论美

Not less excellent, except for our less susceptibility in the afternoon, was the charm, last evening, of a January sunset. The western clouds divided and subdivided themselves into pink flakes modulated with tints of unspeakable softness; and the air had so much life and sweetness, that it was a pain to come within doors. What was it that nature would say? Was there no meaning in the live repose of the valley behind the mill, and which Homer or Shakspeare could not reform for me in words? The leafless trees become spires of flame in the sunset, with the blue east for their back-ground, and the stars of the dead calices of flowers, and every withered stem and stubble rimed with frost, contribute something to the mute music. The inhabitants of cities suppose that the country landscape is pleasant only half the year. I please myself with the graces of the winter scenery, and believe that we are as much touched by it as by the genial influences of summer. To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same field, it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again. The heavens change every moment, and reflect their glory or gloom on the plains beneath. The state of the crop in the surrounding farms alters the expression of the earth from week to week. The succession of native plants in the pastures and roadsides, which makes the silent clock by which time tells the summer hours, will make even the divisions of the day sensible to a keen observer. The tribes of birds and insects, like the plants punctual to their time, follow each other, and the year has room for all. By water-courses, the variety is greater. In July, the blue pontederia or pickerel-weed blooms in large beds in the shallow parts of our pleasant river, and swarms with yellow butterflies in continual motion. Art cannot rival this pomp of purple and gold. Indeed the river is a perpetual gala, and boasts each month a new ornament. But this beauty of Nature which is seen and felt as beauty， is the least part. The shows of day, the dewy morning, the rainbow, mountains, orchards inblossom, stars, moonlight, shadows in still water, and the like, if too eagerly hunted, become shows merely, and mock us with their unreality. Go out of the house to see the moon, and 't is mere tinsel; it will not please as when its light shines upon your necessary journey. The beauty that shimmers in the yellow afternoons of October, who ever could clutch it? Go forth to find it,and it is gone: 't is only a mirage as you look from the windows of diligence. 忘却午后困顿，昨夕腊月里落日的胜景，亦毫不逊色。西天的云蜷舒成散絮，淡粉嫣红间绵合着难言的温柔。而暮气中又盈满了生机与甜蜜，若足不出户，则人心又会何等慌痛。谁能听得自然的言语？工坊后山谷的闲静，怕荷马莎翁亦搁笔难言，又怎会虚渺无存。骨削的枝头在湛蓝的背景下，探得暮火红光,飘零的花盏如碎星，枯枝朽木戴得银霜，合奏那无音的乐章。 市里人总以为乡村光景，其半可观。我独爱冬景的庄静，且其温情动容，堪拟盛夏。时景之美，在于有心之人，方田间亦有月转星移，待得弹指间的一生一会。寥寥苍天，在明晦万千叠影中，照映大荒。附近农场的谷物每周交接着大地的气色。牧场与路边的野草的枯荣，亦可作盛夏静默的时钟，热切的观察家们全然可凭此认记日期。天地一逆旅，飞鸟昆虫，循时而过。河川之变尤胜。七月间，大片蓝色的海寿花盛开于河湖浅滩，万千黄蝶云聚如此，夭矫不息。这黄紫交加的盛景，艺术何从相拟。而大河确如一场不息的节日，日新月异，去得长夸。 我们所感的自然之美，又何其微小。寻常可见的如含露的清晨，彩虹，山峦，开花的果园，繁星，月光，澄水静影之类，执相而寻，则所见仅为镜花水月。踏野寻月，不过是细小的锡片，自不如困途中偶遇的月白山苍。那十月里金色浮光流转之美，何人可拿捏?苦寻所求，不过海市图景。 -------Translated by Panda