñ¸­©MÅò¤Wªº«C¯ó¡A¶H¼x¦ÛµMªººa¬\¦³®É¡B¤£¥i«j±j¡F³·¥ÕªºÅÖ¨¬©M¥É¤â¶H¼x¥L¹ï¤ß·R¤§¤Hªº¥õ¼}¡C§Y¨Ï"¬y¤ô¦³·N¸¨ªáµL¤ß"¸Ö¤H¤´°õ·N°l¨D¨º¤£¥i¯àªº·R±¡¦Ó¥­¥Õµê¯Ó¤F«C¬K¡A¦p¤µ¤dª÷Ãø¶R¦~¤Ö¤w¬O°l®¬µL¯q¡C¥H"now am full of tears" µuµu5¦r¹ÇµMµ²§À¡A·NµS¥¼ºÉ¦Ó¾lÃý²`ªø¡Ð¤H¤£·R±¡ªP¤Ö¦~¡A»»·Q·í¦~²\¦p«B¡C¦p¦P¸Ö¤Hªº¹Ó¸O¤W¨èµÛ¥L¦Û¤v¼g¤Uªºµuµu¤T¦æ¹Ó»x»Ê¡G
Cast a cold eye
§N²´
On life, on death
¸ó¶V¥Í¦º
Horseman, pass by!
ÃM¤h ¤w¦æ¹L
¸Ö¤H¥ÎÃM¤h¶H¼x¦Û¤vªº¤@¥Í¡A¦Ó·íÃM¤h««««¦Ñ¨o¡AÁ[´µ¤S«ì´_¤F¦~»´¡A¯u¬O±¡¦ó¥H³ô¡I¸Ö¤Hªº±¡Ãh²ö«D¤]¬O©Ò¦³¤Hªº¿ò¾Ñ¡H

 

Fire and Ice

Robert Frost¤×§J±jĶ

¬ü°êªº¸Ö¤H¦ò¬¥´µ¯S¡]Robert Frost, 1874-1963¡^¦b1920¦~¼g¹L¤@­º"¦BÉO¤õ"¡]Fire and Ice¡^ªº¸Ö¡G

Some say the world will end in fire,           
¦³¤H»¡·´·À¥@¬Éªº¬O¤õ
Some say in ice.                                        
¤]¦³¤H»¡¬O¦B
From what I've tasted of desire                 
¨Ì§Ú¹ï¼¤±æªºÅé·|
I hold with those who favor fire.                
§ÚÃÙ¦¨¬O¤õ
But if it had to perish twice,                       
¦ý¥@¬É¦p±N¦A¦¸·´·À
I think I know enough of hate                    
§Ú¹ï¤³«ë¤]¦³¥R¤Àªº¤F¸Ñ
To say that for destruction ice                    
¦Bªº·´·À¤O¶q
Is also great                                              
¤]¤j±o
And would suffice.                                    
¨¬°÷¤F

 

I have been one acquainted with the night.

I have been one acquainted with the night. §Ú¬O·t©]ªº¬G¤Í
I have walked out in rain--and back in rain.
´¿¸g¦b«B¤¤¥~¥XÂk¨Ó
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
¬ï¶V¹L¥«°Ï³Ì°¾»·ªº¿O¤õ

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
¨£¨ì¤F³Ì¥O¤H¤ß¸Hªº«Ñ¤l
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
´Xµf©M©]¨µ¤HÀ¿¨­¦Ó¹L
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
§ÚÁ`««¤U¥Ø¥ú ¤£Ä@¦h»¡

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
¤]´¿°±¤U¸}¨B«Ì®§¶ÉÅ¥
When far away an interrupted cry
»·¤è¶Ç¥XÂ_Äòªº©I¥sÁn
Came over houses from another street,
¶V¹L«Î¦t ¨Ó¦Û¥t¤@­ÓµóÀY

But not to call me back or say good-by;
¤£¬O¥l³ê ¤£¦b¹D§O
And further still at an unearthly height
»·Â÷¬õ¹Ðªº»aªÆ
One luminary clock against the sky
°ªÄaµÛ¨º®y¥úÄÁ

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
«ÅºÙ ®É¶¡¨S¦³¬O«D
I have been one acquainted with the night.
¦Ó§Ú ¬O·t©]ªº¬G¤Í

 

¸Ö¤H¦b³o­º¸Ö¤¤·Q­n¶Ç¹Fªº­õ²z¬O¤°»ò©O¡H¡u·t©]¡v©M¡u¥úÄÁ¡v¶H¼x¤°»ò¡H¡u®É¶¡¨S¦³¬O«D¡v¤S¬O¤°»ò·N«ä¡H¨C¤@­ÓŪªÌ¾¨¥i¥H¦³¤£¦Pªº»â®©©M¸ÑÄÀ¡A¦ý¤]·|¤£¬ù¦Ó¦P¦a²£¥Í¤@¥÷¬Û¦üªº·Pı-©t¿W¡C³o¥÷©t¿W¡A¤]³\¹³´H­·¤¤·æÁYªº¹C¤l¡Aºò»qµÛ¥~®M¡AëÄëĦa¿W¦æ¦b²§¶m¡A¥¢¸¨¤F¤°»ò¡HÃh©ÀµÛ¤°»ò¡K

 

¦ò¬¥´µ¯S(Robert Frost, 1874-1963)©M¦ã²¤¯S(T. S. Eliot, 1888-1965)³Q¤½»{¬°¤G¤Q¥@¬ö¬ü°ê¸Ö¾Âªº¨â¤j¥¨¬W¡C¦ã²¤¯S´¬±ó¤F¸Öºqªº¶Ç²Î¦Ó°µ¬°¬ü°ê²{¥N¸Ö¤Hªº¨å«¬¡A¦ò¬¥´µ¯S«o°í«ùÄ~©Ó¥j¨åªº§Î¦¡¡A±Ä¥Î¥¿¦¡ªº®æ«ß¡A³z¹L¡u­ì®Ø·sµü¡v(the old-fashioned way to be new)ªº³Ð§@¤èªk¡A¥ç²×©ó¦¨¬°·í¥N³Ì¨üÅwªïªº¬ü°ê¸Ö¤H¡C¦ò¬¥´µ¯S¤£¦ý¨S¦³­P¤O©ó¸Öºq§Î¦¡ªº³Ð·s¡A¤Ï¦Ó³ßÅw¨Ï¥Î¥Á¶¡ªº¤f»y¨Ó´y­z´¶³q¤Hªº¤é±`¥Í¬¡¡A¥L¦b³o¤è­±ªº¦¨´N¬Æ¦Ü¶W¶V¤F­^°ê¸Ö¤HµØ¯÷µØ´µ(William Wordsworth, 1770-1850)¡C¦ò¬¥´µ¯Sªº¥Ð¶é¸Ö§@(pastoral)ÁöµM¤å¦r¾ë¹êµLµØ¡A«o¸`«µÂA©ú¡B¶¶ºZ¦ÛµM¡AÃý«ß¤u¾ã¦Ó·N¹ÒÀu¬ü¡C¥Lªº¸Ö¯à³z¹L¡uª½±µªº´y­z¡v(direct treatment of the "thing") ²o¤Þ¥XÂ×´Iªº"·NÃѪºÁn­µ"(sound of sense)¡A©Ò¶Ç¹Fªº­õ²z²`¨I¡A­@¤H´M¨ý¦Ó¾lÃýµL½a¡C¡u¬Ý¦ü²³æ¡A¹ê«h²`¨I¡v¡A¨ä¡uµê¶B¤§¾ë¯À¡v(deceptive simplicity)ªºÃÀ³N¦¨´N³ô¿²¤Æ¹Ò¡C¥L¦Û¤v»¡¸ÖÀ³¡u©l©óÅw®T¦Ó²×©ó´¼¼z¡v(A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom.)¡A¾ÌµÛ¥L¨ô¶VªºÁnÃý§Þ¥©©M­õ²z¤º²[¡A²×¨Ï¥L¦¨¬°¤G¤Q¥@¬ö³Ì¨ü¬ü°ê¤H³ß·Rªº¸Ö¤H¡C

¦ò¬¥´µ¯S©ó¤@¤K¤C¥|¦~¥Í©ó¬ü°ê¦è©¤ªºÂª÷¤s¡A¤Q¤@·³®É¤÷¿Ë¥h¥@«á¡AÀHµÛ¥À¿Ë¦^¨ì¬ü°êªF©¤·s­^®æÄõ(New England)ªº¯ª¤÷®a¤¤©~¦í¡C¥L¤¤¾Ç²¦·~«á´¿¸g°µ¹L±Ð®v¡B¯¼Â´¤u¤H¡B¶m§ø³ø¯Èªº½s¿è¡A¤@¤K¤E¤C¦~¶i¤J«¢¦ò¤j¾Ç¡A¦ý¨â¦~«á½ù¾Ç¡C¤@¤E¹s¹s¦~¦ò¬¥´µ¯S¶}©l¸gÀç¦Û¤vªº¹A³õ¡A¤@ÃäºØ¥Ð¡A¤@Ãä±Ð®Ñ©M¼g¸Ö¡CÁöµM¦Û¥®´N³ßÅwŪ¸Ö©M¼g¸Ö¡A¨Ã¦b¤¤¾Ç®É´NÅãÅS¥X¸Ö¤~¡A¦ý¥L¦b¤T¤Q¤K·³¥H«e¥uµoªí¹L¤T­º¸Ö¡C¤@¤E¤@¤G¦~¦ò¬¥´µ¯S½æ±¼¤F¹A³õ¡A±aµÛ¸Ö½Z¾E©¹­^°ê¡A¦b¬ü°ê¸Ö¤HÃe¼w(Ezra Pound, 1885-1972)ªº¹ªÀy©M¤ä«ù¤UÄ~Äò¼g¸Ö¡C¥L¦b¤@¤E¤@¤T¦~¥Xª©²Ä¤@¥»¸Ö¶°¡m¤Ö¦~ªº·N§Ó¡n(A Boy's will)¡A¤w¦~ªñ¥|¤Q·³¤F¡C¤@¤E¤@¥|¦~¥L¤S¥Xª©¤F²Ä¤G¥»¸Ö¶°¡mªi¤h¹y¥H¥_¡n(North of Boston)¡A¹Åµû¦p¼é¡A±q¦¹´N¨B¤J¨Æ·~ªº©Z³~¡C²Ä¤@¦¸¥@¬É¤j¾ÔÃzµo®É¡A¦ò¬¥´µ¯SÁ|®a¾E¦^¬ü°ê¡C¦b¥L¤@¤E¤»¤T¦~³u¥@¤§«e¦@±o¹L¥|¦¸"´¶§Q¯÷¸Öºq¼ú"(Pulitzer Prize for Poetry)¡A¦¨¬°¬ü°ê«D¥¿¦¡ªº®Û«a¸Ö¤H¡AÅAº¡¤Ñ¤U¡C

