每天一首英文诗
来自: 听候清退旧精魂(αρετή)
2005-11-18 16:08:04
I'll start with an easy one: Robert Frost: The Road Not Taken (1915) Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth. Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same. And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
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听候清退旧精魂 (αρετή) 楼主 2005-11-18 16:44:46
OK. Mathew Arnold, then. Matthew Arnold: Dover Beach (1867) The sea is calm to-night. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; -on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land, Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. ]
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听候清退旧精魂 (αρετή) 楼主 2005-11-21 10:19:03
TS Eliot: The Boston Evening Transcript THE READERS of the Boston Evening Transcript Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn. When evening quickens faintly in the street, Wakening the appetites of life in some And to others bringing the Boston Evening Transcript, I mount the steps and ring the bell, turning Wearily, as one would turn to nod good-bye to Rochefoucauld, If the street were time and he at the end of the street, And I say, “Cousin Harriet, here is the Boston Evening Transcript.
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听候清退旧精魂 (αρετή) 楼主 2005-11-22 11:29:55
WH Auden: Musee des Beaux Arts About suffering they were never wrong, The Old Masters; how well they understood Its human position; how it takes place While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along; How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting For the miraculous birth, there always must be Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating On a pond at the edge of the wood: They never forgot That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse Scratches its innocent behind on a tree. In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry, But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.
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听候清退旧精魂 (αρετή) 楼主 2005-11-23 16:15:52
Emily Dickinson: "It was not death... " It was not death, for I stood up, And all the dead lie down; It was not night, for all the bells Put out their tongues, for noon. It was not frost, for on my flesh I felt siroccos crawl,-- Nor fire, for just my marble feet Could keep a chancel cool. And yet it tasted like them all; The figures I have seen Set orderly, for burial, Reminded me of mine, As if my life were shaven And fitted to a frame, And could not breathe without a key; And 't was like midnight, some, When everything that ticked has stopped, And space stares, all around, Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns, Repeal the beating ground. But most like chaos,--stopless, cool,-- Without a chance or spar,-- Or even a report of land To justify despair.
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听候清退旧精魂 (αρετή) 楼主 2005-11-24 09:54:50
Robert Browning: "Memorabilia" 1 Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, And did he stop and speak to you And did you speak to him again? How strange it seems and new! 2 But you were living before that, And also you are living after; And the memory I started at-- My starting moves your laughter. 3 I crossed a moor, with a name of its own And a certain use in the world no doubt, Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 'Mid the blank miles round about: 4 For there I picked up on the heather And there I put inside my breast A moulted feather, an eagle-feather! Well, I forget the rest.
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听候清退旧精魂 (αρετή) 楼主 2005-11-25 10:40:32
Admittedly this is not a poem but a sermon, one of the many forms under which true poesy manisfests itself. John Donne: "For Whom the Bell Tolls" Perchance he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill, as that he knows not it tolls for him; and perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as that they who are about me, and see my state, may have caused it to toll for me, and I know not that. The church is Catholic, universal, so are all her actions; all that she does belongs to all. When she baptizes a child, that action concerns me; for that child is thereby connected to that body which is my head too, and ingrafted into that body whereof I am a member. And when she buries a man, that action concerns me: all mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated; God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God's hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie open to one another. As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come, so this bell calls us all; but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness. There was a contention as far as a suit (in which both piety and dignity, religion and estimation, were mingled), which of the religious orders should ring to prayers first in the morning; and it was determined, that they should ring first that rose earliest. If we understand aright the dignity of this bell that tolls for our evening prayer, we would be glad to make it ours by rising early, in that application, that it might be ours as well as his, whose indeed it is. The bell doth toll for him that thinks it doth; and though it intermit again, yet from that minute that this occasion wrought upon him, he is united to God. Who casts not up his eye to the sun when it rises? but who takes off his eye from a comet when that breaks out? Who bends not his ear to any bell which upon any occasion rings? but who can remove it from that bell which is passing a piece of himself out of this world? No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. Neither can we call this a begging of misery, or a borrowing of misery, as though we were not miserable enough of ourselves, but must fetch in more from the next house, in taking upon us the misery of our neighbours. Truly it were an excusable covetousness if we did, for affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it. No man hath affliction enough that is not matured and ripened by it, and made fit for God by that affliction. If a man carry treasure in bullion, or in a wedge of gold, and have none coined into current money, his treasure will not defray him as he travels. Tribulation is treasure in the nature of it, but it is not current money in the use of it, except we get nearer and nearer our home, heaven, by it. Another man may be sick too, and sick to death, and this affliction may lie in his bowels, as gold in a mine, and be of no use to him; but this bell, that tells me of his affliction, digs out and applies that gold to me: if by this consideration of another's danger I take mine own into contemplation, and so secure myself, by making my recourse to my God, who is our only security.
