黑暗中的乌鸫
星期三 九月 08, 2010 7:11 am
黑暗中的乌鸫
托马斯 哈代 著 黄崇超 译
我靠着那灌木林做成的门，
寒霜灰黑得像一个幽灵；
白昼的眼睛已然变得凄凉，
冬日的残渣弄得它颓丧。
纠缠的藤柯又划过了天庭，
宛若一根根破琴的断弦。
在附近出没的男男女女们，
寻找着自己的日用炉盘。
大地的容貌的确棱角分明，
像出售世纪僵尸的店铺。
他的墓是乌云密布的天穹，
凄风就是它送葬的歌曲。
古老的萌芽与生产的冲动，
已经收缩得又干又僵硬。
这片大地上的一个个生灵，
已经像我一样没有精神。
突然一种声音在头上响起，
从那片凄怆的嫩柯之间，
这曲满腔虔诚的晚祷声里，
又充满人们无限的欣欢。
垂老的乌鸫憔悴瘦小虚弱，
披着被狂风吹乱的羽毛。
因此它选择了把它的魂魄
向着渐浓的黑夜去倾抛。
那种歌声令人欣喜得发狂，
只是理由仅仅有一点点。
但它写在了世间万物上面，
或者是身边或者是远方。
这就使我觉得那个晚祷上，
一种幸福而欢乐的曲调
正颤动着某些神圣的希望，
他已经明白,我却不知道。
下面是原文
The Darkling Thrush
I leant upon a coppice gate,
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seemed to me
The Century's corpse outleant,
Its crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind its death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervorless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead,
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited.
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small,
With blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew,
And I was unaware.
托马斯 哈代 著 黄崇超 译
我靠着那灌木林做成的门，
寒霜灰黑得像一个幽灵；
白昼的眼睛已然变得凄凉，
冬日的残渣弄得它颓丧。
纠缠的藤柯又划过了天庭，
宛若一根根破琴的断弦。
在附近出没的男男女女们，
寻找着自己的日用炉盘。
大地的容貌的确棱角分明，
像出售世纪僵尸的店铺。
他的墓是乌云密布的天穹，
凄风就是它送葬的歌曲。
古老的萌芽与生产的冲动，
已经收缩得又干又僵硬。
这片大地上的一个个生灵，
已经像我一样没有精神。
突然一种声音在头上响起，
从那片凄怆的嫩柯之间，
这曲满腔虔诚的晚祷声里，
又充满人们无限的欣欢。
垂老的乌鸫憔悴瘦小虚弱，
披着被狂风吹乱的羽毛。
因此它选择了把它的魂魄
向着渐浓的黑夜去倾抛。
那种歌声令人欣喜得发狂，
只是理由仅仅有一点点。
但它写在了世间万物上面，
或者是身边或者是远方。
这就使我觉得那个晚祷上，
一种幸福而欢乐的曲调
正颤动着某些神圣的希望，
他已经明白,我却不知道。
下面是原文
The Darkling Thrush
I leant upon a coppice gate,
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seemed to me
The Century's corpse outleant,
Its crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind its death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervorless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead,
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited.
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small,
With blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew,
And I was unaware.