³o­º"·t©]ªº¬G¤Í"(Acquainted with the Night)¥ç¬O¦ò¬¥´µ¯S³Ì¨üÅwªïªº¥Nªí§@¤§¤@¡A¸Ö¤H¥Îªº¥þ¬O¤é±`ªº¤f»y¡A«o¯à³Ð³y¥X¦p¦¹Â×´Iªº"·NÃѪºÁn­µ"¡A¥O¤HµLªk¤£¹ÄªA¡G

 

            IN MEMORIAM  1850 ±¥©À

               Alfred, Lord Tennyson  ¦ý¥§¥Í

                       1809-1892

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, ºÆ¨gªºÄÁÁn¡AÅT¹ý©]ªÅ¡A

  The flying cloud, the frosty light; »°¨«¼h¼hªº¶Â¶³¡F

  The year is dying in the night; ¦~·³¤w´Ý¡A¶Â©]±NºÉ¡F

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. »°¥L¨«§a¡AºÆ¨gªºÄÁÁn¡C

Ring out the old, ring in the new, »°¨«Âªº¶Â·t¡Aªï¶i·sªº¥ú©ú¡A

  Ring, happy bells, across the snow; Åw¼ÖªºÄÁÁn¡A¦b³·ªá¤¤¿ººy¡F

  The year is going, let him go; ¦~·³¤wºÉ¡AÅý¥L¥h§a½}¡F

Ring out the false, ring in the true. §âµê°°»°¨«¡A§â¯u²zªï¶i¡C

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, »°¨«±ÑÃaºë¯«ªº¼~¶Ë¡A

  For those that here we see no more; Åý³uªÌ¤@°_®I¸®¡F

  Ring out the feud of rich and poor, »°¨«³h´I¤§¶¡ªº¤³¶û¡A

Ring in redress for all mankind¡K ªï¶i¥þ¤HÃþªº¸ÉÀv¡K

 

In the Trenches¦b¾ÔÀ¢ùØ

Richard Aldington ¡]1892~1962¡^
 
Not that we are weary,                                        
§Ú­ÌÁöµM¯h¥F
Not that we fear,                                                  
§Ú­ÌÁöµMÄß©È
Not that we are lonely                                           
§Ú­ÌÁöµM±I¹æ
Though never alone                                              
¡Ð¡Ð¾¨ºÞ¨Ã¤£©t³æ
Not these, not these destroy us;                           
§Ú­Ì¤£·|¦]¦¹­Ë¤U
But that each rush and crash                                  
¦ý¤@°}¤S¤@°}ªº
Of mortar and shell,                                             
¯¥Án¶©¶©
Each cruel bitter shriek of bullet                             
¼u«B©I¼S
That tears the wind like a blade,                           
¦p§Q¤b¹ºªÅ
Each wound on the breast of earth,                      
¤j¦aº¡§G½H²­
Of Demeter, our Mother, Wound us also,             
­Y·O¥À¨üÃø¥O§Ú­Ì«sµh
Sever and rend the fine fabric                                
§èµõ¤F§Ú­ÌÅÖ²Óªº
Of the wings of our frail souls,                              
ÆF»î¤§Ál
Scatter into dust the bright wings                           
§â­¸µ¾ªº¤ßÆF
Of Psyche!    
¤Æ§@¹Ðªd

³o­º¸Ö¹ê¦b«ÜÃøÂ½Ä¶¡A¸Ö¤H¥©§®¦a¥Î"¤Ï§_©w"ªº»y®ðÂI¥X¾Ô¤h­ÌÁöµM¯h³Ò¡B®£Äß©M±I¹æ¡A¦ý¬O³ÌÃø¥H§Ô¨üªº«o¬OµL¤î¹Òªº¾Ô¤õ©Ò³y¦¨ªº¤ßÆFªº³ÂÞÍ¡C³o¤@ªiSARS¤§§Ð¤¤¡A·í¬F©²·W¤F¤â¸}¡BªÀ·|Åå´q¥¢±¹ªº®É¨è¡A¤@¸s¨IÀqªº¤Ñ¨Ï­Ì¦b¨S¦³¨¬°÷ªº«OÅ@¤U«i´±¦aªï¾Ô¡Aµ¥©ó¥Î¦Û¤vªº¦×¨­¬°²³¥Í¿v°_¤F²Ä¤@¹D¨¾Å@ùÙ¡C¥L­ÌÃø¹D¤£°t³QºÙ§@¡u«i¤h¡v¶Ü¡H¥L­ÌÃø¹D¤£­È±o©Ò¦³¥ÍªÌªº´L·q¶Ü¡H¥L­Ì¤ñ¥u·|¼Q¤f¤ô¡B·d¿ïÁ|Åv¿Ñªº¬F«È©M°ª©x­Ì°¶¤j¦ó¤î¤d¦Ê­¿¡H

³ø¸ü¤TÁ`Å@¤h¸¯¾ËµØ¡]¤pÄ_¡A26·³¡^¥»¨Ó¬O¯«¸g¥~¬ìÅ@¤h¡A·íªì¦o¦ÛÄ@´«¯Z¾á¥ô¡uÀI®t¡v¥h·ÓÅUSARS¯f±w¡AÅý·s±Bªº¥ý¥Í«D±`¤£½Ì¸Ñ¡A¬Æ¦Ü­n¨D¦oÃã¥hÅ@¤hªº¤u§@¡C¦ý¬O¤pÄ_°í«ù¡G"Å@²z¬O§Úªº¿³½ì¡A§Ú¤£·|¦]¦¹¦Ó°h«o¡C"µ²ªG¦o¦b5¤ëªì¦Û¤v³Q·P¬V¡A5¤ë15¤é¦í¶i¥[Å@¯f©Ð¡A¦b³Ì¦M«æªº®É­Ô¾a¨â¦ìSARS²¬·UªÌ©Ò®½Ãتº¦å²M±Ï¤F¤@©R¡A¦o²×¤_¦b6¤ë24¤é±d´_¥X°|¤F¡C§Ú§Æ±æ¦pEmily©Ò´Á±æªº¡A¹³³o¼Ëªº³ø¾É¯à±aµ¹µL¦W¤Ñ¨Ï­Ì¤@¨Ç·Å·x©M¹ªÀy¡A¬°¥L­Ì¯h¾Îªº¤ßÆF¼åÅx¤@µ·¥Í¾÷¡C

©Ò¿×ªº¡u«iªÌ¡v¡A¨Ã¤£¬O¡u¤£®`©È¡vªº¤H¡A¦Ó¬O¡u¤£°h«o¡vªº¤H¡C¦]¬°¦³¤F³o¨Ç¡u°í¦u±^¦ì¡vªº¨IÀq¤Ñ¨Ï¡AªÀ·|¤j²³¤~¯à¦w¨É¤Ó¥­¡C¥L­Ì¬O¤H¥Íªº«i¤h¡A¬O¥ÃùÚªºµL¦W­^¶¯¡I

 

Invictus§Ú¤£·|­Ë¤U ¡]¤×§J±jĶ¡^

¡]Willaim Ernest Henley, 1849-1903¡^
Out of the night that covers me,                         
©]¦â¨I¨I±N§ÚÅ¢¸n
Black as the pit from pole to pole
¡D                    º£¶ÂµS¦p¦a©³·t¹D
I thank whatever gods may be                            
§Ú­n·PÁ¤W»aª¾¾å
For my unconquerable soul.                              
§Úªº¤ßÆF¥Ã»·¤£­Ë

In the fell clutch of circumstance                         
Àô¹Ò¦h»ò¤¿ÀIÄÆ·n
I have not winced nor cried aloud,                     
§Ú¤]¤£·|°hÁY­úÀz
Under the bludgeonings of chance                      
¬D¾Ô¦³®ÉÁx´H¤ßµJ
My head is bloody, but unbowed.                     
¦å¬yº¡­±§Ú¤£§é¸y

Beyond this place of wrath and tears                  
¦b´d¼«»P²\¤ô¤§¥~
Looms but the horror of the shade,                    
®£©Æ³±Åµ³vº¥¹G¨Ó
And yet the menace of the years                         
·³¤ëµL±¡«Â¯Ù­¢®`
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.                      
¦ý§Ú¦A¤]µL©ÒÄßÀb

It matters not how strait the gate,                       
µL½×³q¸ô¦h»òÀI¯¶
How charged with punishments the scroll,          
¾¨ºÞ¦ÒÅçµLªk¸ú¶}
I am the master of my fate:                                
§Ú¬O§Ú©R¹Bªº¥D®_
I am the captain of my soul.                               
§Ú¬O§Ú¤ßÆFªº²Î«Ó