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听候清退旧精魂 (αρετή) 楼主 2005-11-28 09:28:02
Christina Rossetti: Song When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.
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听候清退旧精魂 (αρετή) 楼主 2005-11-30 13:41:55
Wordsworth: "L I N E SWRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING" I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it griev'd my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trail'd its wreathes; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopp'd and play'd: Their thoughts I cannot measure, But the least motion which they made, It seem'd a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If I these thoughts may not prevent, If such be of my creed the plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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听候清退旧精魂 (αρετή) 楼主 2005-12-01 11:33:05
[This poem is very appropriate for the New Shanghai, esp. the "chartered street" (chartered by greedy real estate developers in collusion with corrupt officials), and "the youthful harlot's curse".] William Blake: "London" I wandered through each chartered street, Near where the chartered Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet, Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every man, In every infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forged manacles I hear: How the chimney-sweeper's cry Every blackening church appalls, And the hapless soldier's sigh Runs in blood down palace-walls. But most, through midnight streets I hear How the youthful harlot's curse Blasts the new-born infant's tear, And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.
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Jean (落叶半床，狂花满屋) 2005-12-01 11:47:35
"Writer's Almanac?“ :))) I try to listen to this every morning on my way to work. Today's (11/30) Entry: Poem: "Antimatter," by Russell Edson from The Tunnel (Field Translations Series). Antimatter On the other side of a mirror there's an inverse world, where the in- sane go sane; where bones climb out of the earth and recede to the first slime of love. And in the evening the sun is just rising. Lovers cry because they are a day younger, and soon childhood robs them of their pleasure. In such a world there is much sadness which, of course, is joy...
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听候清退旧精魂 (αρετή) 楼主 2005-12-01 16:36:32
[I missed a day on 11/29, and here is the make-up poem. This is a very strange poem, even though the language is plain and simple, like a good ballad should be. Its beauty is of an esoteric kind, elusive yet spell-binding.] John Keats: LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 'O what can ail thee, Knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. 'O what can ail thee, Knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest done. 'I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever dew, And on thys cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.' 'I met a lady in the meads Full beautiful - a faery's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. 'I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love. And made sweet moan. 'I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend and sing A faery's song. 'She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna dew, And sure in language strange she said 'I love thee true'. 'She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sigh'd full sore; And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. 'And there she lulléd me asleep, And there I dream'd - Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill's side. 'I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: Who cried - 'La belle Dame sans merci Hath thee in thrall!' 'I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam With horror warning gapéd wide, And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill's side. 'And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.'
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听候清退旧精魂 (αρετή) 楼主 2005-12-02 14:31:24
[A wonderful poem by a lesser-known poet, on an unusual subject. Like some of the best "animal poems", it embodies a profound humanism.] John Clare: "Badger" (獾) When midnight comes a host of dogs and men Go out and track the badger to his den, And put a sack within the hole, and lie Till the old grunting badger passes by. He comes an hears - they let the strongest loose. The old fox gears the noise and drops the goose. The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry, And the old hare half wounded buzzes by. They get a forked stick to bear him down And clap the dogs and take him to the town, And bait him all the day with many dogs, And laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs. He runs along and bites at all he meets: They shout and hollo down the noisy streets. He turns about to face the loud uproar And drives the rebels to their very door. The frequent stone is hurled where'er they go; When badgers fight, then everyone's a foe. The dogs are clapped and urged to join the fray' The badger turns and drives them all away. Though scarcely half as big, demure and small, He fights with dogs for hours and beats them all. The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray, Lies down and licks his feet and turns away. The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold, The badger grins and never leaves his hold. He drives the crowd and follows at their heels And bites them through - the drunkard swears and reels The frighted women take the boys away, The blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray. He tries to reach the woods, and awkward race, But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chase. He turns again and drives the noisy crowd And beats the many dogs in noises loud. He drives away and beats them every one, And then they loose them all and set them on. He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men, Then starts and grins and drives the crowd again; Till kicked and torn and beaten out he lies And leaves his hold and crackles, groans, and dies.
