發信人: violet (紫羅蘭) 標 題: 致雲雀/ 雪萊 發信站: 鼓浪聽濤 (Fri Apr 18 16:21:15 1997) 致 雲 雀 你好, 歡樂的精靈! 你壓根兒不像飛鳥, 你從天堂或天堂附近 毫不吝惜地傾倒 如同行雲流水一般的心靈的曲調。 你就像一朵火雲, 從地面升騰而起, 上升呵又復上升, 飛到藍色的天際, 歌唱中不斷翱翔, 翱翔中歌聲不止。 沉入西山的夕陽, 噴散金色的光焰, 把朵朵雲霞映亮, 你像無形的歡顏, 剛剛踏上征途, 飄浮而又飛旋。 淡淡的紫色的暮雲 在你航程周圍消溶, 你像天空的一顆星辰, 在明亮的白晝之中, 雖然隱形, 我卻聽到你強烈的歡騰, 就像銀色的天體 射出一支支利箭, 在清朗的曙色裡, 它的明燈漸漸變暗, 直至看不見, 可我們感到它就在眼前。 整個天空和大地 響徹著你的歌聲, 恰似夜空明淨之時, 月亮透過一片孤雲, 灑下銀光, 讓清輝漫溢於整個天庭。 我們不知你是什麼; 什麼東西最像你? 從彩虹般的雲朵 瀉出的晶瑩雨滴, 也比不上你的甘霖一般的旋律。 就像是一位詩人 藏身於思想之光, 以心甘情願的歌吟, 來把世界激蕩, 讓它去同情它未曾注意的憂患和希望。 就像是名門閨秀 居住在深宮高閣, 為排遣愛的憂愁, 一到幽靜的時刻, 便讓閨閣蕩漾著甜如愛情的音樂。 就像金色的螢火蟲 棲身凝露的山谷, 它在花草叢中, 擴散空靈的光束, 它不為人們所見, 因為被花草遮住! 又像一朵玫瑰花, 她在綠葉中安睡, 遇到熱風的糟蹋, 直至她的芳菲 以過分的甜蜜灌醉了魯笨的飛賊。 春雨聲響清脆, 落在閃光的草地, 被雨滴喚醒的花卉, 還有其他的東西, 雖然明澈、清新、歡愉, 卻不及你的樂曲。 無論你是精靈還是鳥雀, 都請你把美妙的思想 教給我們; 我從未領略: 對愛情或美酒的贊揚 會傾瀉出潮水般的心蕩神馳的歡暢。 無論婚歌的歡快, 或凱旋曲的豪放, 比起你的歌來, 不過是空洞的誇張, 隻讓人們感到, 其中缺乏真情實感? 什麼樣兒的物體 是你歡歌的源泉? 何種波濤、山巒、田地? 怎樣的天空或平原? 是出自獨特的愛情, 還是與痛苦無緣? 有你清朗的歡欣, 不會再有倦怠, 煩惱郁悶的陰影 決不會向你襲來; 你愛, 但永不知道令人厭膩的愛的悲哀。 無論沉睡還是蘇醒, 你對死的理解, 比我們這些凡人 更加透徹、真切, 否則, 你的歌怎會流得這般晶瑩清澈? 我們左顧右盼, 渴求虛無之物, 我們最真誠的笑顏 也包含幾分淒楚, 我們最甜美的歌曲傾訴最悲哀的思緒。 縱然我們能夠擯斥 仇恨、傲慢和恐懼, 縱然從出生之日, 就不曾拋灑淚滴, 我也不知怎樣纔能夠貼近你的歡愉。 一切詩歌的韻律 都比不上你的音響, 一切書本的知識 都比不上你的寶藏, 地面的蔑視者啊, 你的詩藝舉世無雙。 你必定熟知的歡愉 哪怕教給我一半, 那麼, 和諧的狂喜 就嵩諼掖獎 致? 世界將會側耳細聽, 就像我現在這般。 發信人: dubliner (都柏林人) 發信站: 鼓浪聽濤 (Fri Apr 18 17:33:19 1997) TO A SKYLARK Percy Bysshe Shelley Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of Heaven In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight: Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear Until we hardly see--we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud. As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal Or triumphal chaunt Matched with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt-- A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow The world should listen then, as I am listening now!