§Ú¯S¦a¿ïͤF¤@­ººû¦h§Q¨È®É´Á­^°ê¸Ö¤H«Â·G¦ë§Q¡]Willaim Ernest Henley, 1849-1903¡^ªº¡m§Ú¤£·|­Ë¤U¡n¡]Invictus¡A©Ô¤B¤å=unconquerable¡^¨Ó»P¤µ¦~ªºÅªªÌ­Ì¦@«j¡A³o½g¤å³¹ªº¼ÐÃD"©]¦â¨I¨I±N§ÚÅ¢¸n"´N¬O¨ú¦Û³o­º¸Öªº²Ä¤@¦æ¡C­ì¨Ó¸Ö¤H±q¤p¨­Åéµê®z¡A±w¦³ªÍµ²®Ö¯g¡A¤@°¦¸}³QºI±¼¡F¬°¤F«O¦í¥t¤@°¦¸}¡A¥L¤@¥Í³£¾Ä¤O©M¯fÅ]§Üª§¡A¤£¦V©R¹B©}ªA¡C¡m§Ú¤£·|­Ë¤U¡n¬O¥L³ÌµÛ¦Wªº¤@­º¸Ö¡A¦]¬°¨ä¤¤¤Ï¬M¤F¤@ºØ¤£©}¤£¼¸ªº°«§Ó¡A¹ª»R¤F³\¦h¦b°f¹Ò¤¤ªº¤H­Ì¡C¯¬ºÖ·sªº¤@¦~¡A§Ú­Ìªº¤U¤@¥N¯à°÷¬Ý¨ì»OÆW·sªº§@¬°¡AÅý¥L­Ì¹ï¦Û¤vªº¥¼¨Ó¥Rº¡·sªº§Æ±æ¡C

Remember¡]sonnet¡^¡©¤Q¥|¦æ¸Ö¡ª
Christina Georgina Rossetti¡]1830-1894¡^

Remember me when I am gone away,                §A­n·Q°_§Ú¤wÂ÷¥h¡A
Gone far away into the silent land;                     
¥h¨ì¨º±IÀRªº»·¤è¡F
When you can no more hold me by the hand,    
§A¤£¯à¦A©Ô¤â¯d¦í§Ú¡A
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.                  
§Ú¤]¤£¯à¦A±ý¥hÁÙ¥ð¡C

Remember me when no more day by day           
§A¤£¯à¦A¤é´_¤@¤é¦a
You tell me of our future that you planned:         
¦V§Ú¶É¶D¤ß¤¤ªº¼¥¼©¡F
Only remember me; you understand                   
§A¤]¥u¯à°÷·Q§Ú¤F¡A
It will be late to counsel then or pray.                 
¦]¬°§Ú¤wµLªk¦^À³¡C

Yet if you should forget me for a while                
§Y¨Ï§A¤@®É§Ñ°O¤F§Ú¡A
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:          
ÀH«á¦A·Q°_¤]§O«s·T¡F
For if the darkness and corruption leave             
¦pªG¦º¤`¯à¯d¤U
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,           
¶È¦³ªº¤@µ·²o±¾¡A

Better by far you should forget and smile             Ä@¬O§A§Ñ°O®Éªº¯º®e¡A
Than that you should remember and be sad.      
¦Ó«D§A·Q°_®Éªº´d¶Ë¡C
 

SONG ºq

Christina Georgina Rossetti ù¦è¸¦ (1830-1894)

When I am dead, my dearest,                      ¿Ë·Rªº¡A·í§Ú¦º«á¡A

Sing no sad songs for me;                            ½Ð¤£­n¬°§Ú°Û±¥ºq

Plant thou no roses at my head,                    ½Ð¤£­n¦b§Ú¹Ó®Ç¡A

Nor Shady cypress-tree:                              ºØ´Ó¬f¾ð©M³¥Á¥¡G

Be the green grass above me                        ¦ýÄ@¦³ºñ¯ó¬Û¦ñ

With showers and dewdrops wet;                ¥Ì¸ï»PÅS¯]§¡ªg

And if thou wilt, remember,                          §A°O°_§Ú¤]¦n¡A

And if thou wilt, forget.                                §A§â§Ú§Ñ°O¤]½}¡C

 

I shall not see the shadows,                          §Ú¤£¦A¬Ý¨£³±¼v¡A

I shall not feel the rain;                                 §Ú¤£¦A·P¨ì«BÅS

I shall not hear the nightingale                       §Ú¤£¦AÅ¥¨£©]ÆNÅa

Sing on, as if in pain:                                    °Û¥X±~²Dªº«s­µ

And dreaming through the twilight                 ¦bº©ªøªºÃ©Ä襤

That doth not rise nor set,                            °µµÛ¥Ã«íªº°g¹Ú

Haply I may remember,                                ©Î³\§ÚÄ@¦^¾Ð©¹¨Æ

And haply may forget.                                  ©Î³\§ÚÄ@§Ñ«o«e¹Ð¡C

 

Sonnets from the Portuguese: I

By Elizabeth Barret Browning¡]1806-1861¡^¤×§J±jĶ
I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,

Those of my own life, who by turns had flung

A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,

So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; 
And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,¡K
"Guess now who holds thee?" -"Death," I said. But there,
The silver answer rang,¡K"Not Death, but Love." 

´¿¸g·Q°_§ÆÃ¾¸Ö¤Hªººq§u

µú°Û¬y¦~µL¤ñ¦a§Ö¼Ö·ÅÄÉ

Àu¶®ªº¤âÄÀ¥XÂ×ÄǪºÂ§ª«

°eµ¹¥@¶¡ªº¤H­Ì¥Rº¡ÅwªY

§Ú¨I½q¦b³o¯ë¤[¦nªº·³¤ë

«o¦b²\²´±C®P¤¤³vº¥¯B²{

¦Û¤v¥Í©R¤¤ªº´d³ß©M¼~­W

³±¼v¥ÃµL¤î¹Ò§Ú¤£¸Tµh­ú

·Pı¦³­Ó¯«¯µªº§ÎÅé
¦b§Ú¨I¸¨®É¥ç¨B¥çÁÍ

´¤¦í§ÚªºÀY¾v©Ô§Ú©¹¦^¦æ

±Ã¤ã¤¤¶Ç¨Ó¤F²øÄYªºÁn­µ
ºòºò©ÔµÛ§Aªº¬O½Ö §Ú»¡ ¦º¤`
µªÁn²M±y¦aÅT°_ ¤£¬O¦º ¬O·R

STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING

          Robert Frost  (1873-1963)

 

Whose woods these are I think I know. ½Öªº¾ðªL¡A§Ú·Q§Úª¾¡C

His house is in the village, though; ÁöµM¥Lªº¦í«Î¦b§ø¤¤¡F

He will not see me stopping here¥L±N¬Ý¤£¨£§Ú°±¯d©ó¦¹

To watch his woods fill up with snow. Æ[±æ¥Lªº¾ðªL¿n³·­«­«¡C

 

My little horse must think it queer§Úªº°¨¨à¤@©w·P¨ì©_©Ç

To stop without a farmhouse near°±¯d©óªþ¹AªÙ¤§¦a

Between the woods and frozen lake¦b³o¾ðªL»P¦B´ò¤§¶¡

The darkest evening of the year. ¤@¦~¤§¤¤³Ì¶Â·t¤§©]¡C

 

He gives his harness bells a shake¨e·n¤@·n°¨¨ã¤Wªº¹a¾´

To ask if there is some mistake. ±´°Ý¬O§_¦³¤°»ò®t¿ù¡C

The only other sound's the sweep°£¤F·L­·»P³·ªáÄÆ´­

Of easy wind and downy flake. ¦¹¥~±IµM§OµL¨ä¥LÁn®§¡C

 

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep. ¾ðªL¯u¥i·R¡A«Õ·t¤S²`±K¡A

But I have promises to keep, ¦ý¬O§Ú¦³¨Ç©Ó¿Õ±o­n«H¦u¡A

And miles to go before I sleep, ¦b¦w®§¤§«e­n§âªø³~»°¡A

And miles to go before I sleep. ¦b¦w®§¤§«e­n§âªø³~»°¡C

 

 This poem expresses the conflict between man's urge for responsible social involvement ("promises") and his urge for withdrawal ("woods," "sleep")

³o­º¸Öªí¹F¤HÃþ¹ï­t³dªºªÀ·|°Ñ»Pªº±j¯P·NÄ@ (¡§©Ó¿Õ¡¨) »P¹ï°hÁôªº±j¯P·NÄ@(¡§¾ðªL¡¨¡A¡§¦w®§¡¨) ¤§¶¡ªº½Ä¬ð¡C

 

On one side of the conflict, the associations of darkness ("dark and deep," "darkest") and silence ("the only other sound") with "lovely" suggest a strong urge for withdrawal, possibly for contemplation, or even for nourishing a death-wish. On the other side of the conflict, "promises" (promises are of social involvement, being made to other human beings) do win out, for the speaker does reject stopping ("But I have promises"). The horse who must "think it queer" and the owner in the "village" (a social unit) contrast with the speaker by not being contemplators of woods nor subject to the conflict described in the poem.

¦b½Ä¬ðªº¤@­±¡A¶Â·t (¡§·t¤S²`¡¨¡A¡§³Ì·t¡¨) »P±IÀR (¡§°ß¤@ªº¥t¤@ºØÁn­µ¡¨) ¥[¤W ¡§¥i·R¡¨ ªº³s·Q·t¥Ü¹ï°hÁô¡A¥i¯à¹ï¨I«ä¡A©ÎªÌ¬Æ¦Ü©ó¹ïÃh¦³·Q¦ºªº±j¯P·NÄ@¡C¦b½Ä¬ðªº¥t¤@¤è­±¡A¡§©Ó¿Õ¡¨ (©Ó¿Õ¬OÄÝ©óªÀ·|°Ñ»P¡A¬O¹ï¨ä¥L¤HÃþªº©Ó¿Õ) ³Ì«á³Ó¤F¡A¦]¬°±Ô­zªÌ½T¹ê©Úµ´°±¹y (¡§¦ý¬O§Ú¦³©Ó¿Õ¡¨) ¡C¨º¤Ç¤@©w¡§Ä±±o©_©Ç¡¨ªº°¨©M¨º¦ì¦í¦b¡§§ø²ø¡¨¸Ìªº¾ðªL¥D¤H(¤@¦ìªÀ·|­ÓÅé)¡A¥Ñ©ó¤£¬O¾ðªLªº¨I«äªÌ¡A¤]¤£¨ü¨î©ó³o­º¸Ö¸Ì©Ò´y­zªº½Ä¬ð¡A»P±Ô­zªÌ¦¨¹ï¤ñ¡C

 

Robert Frost (1874-1963) : one of the greatest of American poets in the twentieth century. Four times awarded the Pulitzer Prize, Frost enjoyed immense popularity as a facile pastoral poet and was recognized as a "terrifying poet" and profound thinker only towards the end of his life.