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CXYAN111834 (池上初夏) 2006-02-15 13:55:01
thank you——old soul——LZ's name in english? here, i turn out a poem in english: near, far you are staring at me, then staring at the cloud, i think that, you are so close when you look at me but far away when you stare at the cloud a very famous poem by Gucheng
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CXYAN111834 (池上初夏) 2006-02-15 14:01:37
one more poem from John Keats: there was a naughty boy, and a naughty boy was he, he kept little fishes, in washing tubs three, in spite, of the night, of the maid, nor afraid, of his granny-good, he often would, hurly burly, get up early, and go, by hook or crook, to the brook, and bring home, miller's thumb, tittle bat, not over fat, miunows small, as the stall, of a glove, not above, the size, of a mice, ittle baby's little finger-, oh, he made, it was his trade, of fish a pretty kettle, a kettle, a kettle, of fish a pretty kettle, a kettle!
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闲云客 2006-02-17 04:39:20
我在澳大利亚的时候，读到"Thoughts of Nanushka",作者是南澳的Nan Witcomb。选一首如下： Why fly so high that dreams obscure the view or run so fast you miss the flowers hidden in the early morning dew, why take a crooked road, forgetting which way's home, or lose your zest for living in a life that's not your own - but come with me and rest once in a while, perhaps I recognise the hurt and loneliness that hides behind your reckless smile.....
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Euphrasius 2006-04-02 13:09:26
Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night Dylan Thomas Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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fi 2006-04-03 10:55:02
As I Walked Out One Evening W.H.Auden As I walked out one evening, Walking down Bristol Street, The crowds upon the pavement Were fields of harvest wheat. And down by the brimming river I heard a lover sing Under an arch of the railway: 'Love has no ending. 'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you Till China and Africa meet, And the river jumps over the mountain And the salmon sing in the street, 'I'll love you till the ocean Is folded and hung up to dry And the seven stars go squawking Like geese about the sky. 'The years shall run like rabbits, For in my arms I hold The Flower of the Ages, And the first love of the world.' But all the clocks in the city Began to whirr and chime: 'O let not Time deceive you, You cannot conquer Time. 'In the burrows of the Nightmare Where Justice naked is, Time watches from the shadow And coughs when you would kiss. 'In headaches and in worry Vaguely life leaks away, And Time will have his fancy To-morrow or to-day. 'Into many a green valley Drifts the appalling snow; Time breaks the threaded dances And the diver's brilliant bow. 'O plunge your hands in water, Plunge them in up to the wrist; Stare, stare in the basin And wonder what you've missed. 'The glacier knocks in the cupboard, The desert sighs in the bed, And the crack in the tea-cup opens A lane to the land of the dead. 'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes And the Giant is enchanting to Jack, And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer, And Jill goes down on her back. 'O look, look in the mirror? O look in your distress: Life remains a blessing Although you cannot bless. 'O stand, stand at the window As the tears scald and start; You shall love your crooked neighbour With your crooked heart.' It was late, late in the evening, The lovers they were gone; The clocks had ceased their chiming, And the deep river ran on.
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本杰明 2006-04-03 14:37:20
Jenny Kiss'd Me Jenny Kiss'd me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in; Time,you thief,who love to get Sweets into your list,put that in! Say I'm weary,say I'm sad, Say that health and wealth have miss'd me, Say I'm growing old,but add, Jenny kiss'd me. LEIGH HUNT
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听候清退旧精魂 (αρετή) 楼主 2006-04-03 14:53:25
[^ Not a very good poem; but it reminds me of this small gem by Yeats:] Down by the Salley Gardens by W.B. Yeats 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 did not agree. 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.
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tuppence 2006-04-03 15:39:50
在娜斯的博上看到的另一首，也很喜欢 Funeral Blues by W. H. Auden Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever; I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood, For nothing now can ever come to any good.
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nostalgicanna 2006-04-03 16:17:41
Robert Frost: The Road Not Taken (1915) 爱死这首了,还有他的Stopping by Woods on A Snowy Evening,非常地有意境,只是很普通的文字,却道尽无数人生哲理.很厉害的新英格兰农民.
