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;
§Ú̪º¥Ø¼Ð©Î«e³~
But
to act, that each tomorrow
nn§V¤O¥HP¨CÓ©ú¤é
Finds
us farther than today.
µo²{§Ṳ́ñ¤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,
§Ṳ́º¤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§Ú̾а_
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§Ṵ́_¦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§Ú̳\¦h©¾§i¡C¥¦§i¶D§Ṳ́£n®ö¶O§Ú̪º¥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¤H̳z¹ýªºÁA¸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 §Ú̸g¹L¤F¾Ç®Õ
At
recess, in the ring; ¾Çµ£¤U½Ò¾Þ³õ©b
We
passed the fields of gazing grain, §Ú̸g¹L¦î¥ßªº½_¥Ð
We
passed the setting sun. §Ú̸g¹L¸¨¤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§Ṵ́±©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,
¦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¥L̽ñ¤W®È³~¡A±N¥@«Uªº¥Í¬¡©ß©ó¸£«á¡C(¡§³Ò°Ê¡¨¡A¡§¥ð¶¢¡¨¡A¡§¤l¤k¡¨¡A¡§¤½\¡¨¡A¡§¸¨¤é¡¨)
¦b¦a¤¸`¤¤¡A¥L̦b¹Ó«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
¨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«Õߪ§¨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 whiteDear 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¤Ḩó¦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 well¾~¤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
"תø°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»ùȦb©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;
§Ṳ́£·|¦]¦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¨Ï̦b¨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¥L̤ñ¥u·|¼Q¤f¤ô¡B·d¿ïÁ|Åv¿Ñªº¬F«È©M°ª©x̰¶¤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¨Ï̤@¨Ç·Å·x©M¹ªÀy¡A¬°¥L̯h¾Îªº¤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¥L̬O¤H¥Íªº«i¤h¡A¬O¥ÃùÚªºµL¦W^¶¯¡I
Invictus§Ú¤£·|ˤU
¡]¤×§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¤£·|ˤU¡n¡]Invictus¡A©Ô¤B¤å=unconquerable¡^¨Ó»P¤µ¦~ªºÅªªÌ̦@«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¤£·|ˤU¡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§Ú̪º¤U¤@¥N¯à°÷¬Ý¨ì»OÆW·sªº§@¬°¡AÅý¥L̹ï¦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
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
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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
¦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¤ḨѰO¤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§Ṳ́´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 §Ú̸g¹L¤F¾Ç®Õ
At
recess, in the ring; ¾Çµ£¤U½Ò¾Þ³õ©b
We
passed the fields of gazing grain, §Ú̸g¹L¦î¥ßªº½_¥Ð
We
passed the setting sun. §Ú̸g¹L¸¨¤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§Ṵ́±©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,
¦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¥L̽ñ¤W®È³~¡A±N¥@«Uªº¥Í¬¡©ß©ó¸£«á¡C(¡§³Ò°Ê¡¨¡A¡§¥ð¶¢¡¨¡A¡§¤l¤k¡¨¡A¡§¤½\¡¨¡A¡§¸¨¤é¡¨)
¦b¦a¤¸`¤¤¡A¥L̦b¹Ó«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
¨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; §Ú̪º¥Ø¼Ð©Î«e³~
But
to act, that each tomorrownn§V¤O¥HP¨CÓ©ú¤é
Finds us
farther than today. µo²{§Ṳ́ñ¤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, §Ṳ́º¤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§Ú̾а_
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§Ṵ́_¦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§Ú̳\¦h©¾§i¡C¥¦§i¶D§Ṳ́£n®ö¶O§Ú̪º¥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¤H̳z¹ýªºÁA¸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§Ú̯à§_¦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¤@ӳǥXªºµe®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§@ŪªÌ̦pªG¦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¥L̨âÓ¤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§UŪªÌ̶i¤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§UŪªÌ̶i¤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
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§Ṳ́´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 lookºCºC¦a½¾\
¦^·Q¨º¨Ç·Å¬Xªº²´¯«
Your
eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; ©õ¤éªºÂù²¶
Å¢¸nµÛ¦h¤Ö˼v²`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. Áô¨S¦b°{Ã{ªº¸s¬PùØ
When
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