¦ò¬¥´µ¯S (1874-1963) ¡R¤G¤Q¥@¬ö³Ì°¶¤jªº¬ü°ê¸Ö¤H¤§¤@¡C¥|«×ÀòÃØ´¶¥ß¯÷¼ú¡A¦ò¬¥´µ¯S¥HÀH©Mªº¥Ð¶é¸Ö¤H¨­¥÷²`¨ü¼s¤jªºÅwªï¨Ã¥B°ß¦³¦b¥L±ß¦~®É³Q»{¬°¬O¡§·¥ºÝªº¸Ö¤H¡¨ ©M¦³²`«×ªº«ä·Q®a¡C

Frost wrote primarily about the character, people, and landscape of New England. He was no mere regional poet, however. The local observations and homely details of his poems are often rich in deep symbolic, even metaphysical, significance. Frost's poems are concerned with man's tragedies and fears, his reaction to the complexities of life, and his ultimate acceptance of his burdens. The truths he sought were innate in the heart of man and in common objects. But people forget, and poetry, he said, "makes you remember what you didn't know you know." Frost believed that a poem is not didactic, but provides an immediate experience which "begins in delight, and ends in wisdom"; and it provides at least "a momentary stay against confusion."

¦ò¬¥«ä¯S¥D­n¼g§@¦³Ãö·s­^®æÄõªº¯S©Ê¡A¤H¥Á¡A©M­·´º¡CµM¦Ó¥L¨Ã¤£¥u¬O°Ï°ì©Êªº¸Ö¤H¦Ó¤w¡C¥Lªº¸Öªº¦a°Ï©ÊªºÆ[¹î»P¾ë¹êªº²Ó¸`®É±`¥Rº¡²`¶øªº¶H¼x¥D¸q¡A¬Æ¦Ü¥Rº¡§Î¦Ó¤W¾Çªº·N¸q¡C¦ò¬¥´µ¯Sªº¸ÖÃö¤ß¤HÃþªº´d¼@©M®£Äß¡A¤HÃþ¹ï¤H¥Í½ÆÂø©Êªº¤ÏÀ³¥H¤Î¤HÃþ¹ï¥L³d¥ôªº³Ì²×±µ¨ü¡C¤HÃþ©Ò°lªº¯u²z¥»¦s©ó¤HÃþ¤º¤ß¤¤©M´¶³qªº¨Æª«¤¤¡C¥i¬O¤H­Ì§Ñ°O¤F¡A¨Ã¥B¦ò¬¥´µ¯S»¡¡A¸Ö¡§¨Ï§A¾Ð°_§A¥H«e¤£ª¾¹D§A¤@ª½ÁA¸Ñªº¨Æ¡C¡¨ ¦ò¬¥´µ¯S¬Û«H¸Ö¤£¬O±Ð»£¡A¦Ó¬O´£¨Ñ¤@ºØ¡§¥H³ß®®¶}©l¡A¥H´¼¼zµ²§ô¡¨ªº¥ß§Y¸gÅç¡Q¦Ó¥B¸Ö¦Ü¤Ö´£¨Ñ¹ï§Ü¤£¦w(´q´b)ªº¼È®É©Ê¥­ÀR¡C

 

 

WHEN I WAS ONE-AND-TWENTY ·í®É¦~ÄÖ¤G¤Q¤@

A. A.     E. Housman  ÀN´µ°Ò (1859-1963)

 

When I was one-and -twenty·í®É¦~ÄÖ¤G¤Q¤@¡A        

I heard a wise man say, ¦³¦ì´¼ªÌ¹ï§^¹D¡G      

"Give crowns and pounds and guineasª÷»È°]©­¥i©ß±ó¡A 

But not your heart away; ¥B²ö§â¤ß¤]±Ç±¼¡C    

Give pearls away and rubies¯u¯]Ä_¥Û¥i©ñ±ó¡A

But keep your fancy free." ·Q¹³¤O¥i­n¬Ã±¤¡C

But I was one-and-twenty, ·í®É§^¤~¤G¤Q¤@¡A

No use to talk to me. ¹ï§^¦h¨¥¥çµL¯q¡C

 

When I was one-and-twenty·í®É¦~ÄÖ¤G¤Q¤@¡A

I heard him say again, ´¼ªÌ¥t¤S¹ï§^¹D¡G

"The heart out of the bosom¯u±¡¹ê·N¥I¥X¥h¡A

Was never given in vain; °È¨Ï¨üªÌ¯à¬Ã±¤¡C

'Tis paid with sighs aplenty§_«h¥N»ù¬O¹Ä®§¡A

And sold for endless rue." ³ø¹S¬O°l®¬µL´Á¡C

And I am two-and-twenty, §^¤µ¦~ÄÖ¤G¤Q¤G¡A

And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true. ¤èª¾©Ò¨¥½TµL³_¡C

 

In natural and light tones, the poet tells that the young may learn only by experience the sad truth that, if the advice is not taken, the heart is easily broken. At twenty-one, the poet scoffed at the wise man's warning not to give his heart away. But at twenty-two as he gres older, he had learned and become wiser.

¸Ö¤H¥H¤@ºØ¦ÛµM¡A»´ÃPªº¤f§k±Ô­z¦~«C¤H¥u¯à±q¸gÅ礤¾Ç¨ìºGµhªº¯u¶H(¨Æ¹ê)¡Q¤£±µ¨ü©¾§i´N®e©ö¤ß¸H¡C¸Ö¤H¦b21·³®É¼J¯º´¼ªÌªºÄµ§i¥s¥L¤£­n±N¤ß°e±¼¡C¦ý¬O¦b¥L22·³¡A·í¦~ÄÖ¼Wªø¡A¥LÀò±o¤F±Ð°V¨ÃÅܱo¤ñ¥H«eºÍ´¼(Áo©ú)¡C

 

A(lfred) E(dward) Housman (1859-1936) : English poet and classical scholar. Housman's favorite theme is that of the doomed youth acting out the tragedy of his brief life in a context of agricultural activity and against a specific English background. For him, nature is beautiful but indifferent and is to be enjoyed while we are still able to enjoy it. Love, friendship, and conviviality cannot last and may well result in betrayal or death, but should be relished while there is time.

ÀN´µ°Ò(1859-1963)¡R­^°ê¸Ö¤H¤Î¥j¨å¤å¾Ç¾ÇªÌ¡CÀN´µ°Ò©Ò³ß·Rªº¥DÃD¬O©R¹Bµù©wªº«C¦~§êºt¯A¤Î¹A·~¨Æ°È©M¤Ï§Ü¬Y¯S©w­^°ê­I´º¦³Ãöªºµu¼È¤H¥Íªº´d¼@¡C¹ï¥L¦Ó¨¥¡A¦ÛµM¬üÄR¦Ó§Nºz¨Ã¥B­nµ¹»P¤HªY½à¡A¦b§Ú­Ì¤´µM¯à°÷ªY½àªº®É­Ô¡C·R±¡¡A¤Í½Ë¡AÅw¼Ö¨Ã¤£¯à«ù¤[¡A¦Ó¥B«Ü¥i¯à«K¦¨­I«q©Î¦º¤`¡AµM¦Ó·í§Ú­ÌÁÙ¦³®É¶¡ªº®É­Ô¡A§Ú­ÌÀ³¸Ó¨É¨ü·R±¡¡A¤Í½Ë¡AÅw¼Ö¡C

 

Housman's poems are usually bare and stark; they have no word decorations, no elaborately developed metaphors or figures of speech. In other words, they are concise and keenly to the point.

ÀN´µ°Òªº¸Ö³q±`¬O²³æ¦Ó²vª½¡Q¥Lªº¸Ö¨S¦³¤å¦rªº­×¹¢¡A¨S¦³ºë¤ßºtĶªºÁô³ë©ÎÃãĦ¡C´«¨¥¤§¡A¥Lªº¸Ö²³æ¦Óª½±µ¤F·í¡C

 

 

BECAUSE I COULD NOT STOP FOR DEATH¦]§Ú¤£¯à°±­Ô¦º¯«

           Emily Dickinson ¨f¶Ô¥Í (1830-1886)

 

Because I could not stop for Death, ¦]§Ú¤£¯à°±­Ô¦º¯«

He kindly stopped for me; ¦º¯«¦n·N¦a°±­Ô§Ú

The carriage held but just ourselves°¨¨®¶È­¼¸üÍ¢»P§Ú

And Immortality. ¥~¥[¤W¥Ã¥Í

                   

We slowly drove, he knew no haste, °¨¨®½w½w¦a¦Ó¦æ

And I had put away¦º¯«ª¾±x¤£»°¦£

My labor, and my leisure too, ¥u¦]Í¢®ï¶Ô¦n§

For his civility. §^±N§@®§¸m¤@®Ç

 

We passed the school, where children strove §Ú­Ì¸g¹L¤F¾Ç®Õ

At recess, in the ring; ¾Çµ£¤U½Ò¾Þ³õ©b

We passed the fields of gazing grain, §Ú­Ì¸g¹L¦î¥ßªº½_¥Ð

We passed the setting sun. §Ú­Ì¸g¹L¸¨¤é

           

Or rather, he passed us; ¹ç»¡¸¨¤é¸g¹L§Ú­Ì

The dews drew quivering and chill, ÅS¤ô±a¨Ó¤F´H·N

For only gossamer my gown, ¥u¦]§^¦çªA³æÁ¡

My tippet only tulle. ³ò¤y¥u¬O¬Xµ·º÷

 

We paused before a house that seemed§Ú­Ì°±©ó¤@«Î«e   

A swelling of the ground; µS¦p¥Y°_¤§¦a­±

The roof was scarcely visible, «Î³»´X¥G¬Ý¤£¨£

The cornice in the ground. ÁôÂéó¦a¤U­¸ÀÑ      

 

Since then ¡¦tis centuries, and yet¦Û¸Óµ{«á¤w¼Æ¦Ê¦~

Feels shorter than the day·Pı¤£¤ñ·í¤éªø¤[

I first surmised the horses¡¦ heads·íªì±À´ú°¨¨®ÀY

Were toward eternity. ´Â¥Ã«í¤è¦VÁÚ¶i

 

  

In this poem, Dickinson describes dying and immortality in the dominant metaphor of a carriage on a journey.