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本杰明 2006-04-10 23:04:15
To Be,or Not to Be From HAMLET To be,or not to be:that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them.To die:to sleep; No more;and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache,and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd.To die,to sleep; To sleep?Perchance to dream!aye,there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause:there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorms of time, The opressor's wrong,the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love,the law's delay, The insolence of office,and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin?who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered country from whose bourn No traveler returns,puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn away And lise the name of action. William Shakespeare
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听候清退旧精魂 (αρετή) 楼主 2006-04-11 10:04:09
[Two lesser known poems by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING] "Grief" I TELL you, hopeless grief is passionless; That only men incredulous of despair, Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness In souls as countries lieth silent-bare Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express Grief for thy Dead in silence like to Death— Most like a monumental statue set In everlasting watch and moveless woe Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet: If it could weep, it could arise and go. "River-spirits" HARK! the flow of the four rivers— Hark the flow! How the silence round you shivers, While our voices through it go, Cold and clear.
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本杰明 2006-04-13 12:38:36
Requiem Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor,home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
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听候清退旧精魂 (αρετή) 楼主 2006-04-14 08:57:20
House On A Cliff -Louis Macneice Indoors the tang of a tiny oil lamp. Outdoors The winking signal on the waste of sea. Indoors the sound of the wind. Outdoors the wind. Indoors the locked heart and the lost key. Outdoors the chill, the void, the siren. Indoors The strong man pained to find his red blood cools, While the blind clock grows louder, faster. Outdoors The silent moon, the garrulous tides she rules. Indoors ancestral curse-cum-blessing. Outdoors The empty bowl of heaven, the empty deep. Indoors a purposeful man who talks at cross Purposes, to himself, in a broken sleep.
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黑冰 2006-04-16 22:03:55
I'll start with an easy one: Robert Frost: The Road Not Taken (1915) Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth. Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same. And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
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本杰明 2006-04-21 17:54:47
The Soul Selects The soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more. Unmoved,she notes the chariots pausing At her low gate; Unmoved,an emperor is kneeling Upon her mat. I've known her from an ample nation Choose one; Then close the valves of her attention Like stone. Emily Dickinson
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[已注销] 2008-03-21 12:04:16
To the Cuckoo —— By William Wordsworth O blithe new-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear; From hill to hill it seems to pass At once far off, and near. Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even ye thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice a mystery; The same whom in my schoolboy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen. And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain0 And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. O blessed Bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for thee! 《致杜鹃》——华兹华斯（原创翻译） 欢欣来者，歌入我耳。 闻子之声，我甚喜乐。 岂是杜鹃？岂是鸟儿？ 或是仙乐，且行且歌。 芳草萋萋，吾躺卧兮。 侧耳听君，双重唱音。 隐约山间，婉转绕行。 时至天边，时在耳前。 潺潺丽音，只献谷听。 歌其花鲜，歌其曦景。 然我听君，心随之迁。 及至仙境，如幻似影。 千里逢迎，三春爱怜。 君之在我，乃为无形。 君若为鸟，非我所见。 乃是仙乐，称为秘音。 忽忆幼年，我当学龄。 每每聆听，正是君吟。 只为此音，千方追寻。 访之于林，探之于天。 为寻君故，漫游四处。 踏遍绿荫，徘徊林木。 我心所向，我灵渴慕。 不息求索，终未曾睹。 然君之音，唱咏至今。 吾卧平原，仍旧聆听。 聆听不止，找寻不停。 找寻曾经，青春少年。 杜鹃圣鸟，愿主赐福。 此间尘世，复如昔日。 似影无形，仙境重临。 君之天家，莫不如是？
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奇异的盖比瑞 (此情深處，紅箋無色。) 2008-03-21 12:50:47
The Lake Isle Of Innisfree I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made: Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the mourning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart's core.
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砂子 (工资没有血脂高) 2008-03-21 13:29:05
In Flanders Fields By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918) Canadian Army IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow Between the crosses row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.
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April 2008-04-21 21:45:18
贴一首应景的，也是one of my favourite ： THE DAFFODILS I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils, Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-|ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they Out did the sparkling waves in glee: A Poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company! I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
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Sommerkinner (Heimatlos) 2010-02-04 00:20:16
玄学派 To his Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day; Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood; And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow. An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserv'd virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust. The grave's a fine and private place, But none I think do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may; And now, like am'rous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour, Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power. Let us roll all our strength, and all Our sweetness, up into one ball; And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life. Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.
