华兹华斯诗二首：水仙与孤独的收割人

水仙

独自漫游似浮云，

青山翠谷上飘荡；

一刹那瞥见一丛丛、

一簇簇水仙金黄；

树荫下，明湖边，

和风吹拂舞翩跹。

仿佛群星璀璨，

沿银河闪霎晶莹；

一湾碧波边缘，

绵延，望不尽；

只见万千无穷，

随风偃仰舞兴浓。

花边波光潋滟，

怎比得繁花似锦；

面对如此良伴，

诗人怎不欢欣！

凝视，凝视，流连不止；

殊不知引起悠悠情思；

兀自倚憩息，

岑寂，幽然冥想；

蓦地花影闪心扉，

独处方能神往；

衷心喜悦洋溢，

伴水仙、舞不息。

TheDaffodils

I wander’dlonely 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 asthe stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky way,

They stretch’d 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 besidethem danced, but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay

In such a jocund company!

E gaze –and gazed –but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when onmy 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.

孤独的收割人

你看！那高原上年轻的姑娘，

独自一人正在田野上。

一边收割，一边在歌唱。

请你站住，或者悄悄走过！

她独自在那里又割又捆，

她唱的音调好不凄凉；

你听！你听她的歌声，

在深邃的峡谷久久回荡。

在荒凉的阿拉伯沙漠里，

疲惫的旅人憩息在绿阴旁，

夜莺在这时嘀呖啼啭，

也不如这歌声暖人心房；

在最遥远的赫伯利群岛，

杜鹃声声唤醒了春光，

啼破了海上辽阔的沉寂，

也不如这歌声动人心肠。

谁能告诉我她在唱些什么？

也许她在为过去哀伤，

唱的是渺远的不幸的往事，

和那很久以前的战场？

也许她唱的是普通的曲子，

当今的生活习以为常？

她唱生活中的忧伤和痛苦，

从前发生过，今后也这样？

不论姑娘在唱些什么吧，

歌声好像永无尽头一样；

我见她举着镰刀弯下腰去，

我见她边干活儿边歌唱。

我凝神屏息地听着，听着，

直到我登上高高的山冈，

那乐声虽早已在耳边消失，

却仍长久地留在我的心上。

The solitary reaper

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?--

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o’er the sickle bending;--

I listened, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

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