¦b¦¹¸Ö¤¤¡A©ó°¨¨®®È¦æªº¥D­nÁô³ë¤¤´y­z¦º¤`»P¥Ã«í(¥Ã¥Í)¡C

 

In Stanza 1, Death, accompanied by Immortality, stops to pick up the speaker in a carriage. In stanzas 2-4, they journey, leaving earthly life behind them ("labor," "leisure," "children," "grain," "setting sun"). In stanza 5, they pause before the grave ("swelling of the ground"), and stanza 6 depicts the speaker "centuries" later, speaking from "eternity."

¦b²Ä¤@¸`¤¤¡A¦º¯«¥Ñ¥Ã¥Í³­¦ñµÛ¡A¦b¤@³¡°¨¨®¤¤°±¤U¨Óªï±µ±Ô­zªÌ¡C¦b²Ä¤G¸`¨ì²Ä¥|¸`¤¤¡A¥L­Ì½ñ¤W®È³~¡A±N¥@«Uªº¥Í¬¡©ß©ó¸£«á¡C(¡§³Ò°Ê¡¨¡A¡§¥ð¶¢¡¨¡A¡§¤l¤k¡¨¡A¡§¤­½\¡¨¡A¡§¸¨¤é¡¨) ¦b¦a¤­¸`¤¤¡A¥L­Ì¦b¹Ó«e°±¤U¨Ó (¡§¥Y°_ªº¦a­±¡¨) ¦Ó²Ä¤»¼ä´y¼g±Ô­zªÌ¦b¼Æ¥@¬ö«á¡A¦Û¡§¥Ã«í¡¨¤¤Á¿­z·í¦~©Òµo¥Íªº¨Æ¡C

 

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) : a major American poet of the 19th century. Born in Amherst, Massachusetts, Dickinson lived there a recluse and died a spinster. Her cryptic lyrics, composed mostly in ballad meter, are metaphysical in style, original in language, and precise in imagery. Nature, love, life, time, death, and eternity were her favorite themes. In early 20th century she was looked upon as a forerunner of the Imagist school of poetry.

¨f¶Ô¥Í (1830-1886): 19¥@¬ö¬ü°ê¥D­n¸Ö¤H¡C¥Í©ó³Â¬ÙÂĽѶë¦{¡A¦w©i´µ¯S¥«¡A¨f¶Ô¥Í¦b¨º²z¹LµÛÁô¤hªº¥Í¬¡¡A¥¼±B¥h¥@¡C¦o¦h¥H­z¨ÆÃý«ß¼g§@¯«±K§ç±¡¸Ö¡A¤åÅé(¤W¬O)©â¶H(ªº)¡Q»y¤å(¤W¬O)¿W³Ð(ªº)¡A·N¶H(¤W¬O)©P±K(ªº)¡C¦ÛµM¡A¥Í©R¡A®É¶¡¦º¤`¤Î¥Ã«í¬O¦o³ß·Rªº¥DÃD¡C¦b20¥@¬öªì¦o³Qµø¬°·N¶H¸Ö¾Ç¬£ªº¥ýÅX¡C

 

  

         A PSALM OF LIFE  ¥Í ©R ¤§ Æg ¬ü ¸Ö

         Henry W. Longfellow  ®Ô«Dù (1807-1882)

 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, ¤Å¥H«s¶Ëªº¸Ö¥y¦V§Ú¶D»¡

Life is but an empty dream! ¤H¥Í¥u¤£¹L¬O³õªÅµêªº¹Ú

For the soul is dead that slumbers¦]¬°«å¤§ÆF»î´kµL²§¤w¦º

And things are not what they seem. ¨Æª««D¥~¦b©ÒÅã¥Ü¤§¼Ò¼Ë

 

Life is real! Life is earnest! ¤H¥Í¯u¹ê!¤H¥ÍÄYµÂ!

And the grave is not its goal; ¼X¹Ó«D¨ä³Ì²×¥Øªº

Dust thou art, to dust returnest, §A¨Ó¦Û¹Ð¤g¡AÂk¦Ü¹Ð¤g

Was not spoken of the soul. ¨Ã«D°w¹ïÆF»î¦Ó¨¥

 

Not enjoyment and not sorrow, «D¨É¼Ö¡A¥ç«D¶Ë´d

Is our destined end or way; §Ú­Ìªº¥Ø¼Ð©Î«e³~

But to act, that each tomorrow­n­n§V¤O¥H­P¨C­Ó©ú¤é

Finds us farther than today. µo²{§Ú­Ì¤ñ¤µ¤é§ó¶i¨B

                                                                                           

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, §ÞÃÀ¥Ã«í¡A¥ú³±©ö³u

And our hearts, though stout and brave, §Ú­Ì¤º¤ßÁö°í±j¡A«i´±

Still, like muffled drums, and beating ¤´¦p´eÁn¹ªºVÀ»µÛ

Funeral marches to the grave. °e¸®¦æ¦C¼X³õ­u

 

In the world's broad field of battle, ¦b¥@¬É¼s¤j¾Ô³õ¤W¡A

In the bivouac of Life, ¦b¤H¥Íµu¼È®È³~¤¤¡C

Be not like dumb, driven cattle! §O¹³¨IÀq³QÅX¤§¤û¸s

Be a hero in the strife! ­n·í¾Ä°«¤¤¤§­^¶¯

                                                                                           

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! ¤Å«H¥¼¨Ó¡AµL½×¦h»ò´r§Ö

Let the dead past bury its dead! ¹L¥hªº´NÅý¥¦¹L¥h

Act, -- act in the living Present! §V¤O¡A§V¤O©ó¤µ´Â

Heart within, and God o'erhead! ºÉ¤ß¤O¡A¤W»a§È¯§

           

Lives of great men all remind us°¶¤H¥Í¥­¥O§Ú­Ì¾Ð°_

We can make our lives sublime, §Ú­Ì¥ç¥i¨Ï¥Í©R±R°ª

And, departing, leave behind us¤@¥¹Â÷¶}³o¥@¬É®É

Footprints on the sands of time; ¯d¤U¤H¥Í¾ú¥vªº¨¬¸ñ

 

Footprints, that perhaps another, ©Î³\¥t¤@¯è®üªÌ

Sailing o'er life's solemn main, ´ç¹L¤H¥ÍÄYµÂ¤j®ü

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, ©t¿W²îÃø¤§§Ì¥S

Seeing, shall take heart again. ¨£¨ì¨¬¸ñ­«¬B«i®ð

 

Let us, then, be up and doingÅý§Ú­Ì°_¦Ó¦æ

With a heart for any fate; ¥H­±¹ï¥ô¦ó©R¹B¤§¤ß                                                        

Still achieving, still pursuing, Ä~Äò¦¨´N¡A»ÚÄò°l¨D

Learn to labor and to wait¾Ç²ß§V¤O»Pµ¥«Ý¡C

 

This poem taken from Longfellow's Voices of the Night (1839) seems to give us a great deal of good advice. It tells us not to waste our time but to be up and doing; not to be discouraged by sufferings or failures but to have a heart for any fate; not to judge life by temporary standards but to look to eternal reward.

¿ï¨ú¦Û®Ô«Dù(1839¥Xª©)ªº¡§©]¤§­µ¡¨¡A³o­º¸Ö´£¨Ñ§Ú­Ì³\¦h©¾§i¡C¥¦§i¶D§Ú­Ì¤£­n®ö¶O§Ú­Ìªº¥ú³±¦Ó­n°_¦Ó¦æ¡Q¤£­n¦]¨ü­W©Î¥¢±Ñ·P¨ìªq³à¡A¦Ó­n¾Ö¦³­±¹ï¥ô¦ó©R¹B¤§¤ß¡Q¥²­n¥H¼È®Éªº¼Ð·Çµû§P¤H¥Í¡A¦Ó­n´Á¬ß¥Ã«íªºº¹½à¡C

 

Henry W(adsworth) Longfellow (1807-1882): American poet and college professor, extremely popular and almost universally respected during his lifetime. His poetical style is simple, sincere, and musical. The melody of his poetry is unsurpassed by that of other American authors.

®Ô«Dù (1807-1882) ¬ü°ê¸Ö¤H¤Î¤j¾Ç±Ð±Â¡A¦b¥L¦³¥Í¤§¤é·¥¨ü¤j²³Åwªï¨Ã¥B´X¥G¨ü¨ì¥þ¥@¬Éªº·q¥õ¡C¥Lªº¸Öªº¤åÅ鲩ö¡A¸ÛÀµ¡A´I¸`«µ·P¡C¥Lªº¸ÖªºÃý«ß¬O¨ä¥L¬ü°ê¸Ö¤Hªº¸ÖªºÃý«ß©ÒµLªk¶W¶Vªº¡C

 

Longfellow combined considerable learning with an enlightened understanding of the people, and he expressed the lives and ideals of humbler Americans in poems that they could not forget. Amist the rising democracy of his days, Longfellow became the national bard. His more popular poems strongly reflected the optimistic sentiment and the love of a good lesson that characterized the humanitarian spirit of the people.