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听候清退旧精魂 (αρετή) 楼主 2010-02-26 14:49:31
Call It a Good Marriage by Robert Graves Call it a good marriage - For no one ever questioned Her warmth, his masculinity, Their interlocking views; Except one stray graphologist Who frowned in speculation At her h's and her s's, His p's and w's. Though few would still subscribe To the monogamic axiom That strife below the hip-bones Need not estrange the heart, Call it a good marriage: More drew those two together, Despite a lack of children, Than pulled them apart. Call it a good marriage: They never fought in public, They acted circumspectly And faced the world with pride; Thus the hazards of their love-bed Were none of our damned business - Till as jurymen we sat on Two deaths by suicide.
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听候清退旧精魂 (αρετή) 楼主 2010-02-26 15:00:35
[This is a relatively "new" poem that I really enjoyed, written by a British poet that I greatly admired. PS: "kumquat" = 金桔.] A Kumquat for John Keats by Tony Harrison Today I found the right fruit for my prime, not orange, not tangelo, and not lime, nor moon-like globes of grapefruit that now hang outside our bedroom, nor tart lemon's tang (though last year full of bile and self-defeat I wanted to believe no life was sweet) nor the tangible sunshine of the tangerine, and no incongruous citrus ever seen at greengrocers' in Newcastle or Leeds mis-spelt by the spuds and mud-caked swedes, a fruit an older poet might substitute for the grape John Keats thought fit to be Joy's fruit, when, two years before he died, he tried to write how Melancholy dwelled inside Delight, and if he'd known the citrus that I mean that's not orange, lemon, lime, or tangerine, I'm pretty sure that Keats, though he had heard 'of candied apple, quince and plum and gourd' instead of 'grape against the palate fine' would have, if he'd known it, plumped for mine, this Eastern citrus scarcely cherry size he'd bite just once and then apostrophize and pen one stanza how the fruit had all the qualities of fruit before the Fall, but in the next few lines be forced to write how Eve's apple tasted at the second bite, and if John Keats had only lived to be, because of extra years, in need like me, at 42 he'd help me celebrate that Micanopy kumquat that I ate whole, straight off the tree, sweet pulp and sour skin- or was it sweet outside, and sour within? For however many kumquats that I eat I'm not sure if it's flesh or rind that's sweet, and being a man of doubt at life's mid-way I'd offer Keats some kumquats and I'd say: You'll find that one part's sweet and one part's tart: say where the sweetness or the sourness start. I find I can't, as if one couldn't say exactly where the night became the day, which makes for me the kumquat taken whole best fruit, and metaphor, to fit the soul of one in Florida at 42 with Keats crunching kumquats, thinking, as he eats the flesh, the juice, the pith, the pips, the peel, that this is how a full life ought to feel, its perishable relish prick the tongue, when the man who savours life 's no longer young, the fruits that were his futures far behind. Then it's the kumquat fruit expresses best how days have darkness round them like a rind, life has a skin of death that keeps its zest. History, a life, the heart, the brain flow to the taste buds and flow back again. That decade or more past Keats's span makes me an older not a wiser man, who knows that it's too late for dying young, but since youth leaves some sweetnesses unsung, he's granted days and kumquats to express Man's Being ripened by his Nothingness. And it isn't just the gap of sixteen years, a bigger crop of terrors, hopes and fears, but a century of history on this earth between John Keats's death and my own birth- years like an open crater, gory, grim, with bloody bubbles leering at the rim; a thing no bigger than an urn explodes and ravishes all silence, and all odes, Flora asphyxiated by foul air unknown to either Keats or Lemprière, dehydrated Naiads, Dryad amputees dragging themselves through slagscapes with no trees, a shirt of Nessus fire that gnaws and eats children half the age of dying Keats . . . Now were you twenty five or six years old when that fevered brow at last grew cold? I've got no books to hand to check the dates. My grudging but glad spirit celebrates that all I've got to hand 's the kumquats, John, the fruit I'd love to have your verdict on, but dead men don't eat kumquats, or drink wine, they shiver in the arms of Prosperine, not warm in bed beside their Fanny Brawne, nor watch her pick ripe grapefruit in the dawn as I did, waking, when I saw her twist, with one deft movement of a sunburnt wrist, the moon, that feebly lit our last night's walk past alligator swampland, off its stalk. I thought of moon-juice juleps when I saw, as if I'd never seen the moon before, the planet glow among the fruit, and its pale light make each citrus on the tree its satellite. Each evening when I reach to draw the blind stars seem the light zest squeezed through night's black