®Ô«Dù±N²W³Õªº¾ÇÃÑ©M¹ï¤H­Ì³z¹ýªºÁA¸Ñµ²¦X¡A¦P®É¥L±N¸û§C¶¥¼h¤§¬ü°ê¤Hªº¥Í¬¡©M²z·Qªí¹F©ó¥O¥L­ÌÃø¥H§ÑÃhªº¸Ö½g¤¤¡C¦b¥L¨º®É¥Nªº¥Á¥D°ªº¦Án®ö¤¤¡A®Ô«Dù¦¨¬°¥þ°êªº¹C°Û¸Ö¤H¡C¥L¨º¨Ç¸û¨üÅwªïªº¸Ö½g±j¯P¦a¤ÏÀ³¼ÖÆ[ªº±¡·P©MÅã¥Ü¥Á²³¤H¹Dºë¯«¯S¼x¤§¨}¦n°V¥Üªº³ß·R¡C

 

¡]Sudden Light¡^ÅZµM·Q°_¤×§J±jĶ

­^°ê¦³¤@¦ì¸Ö¤H¦ý¤B¡P¥[¥¬¨½®Jº¸¡Pù¶ë­}¡]Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1828-1882¡^´¿¼g¹L¤@­º"ÅZµM·Q°_"¡]Sudden Light¡^¡A´N¬O¥H"deja vu"¬°¥DÃD¡]ªþ§ÚªºÂ½Ä¶:¤×§J±j¡^¡G

 

I have been here before, §Ú¨Ó¹L³oùØ
But when and how I cannot tell:
¤£ª¾¦ó®É ¬°¦ó¦Ó¨Ó
I know the grass beyond the door,
§Ú°O±oªù«eºñ¯ó¦p¯ô
The sweet keen smell,
ªâ­»¼³»ó
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
­·Án©O³ä ©¤Ã䪺¿O¤õÂIÂI

You have been mine before,
§A´¿¸g·R§Ú
How long ago, I may not know:
¤£ª¾¦b¦h¤[¥H«e
But just when at that swallow's soar
·í¿P¤l½¡½¡­¸¦V¤Ñ»Ú
Your neck turned so,
§AÄÆµM¦^­º
Some veil did fall-I knew it all of yore.
­±¯½««¸¨ ³o¤@¹õ§Ú´¿¨£¹L (of yore ©õ®É)

Has this been thus before?
²ö«D©¹¨Æ´`Àô¡H
And shall not thus time's eddying flights
®É¥ú¦pºx´õ¬yÂà (¦¨°f¬y¡A°j±Û)
Still with our lives our love restore
§Ú­Ì¯à§_¦A¦¸¬Û·R
In death's despite,
¸ó¶V¦º¤`
And day and night yield delight once more?
Åý«e¥@ªºÅwªY ¦b¤µ¥Í­«²{¡H
 
³o­º¸Öªº§@ªÌ¦ý¤B¡P¥[¥¬¨½®Jº¸¡Pù¶ë­}¬O¥X¥Í¦b­Û´°ªº·N¤j§Q¤H¡A¤]¬O¤@­Ó³Ç¥Xªºµe®a¡A¦b1848¦~´¿²Õ"«e©Ô»pº¸¬£¥S§Ì·|"¡]Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood¡^¡A¥H¤Ï¹ï§Î¦¡¥D¸qªº¸g°|ÃÀ³N¦Ó»D¦W¡C¥Lªº¤÷¿Ë­ì¬O­Ó¦b·N¤j§Q»á¦³¦W®ðªº¸Ö¤H¡A¤]¬O±Mªù¬ã¨s¤j®v¦ý¤B¡]Alighieri Dante 1265-1321¡A³Ð§@"¯«¦±"¡^ªº¾ÇªÌ¡A©ó1821¦~¦]¬Fªv¦]¯À¬y¤`¨ì­^°ê¡C¥L¥²©w¬O¦]¬°±R«ô¨º¦ì»P"²ü°¨"»ô¦Wªº°¶¤j¦ý¤B¡A©Ò¥H§â¨à¤l¨ú¦W°µDante¡C¦ý¤BÁÙ¦³¦ì§óµÛ¦Wªº¸Ö¤H©f©f¡]Christina Georgina Rossetti 1830-1894¡F§Ú´¿¸g¤¶²Ð¹L¦oªº¨â­º¸Ö-"Song"©MRemember"¡^¡A¦Ó¥Lªº§Ì§Ì«Â·G¡]William Michael Rossetti, 1829-1919¡^¤]¬O·í®Éª¾¦WªºÃÀ³Nµû½×®a¡A¯u¥i¿×¡uº¡°ó®Ñ­» ¤@ªù¤H³Ç¡v¡C

¦ý¤B¦b1850¦~¥Nªì´Á¹J¨£¥ìÄR²ï¥Õ¡P¦è¼wº¸¡]Elizabeth Siddal¡^¡A¨â­Ó¤HªºÃö«YÂ_Â_ÄòÄò¡A¦ý²×©ó¦b1860¦~µ²±B¡C¥ìÄR²ï¥Õªº¨­Å餣¦n¡A¦b1862¦~²£¤U¤@¦W¦ºÀ¦«á¦Û±þ¨­¤`¡C¦ý¤B§â¥L©Ò¦³ªº¸Ö½ZÀHµÛ©d¤lªº«ÍÅé¤@¦P®I¤J¦a¤U¡A¨Ã¥B¥H¥ìÄR²ï¥Õªº§Î¶H³Ð§@¡]1863¡^¤F¤@´T¦Wµe"Beata Beatrix"¡]¤j®v¦ý¤B²×¥Í¼}Åʪº¤k¤l¦W¡A"¯«¦±"¤¤ªº¤Ñ¨Ï¡^¡C¦¹«á¦ý¤BÂ÷¸s¯Á©~¡A¦æ¬°¤é¯q©Ç²§¡A¬Æ¦Ü¦b1869¦~±¸¦a¶}´Ã¡A§â¥H«e®I¸®ªº¸Ö½Z¤S¦A¨ú¥X¨Ó¡C1870¦~¥N¦ý¤B¹ï°sºë©M³Â¾K¾¯¤WÅ}¡A°·±d¤é¯q±ÑÃa¡A©t¿W¦Ó²Y²D¦a¦º©ó1882¦~´_¬¡¸`¡]¥|¤ë¤E¤é¡^¡A¤~¤­¤Q¥|·³¡C

¦ý¤Bªºµe§@·¥¬°²ø­«µÂ¿p¡]Dantesque¡^¡A¥Lªº¡u¸Ö¦pµe¡Aµe¦ü¸Ö¡v¡]He was as pictorial a poet as he was poetic painter.¡^¡A¦ÛµM¯u¸Û¡A¯S§O±j½ÕÁn­µ¡BÃC¦â©M¥ú½u¤§¶¡¯«¯µÂaÄgªº¬ü·P®ÄªG¡A¦³«D±`¿@«pªº¡u°ß¬ü¥D¸q¡v¡]aestheticism¡^¦â±m¡C¥Lªº¥Nªí¸Ö§@¦³¡m¤Ñ¤k¡n¡]The Blessed Damozel, 1847¡^¡B¡mù¶ë­}¸Ö¶°¡n¡]Poems by D.G. Rossetti, 1870¡^µ¥¡A¨äµe§@ŪªÌ­Ì¦pªG¦³¿³½ì¥i¥H±qºô¸ô¤W¬Ý¨ì¡A½T¹êµ¹¤H"µe¤¤¦³¸Ö"ªº·Pı¡C

"
ÅZµM·Q°_"³o­º¸Ö°µ©ó1854¦~¡AÀ³¸Ó¬O´y­zµe®a¸Ö¤H¹ï¥ìÄR²ï¥ÕªºÅʼ}¤§±¡¡C¦ý¬O¬üÄRªº¸Öºq¨Ã¤£¯à«OÃÒ©¯ºÖªº¤H¥Í¡A¥L­Ì¨â­Ó¤H´dºGªº©R¹BÅý«á¤H®D¼N¤£¤w¡C

 

¡E    The Tiger¡]William Blake, 1757-1827¡^¦Ñªê¤§ºq

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
¦Ñªê¡I¦Ñªê¡I¤õ¥ú½÷·×
In the forests of the night
°{Ä£¦b¶Â©]ªº«ÕªLÂO²õ
What immortal hand or eye
¬O«ç¼Ëªº¤Ñ¤â©M¯«²´
Could frame thy fearful symmetry
¤~¯à³y¥X§AÀb¤Hªº¤Ã°·

In what distant deeps or skies
´ù´ù«ÕÂ㪺»aªÆ
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
§A²´¤¤¯P¤õºµºµ
On what wings dare he aspire?
Í¢¾Ì«ç¼Ëªº¯Í»H´±ÕæªÅ
What the hand dare seize the fire?
¥Î«ç¼Ëªº¥¨´xºò¦©¤õºØ

And what shoulder, and what art,
¤°»ò¼ËªºÁu ¤°»ò¼Ëªº¥©ÃÀ
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
¤~¯à®º¥X§A¤ßŦªº¯«¤O
And when thy heart began to beat,
¤@¥¹¥¦¶}©l·i¸õ
What dread hand and what dread feet?
¦hÅå¤Hªº¤â ¦hÅå¤Hªº¸}

What the hammer? What the chain?
¤°»ò¼ËªºÁè ¤°»ò¼ËªºÃì±ø
In what furnace was thy brain?
¤°»ò¼ËªºµIÄl·Ò´N§Aªº¸£
What the anvil? What dread grasp
¬O«ç¼Ëªº¯z ­n§ì±o¦h²r
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
¤~À£±o¦í¨º¥i©ÆªºÅ宪

When the stars threw down their spears,
·í¬P¬P¯É¯É§ë¤Uª÷ºj
And water'd heaven with their tears,
»È²\Åxº¡¤F¤Ñ°ó
Did he smile His work to see?
³yª«¥D¬O§_·L¯º¦aªY½à
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Í¢³y´N¦Ñªê ¤]³y´N¯Ì¦Ï

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
¦Ñªê¡I¦Ñªê¡I¤õ¥ú½÷·×
In the forests of the night
°{Ä£¦b¶Â©]ªº«ÕªLÂO²õ
What immortal hand or eye
¬O«ç¼Ëªº¤Ñ¤â©M¯«²´
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry
¤~´±³y¥X§AÀb¤Hªº¤Ã°·