rind; the night's peeled fruit the sun, juiced of its rays, first stains, then streaks, then floods the world with days, days, when the very sunlight made me weep, days, spent like the nights in deep, drugged sleep, days in Newcastle by my daughter's bed, wondering if she, or I, weren't better dead, days in Leeds, grey days, my first dark suit, my mother's wreaths stacked next to Christmas fruit, and days, like this in Micanopy. Days! As strong sun burns away the dawn's grey haze I pick a kumquat and the branches spray cold dew in my face to start the day. The dawn's molasses make the citrus gleam still in the orchards of the groves of dream. The limes, like Galway after weeks of rain, glow with a greenness that is close to pain, the dew-cooled surfaces of fruit that spent all last night flaming in the firmament. The new day dawns. O days! My spirit greets the kumquat with the spirit of John Keats. O kumquat, comfort for not dying young, both sweet and bitter, bless the poet's tongue! I burst the whole fruit chilled by morning dew against my palate. Fine, for 42! I search for buzzards as the air grows clear and see them ride fresh thermals overhead. Their bleak cries were the first sound I could hear when I stepped at the start of sunrise out of doors, and a noise like last night's bedsprings on our bed from Mr Fowler sharpening farmers' saws.
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NJ欢喜 (2022希望這裡的一切都沒有改變) 2010-06-17 00:16:46
I'll start with an easy one: Robert Frost: The Road Not Taken (1915) Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth. Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same. And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
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听候清退旧精魂 (αρετή) 楼主 2010-06-17 14:48:22
[旧精魂按: This little poem has a film-like quality. For those of you who have seen any work by Terence Malick, especially "A Thin Red Line", the microscopic observation of "the stricken flower bent double and so hung" must have awakened a sort of recognition that is like fragments of dream.] Range-Finding by Robert Frost The battle rent a cobweb diamond-strung And cut a flower beside a ground bird's nest Before it stained a single human breast. The stricken flower bent double and so hung. And still the bird revisited her young. A butterfly its fall had dispossessed A moment sought in air his flower of rest, Then lightly stooped to it and fluttering clung. On the bare upland pasture there had spread O'ernight 'twixt mullein stalks a wheel of thread And straining cables wet with silver dew. A sudden passing bullet shook it dry. The indwelling spider ran to greet the fly, But finding nothing, sullenly withdrew.
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apple tree 2010-06-19 16:48:38
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening --Robert Frost Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. 比较短 但是容易背
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听候清退旧精魂 (αρετή) 楼主 2010-06-22 14:49:33
History of the Night Jorge Luis Borges Throughout the course of th generations men constructed the night. At first she was blindness; thorns raking bare feet, fear of wolves. We shall never know who forged the word for the interval of shadow dividing the two twilights; we shall never know in what age it came to mean the starry hours. Others created the myth. They made her the mother of the unruffled Fates that spin our destiny, thev sacrificed black ewes to her, and the cock who crows his own death. The Chaldeans assigned to her twelve houses; to Zeno, infinite words. She took shape from Latin hexameters and the terror of Pascal. Luis de Leon saw in her the homeland of his stricken soul. Now we feel her to be inexhuastible like an ancient wine and no one can gaze on her without vertigo and time has charged her with eternity. And to think that she wouldn't exist except for those fragile instruments, the eyes.
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听候清退旧精魂 (αρετή) 楼主 2016-02-29 12:34:58
From Macbeth - Witches Chant Round about the cauldron go: In the poisonous entrails throw. Toad,that under cold stone Days and nights has thirty-one Sweated venom sleeping got, Boil thou first in the charmed pot. Double,double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog, Adder's fork and blindworm's sting, Lizard's leg and howlet's wing. For charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. Double,double toil and trouble; Fire burn and couldron bubble. Scale of dragon,tooth of wolf, Witch's mummy, maw and gulf Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark, Root of hemlock digg'd in the dark, Liver of blaspheming Jew; Gall of goat; andslips of yew silver'd in the moon's eclipse; Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips; Finger of birth-strangled babe Ditch-deliver'd by the drab,- Make the gruel thick and slab: Add thereto a tiger's chaudron, For ingrediants of our cauldron. Double,double toil and trouble, Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
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