§Ú¦b±q«eªº±MÄæ¤¤»¡¹L¡GÁöµM¦¨¦~¤H¾Ç²ß­^»yªº±ø¥ó©M¨àµ£¤£¦P¡A¦ý¬O¡uÁn­µ¬O»y¨¥ªºÆF»î¡v³o­Ó­ì²z¬O¤@¼Ëªº¡C¹ï¨àµ£¦Ó¨¥¡A¡u¦ÛµM¾Ç²ßªk¡v«Ü¦n¡G¤°»ò­µ¼Ð¡B¤åªk³£¤£¥²±Ð¡A¥u»Ý­n¶ì³y¤@­ÓÀô¹ÒÅý¨àµ£¦b¥Í¬¡¤¤¦ÛµM¦a¼Ò¥é¡C¦ý¬O¦¨¦~¤H¤w¸gµLªk­t¾á¡u¦ÛµM¾Ç²ßªk¡v©Ò»Ý­nªº¤j¶q®É¶¡¡A©Ò¥H§Ú¥D±i¦¨¦~¤H¥i¥H§Q¥Î¡u­µ¼Ð¡v¥[³t¨ó§U¦Û¤v¡u¥¿­µ¡v¡AµM«á§Q¥Î¡u­I»w¡v¨Ó±j¤Æ¡©articulation¡ª¡]µo­µ²M´·¡^¡C³o¼Ë´N¥i¥H­ÝÅU¦¨¦~¤H¡u¥ª¸£¡v¡]§Q¥Î­µ¼Ð¤ÀªRÁn­µ¡^©M¡u¥k¸£¡v¡]§Q¥ÎÁn­µ°O¾Ð¤º®e¡^ªºÀu¶Õ¤F¡C¦Ü©ó­I»wªº§÷®Æ¡A§Ú­Ó¤H¯S§O±ÀÂË¥H­^¤å¸Öºq¬°°_¨B¡A¦]¬°´²¤å¶ûªø¡A­^¤åºq¦±¶ûºC¡A°Ó°È­^»y¤Ó¥¿¦¡¡A¤é±`­^»y¤S¤Ó¥F¨ý¡C°ß¦³©ãÃýªº¸Öºq¦³¬ü·P¡B¦³¤º®e¡B¦³²`«×¡B¤S¦³´¼¼z¡A¡u»w¡v¤§°ª§C§í´­¡B¥Rº¡¤F¾Ç²ßªº¼Ö½ì¡A½T¹ê¤@Á|¼Æ±o¡A¤Q¤À¾A¦X¦¨¦~¤H¦³­­¦Ó¥²»Ýµ½¥[§Q¥Îªº¾Ç²ß®É¶¡¡C

¬°¤F¨ó§UŪªÌ­Ì¶i¤J¡u­I»w­^»y¸Öºq¡vªº·µ°ó¡A§Ú¥Î¤ß¬D¿ï¤F¥|­ºÄÝ©ó¡u¤Jªù¡v¯Å¤ô·Çªº¦W¸Ö±ÀÂ˵¹¦³¤ß¤H¾Ç²ß¡A²Ä¤@­º¬O«Â·G¥¬µÜ§J¡]William Blake, 1757-1827¡^ªº¦Ñªê¤§ºq¡ª¡]The Tiger¡^¡C®Ú¾Ú¬ü°ê­ô­Û¤ñ¨È¤j¾Ç1992¦~ªº¡©­^»y¸Öºq¬y¦æº]¡ª(Poems in Order of Popularity), "¦Ñªê¤§ºq"»®µM±Æ¦W²Ä¤@¡A¨¬¨£¦¹¸Ö¦b­^»y¥@¬É¤¤¬y¶Ç¤§¼s¡B¨ü³ß·R¤§²`¡C

¥¬µÜ§Jªº¸Öºq¦b§Î¦¡¤W¥´¯}¤F¥j¨å¥D¸qªº§bªO±Ð±ø¡A¥Îªº¬O²¾ëªº»y¨¥©MºqÁÁªº¸`«µ¡A¦ý§t¦³¥Í°Êªº·N¶H©MÂ×´Iªº¶H¼x¡AÁöµM¦P®É¥Nªº¤Hµø¥L°µºÆ¤l¡A«á¥@«o§â¥L©M´^´µ¡]Robert Burns, 1750-1796¡^¨Ã©^¬°®öº©¥D¸qªº¥ýÅX¸Ö¤H¡C³o­º¡©¦Ñªê¤§ºq¡ªµ²ºc¤ÃºÙ¡B»y¨¥Â²¼ä¡BÁn­µÃôÃò¡A©{¦pÅK¦KÁë§M¡A¥Rº¡¤F¤O©M¬ü(ºÙ¤§¬°¡©ÅK¯z¸`«µ¡ª- anvil rhythm)¡CÕu¦ÒÃÒ¡A¸Ö¤H¥Î¦Ñªê¨Ó¶H¼xºq¹|ªk°ê¤j­²©Rªº¤O¶q¡AŪªÌ¦b¤jÁn®Ô»w³o­º¸Öªº®É­Ô¬O§_¤]¯à·P¨ü¨ì¸Ö¤H·í¦~ªº¿E±¡»P¾_Äà¡H

 

¡E    The Tiger¡]William Blake, 1757-1827¡^¦Ñªê¤§ºq

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
¦Ñªê¡I¦Ñªê¡I¤õ¥ú½÷·×
In the forests of the night
°{Ä£¦b¶Â©]ªº«ÕªLÂO²õ
What immortal hand or eye
¬O«ç¼Ëªº¤Ñ¤â©M¯«²´
Could frame thy fearful symmetry
¤~¯à³y¥X§AÀb¤Hªº¤Ã°·

In what distant deeps or skies
´ù´ù«ÕÂ㪺»aªÆ
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
§A²´¤¤¯P¤õºµºµ
On what wings dare he aspire?
Í¢¾Ì«ç¼Ëªº¯Í»H´±ÕæªÅ
What the hand dare seize the fire?
¥Î«ç¼Ëªº¥¨´xºò¦©¤õºØ

And what shoulder, and what art,
¤°»ò¼ËªºÁu ¤°»ò¼Ëªº¥©ÃÀ
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
¤~¯à®º¥X§A¤ßŦªº¯«¤O
And when thy heart began to beat,
¤@¥¹¥¦¶}©l·i¸õ
What dread hand and what dread feet?
¦hÅå¤Hªº¤â ¦hÅå¤Hªº¸}

What the hammer? What the chain?
¤°»ò¼ËªºÁè ¤°»ò¼ËªºÃì±ø
In what furnace was thy brain?
¤°»ò¼ËªºµIÄl·Ò´N§Aªº¸£
What the anvil? What dread grasp
¬O«ç¼Ëªº¯z ­n§ì±o¦h²r
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
¤~À£±o¦í¨º¥i©ÆªºÅ宪

When the stars threw down their spears,
·í¬P¬P¯É¯É§ë¤Uª÷ºj
And water'd heaven with their tears,
»È²\Åxº¡¤F¤Ñ°ó
Did he smile His work to see?
³yª«¥D¬O§_·L¯º¦aªY½à
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Í¢³y´N¦Ñªê ¤]³y´N¯Ì¦Ï

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
¦Ñªê¡I¦Ñªê¡I¤õ¥ú½÷·×
In the forests of the night
°{Ä£¦b¶Â©]ªº«ÕªLÂO²õ
What immortal hand or eye
¬O«ç¼Ëªº¤Ñ¤â©M¯«²´
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry
¤~´±³y¥X§AÀb¤Hªº¤Ã°·

§Ú¦b±q«eªº±MÄæ¤¤»¡¹L¡GÁöµM¦¨¦~¤H¾Ç²ß­^»yªº±ø¥ó©M¨àµ£¤£¦P¡A¦ý¬O¡uÁn­µ¬O»y¨¥ªºÆF»î¡v³o­Ó­ì²z¬O¤@¼Ëªº¡C¹ï¨àµ£¦Ó¨¥¡A¡u¦ÛµM¾Ç²ßªk¡v«Ü¦n¡G¤°»ò­µ¼Ð¡B¤åªk³£¤£¥²±Ð¡A¥u»Ý­n¶ì³y¤@­ÓÀô¹ÒÅý¨àµ£¦b¥Í¬¡¤¤¦ÛµM¦a¼Ò¥é¡C¦ý¬O¦¨¦~¤H¤w¸gµLªk­t¾á¡u¦ÛµM¾Ç²ßªk¡v©Ò»Ý­nªº¤j¶q®É¶¡¡A©Ò¥H§Ú¥D±i¦¨¦~¤H¥i¥H§Q¥Î¡u­µ¼Ð¡v¥[³t¨ó§U¦Û¤v¡u¥¿­µ¡v¡AµM«á§Q¥Î¡u­I»w¡v¨Ó±j¤Æ¡©articulation¡ª¡]µo­µ²M´·¡^¡C³o¼Ë´N¥i¥H­ÝÅU¦¨¦~¤H¡u¥ª¸£¡v¡]§Q¥Î­µ¼Ð¤ÀªRÁn­µ¡^©M¡u¥k¸£¡v¡]§Q¥ÎÁn­µ°O¾Ð¤º®e¡^ªºÀu¶Õ¤F¡C¦Ü©ó­I»wªº§÷®Æ¡A§Ú­Ó¤H¯S§O±ÀÂË¥H­^¤å¸Öºq¬°°_¨B¡A¦]¬°´²¤å¶ûªø¡A­^¤åºq¦±¶ûºC¡A°Ó°È­^»y¤Ó¥¿¦¡¡A¤é±`­^»y¤S¤Ó¥F¨ý¡C°ß¦³©ãÃýªº¸Öºq¦³¬ü·P¡B¦³¤º®e¡B¦³²`«×¡B¤S¦³´¼¼z¡A¡u»w¡v¤§°ª§C§í´­¡B¥Rº¡¤F¾Ç²ßªº¼Ö½ì¡A½T¹ê¤@Á|¼Æ±o¡A¤Q¤À¾A¦X¦¨¦~¤H¦³­­¦Ó¥²»Ýµ½¥[§Q¥Îªº¾Ç²ß®É¶¡¡C

¬°¤F¨ó§UŪªÌ­Ì¶i¤J¡u­I»w­^»y¸Öºq¡vªº·µ°ó¡A§Ú¥Î¤ß¬D¿ï¤F¥|­ºÄÝ©ó¡u¤Jªù¡v¯Å¤ô·Çªº¦W¸Ö±ÀÂ˵¹¦³¤ß¤H¾Ç²ß¡A²Ä¤@­º¬O«Â·G¥¬µÜ§J¡]William Blake, 1757-1827¡^ªº¦Ñªê¤§ºq¡ª¡]The Tiger¡^¡C®Ú¾Ú¬ü°ê­ô­Û¤ñ¨È¤j¾Ç1992¦~ªº¡©­^»y¸Öºq¬y¦æº]¡ª(Poems in Order of Popularity), "¦Ñªê¤§ºq"»®µM±Æ¦W²Ä¤@¡A¨¬¨£¦¹¸Ö¦b­^»y¥@¬É¤¤¬y¶Ç¤§¼s¡B¨ü³ß·R¤§²`¡C

¥¬µÜ§Jªº¸Öºq¦b§Î¦¡¤W¥´¯}¤F¥j¨å¥D¸qªº§bªO±Ð±ø¡A¥Îªº¬O²¾ëªº»y¨¥©MºqÁÁªº¸`«µ¡A¦ý§t¦³¥Í°Êªº·N¶H©MÂ×´Iªº¶H¼x¡AÁöµM¦P®É¥Nªº¤Hµø¥L°µºÆ¤l¡A«á¥@«o§â¥L©M´^´µ¡]Robert Burns, 1750-1796¡^¨Ã©^¬°®öº©¥D¸qªº¥ýÅX¸Ö¤H¡C³o­º¡©¦Ñªê¤§ºq¡ªµ²ºc¤ÃºÙ¡B»y¨¥Â²¼ä¡BÁn­µÃôÃò¡A©{¦pÅK¦KÁë§M¡A¥Rº¡¤F¤O©M¬ü(ºÙ¤§¬°¡©ÅK¯z¸`«µ¡ª- anvil rhythm)¡CÕu¦ÒÃÒ¡A¸Ö¤H¥Î¦Ñªê¨Ó¶H¼xºq¹|ªk°ê¤j­²©Rªº¤O¶q¡AŪªÌ¦b¤jÁn®Ô»w³o­º¸Öªº®É­Ô¬O§_¤]¯à·P¨ü¨ì¸Ö¤H·í¦~ªº¿E±¡»P¾_Äà¡H

 

When First My Way to Fair I Took

Alfred Edward Housman (1859-1936) ­^°ê¸Ö¤HÀN¸Ö°Ò

(A poem of 3 quatrains riming abab) £¥ß«íĶ

 

When first my way to fair I took                             ·í§Ú¤p®É¹C¶°¥«¡A

Few pence in purse had I,                                     ¤â¤¤¶È¦³´X«K¤h¡C

And long I used to stand and look                         ¤ß·Rª±¨ã¶R¤£°_¡A

At things I could not buy.                                       Åu®Ç±r«Þ¥ß¦h®É

 

Now times are altered: if I care                              ¦p¤µ±¡§Î¤w§ïÅÜ¡A

To buy a thing, I can;                                             ¶R­Ó¤ë«G¤]¦³¿ú¡C

The pence are here and here¡¦s the fair,                    Äâ´ÚÂÂÅu´M¹ڡA

But where¡¦s the lost young man?                            ¥u±¤¤ß¹Ò®í·í¦~«×¡I

 

To think that two and two are four                          ¤G¥[¤G¥uµ¥©ó¥|¡A

And neither five nor three                                       ¬J«D¤T¨Ó¥ç«D¤­¡C

The heart of man has long been sore                       ²¦³º¦¹®É«D©¼®É¡A

And long ¡¥tis like to be.                                          ¤ß±¡¤Ñ¯u¤£¦p¬G¡I

 

                                                                                                                    WHEN I WAS ONE-AND-TWENTY ·í®É¦~ÄÖ¤G¤Q¤@

             A. E. Housman  ÀN´µ°Ò (1859-1963)

 

When I was one-and -twenty·í®É¦~ÄÖ¤G¤Q¤@¡A        

I heard a wise man say, ¦³¦ì´¼ªÌ¹ï§^¹D¡G        

"Give crowns and pounds and guineasª÷»È°]©­¥i©ß±ó¡A   

But not your heart away; ¥B²ö§â¤ß¤]±Ç±¼¡C      

Give pearls away and rubies¯u¯]Ä_¥Û¥i©ñ±ó¡A

But keep your fancy free." ·Q¹³¤O¥i­n¬Ã±¤¡C

But I was one-and-twenty, ·í®É§^¤~¤G¤Q¤@¡A

No use to talk to me. ¹ï§^¦h¨¥¥çµL¯q¡C

 

When I was one-and-twenty·í®É¦~ÄÖ¤G¤Q¤@¡A

I heard him say again, ´¼ªÌ¥t¤S¹ï§^¹D¡G

"The heart out of the bosom¯u±¡¹ê·N¥I¥X¥h¡A

Was never given in vain; °È¨Ï¨üªÌ¯à¬Ã±¤¡C

'Tis paid with sighs aplenty§_«h¥N»ù¬O¹Ä®§¡A

And sold for endless rue." ³ø¹S¬O°l®¬µL´Á¡C

And I am two-and-twenty, §^¤µ¦~ÄÖ¤G¤Q¤G¡A

And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true. ¤èª¾©Ò¨¥½TµL³_¡C

 

In natural and light tones, the poet tells that the young may learn only by experience the sad truth that, if the advice is not taken, the heart is easily broken. At twenty-one, the poet scoffed at the wise man's warning not to give his heart away. But at twenty-two as he gres older, he had learned and become wiser.

¸Ö¤H¥H¤@ºØ¦ÛµM¡A»´ÃPªº¤f§k±Ô­z¦~«C¤H¥u¯à±q¸gÅ礤¾Ç¨ìºGµhªº¯u¶H(¨Æ¹ê)¡Q¤£±µ¨ü©¾§i´N®e©ö¤ß¸H¡C¸Ö¤H¦b21·³®É¼J¯º´¼ªÌªºÄµ§i¥s¥L¤£­n±N¤ß°e±¼¡C¦ý¬O¦b¥L22·³¡A·í¦~ÄÖ¼Wªø¡A¥LÀò±o¤F±Ð°V¨ÃÅܱo¤ñ¥H«eºÍ´¼(Áo©ú)¡C

 

A(lfred) E(dward) Housman (1859-1936) : English poet and classical scholar. Housman's favorite theme is that of the doomed youth acting out the tragedy of his brief life in a context of agricultural activity and against a specific English background. For him, nature is beautiful but indifferent and is to be enjoyed while we are still able to enjoy it. Love, friendship, and conviviality cannot last and may well result in betrayal or death, but should be relished while there is time.

ÀN´µ°Ò(1859-1963)¡R­^°ê¸Ö¤H¤Î¥j¨å¤å¾Ç¾ÇªÌ¡CÀN´µ°Ò©Ò³ß·Rªº¥DÃD¬O©R¹Bµù©wªº«C¦~§êºt¯A¤Î¹A·~¨Æ°È©M¤Ï§Ü¬Y¯S©w­^°ê­I´º¦³Ãöªºµu¼È¤H¥Íªº´d¼@¡C¹ï¥L¦Ó¨¥¡A¦ÛµM¬üÄR¦Ó§Nºz¨Ã¥B­nµ¹»P¤HªY½à¡A¦b§Ú­Ì¤´µM¯à°÷ªY½àªº®É­Ô¡C·R±¡¡A¤Í½Ë¡AÅw¼Ö¨Ã¤£¯à«ù¤[¡A¦Ó¥B«Ü¥i¯à«K¦¨­I«q©Î¦º¤`¡AµM¦Ó·í§Ú­ÌÁÙ¦³®É¶¡ªº®É­Ô¡A§Ú­ÌÀ³¸Ó¨É¨ü·R±¡¡A¤Í½Ë¡AÅw¼Ö¡C

 

Housman's poems are usually bare and stark; they have no word decorations, no elaborately developed metaphors or figures of speech. In other words, they are concise and keenly to the point.

ÀN´µ°Òªº¸Ö³q±`¬O²³æ¦Ó²vª½¡Q¥Lªº¸Ö¨S¦³¤å¦rªº­×¹¢¡A¨S¦³ºë¤ßºtĶªºÁô³ë©ÎÃãĦ¡C´«¨¥¤§¡A¥Lªº¸Ö²³æ¦Óª½±µ¤F·í¡C

 

When You Are Old      ·í§A¦~¦Ñ®É


When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
·í§A««««¦Ñ¨o ¾v»a»aºÎ·N©ü©ü
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
¦bÄl¤õÃä¤p¾Í ½Ð¥´¶}³o¥»¸Ö¶°
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
ºCºC¦a½¾\ ¦^·Q¨º¨Ç·Å¬Xªº²´¯«
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
©õ¤éªºÂù²¶ Å¢¸nµÛ¦h¤Ö­Ë¼v²`²`

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
³\¦h¤H³gÅʧAªº«C¬K­·Ãý
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
¬°§Aªº¬üÄRÄÀ¥X°²·N¯u¤ß
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
§Ú«o²`·R§A¦Ü¸ÛªºÆF»î
And loved the sorrows of your changing face,
·R§A¦~¦Ñ®É¼~¶Ëªº®eÃC

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
¦bºµºµÄl¤õ®Ç­Á¤U¨­
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
·P¶Ë·R±¡¤w®¨µM»·¥h
And paced upon the mountains overhead
±r«Þ¦bÄÆ´ùªº°ª­ì¤W
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
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When You Are Old

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§@¬°¤@­Ó¸Ö¤H¡A¸­·OµLºÃ¬O°¶¤j¦Ó¦¨¥\ªº¡A¥L·½·½¤£µ´ªºÆF·P¡B°l¨D§¹¬üªº°õµÛ©M¤£Â_¶W¶Vªº«i®ð¡A½T¹ê¥O¥@¤H§éªA´Ü¹Ä¡C¦ý¬O¸Ö¤Hªº·R±¡«o¬O½ÆÂø¦ÓÃø¸Ñªº¡A¸­·O©ó1889¦~¦b­Û´°ªì¹J­[¼w©£(Maud Gonne)®ÉÅ嬰¤Ñ¤H¡A¤@¨£Á鱡¦Ó²×¥Í¤£¯à¦Û©Þ¡C"·í§A¦~¦Ñ®É"(When You Are Old)´N¬O¸Ö¤H©ó1891¦~10¤ë¬°­[¼w©£¼w©Ò°µ¡A¥Rº¡¤F°ß¬ü©M®öº©¡G (¤×§J±jĶ)