读：格兰切斯特的老庄房

初春的早晨、乍暖还寒，鸟鸣铃响，听得见的风声。又闲步“格兰切斯特的老庄房”的字里行间，一片五月原野般的晨光 。。。

“格兰切斯特” 已是漫纱之梦 — 满园舞红吹白盛溢芬芳，田园牧场长草绿荫，蜿蜒一条灵性的河。

“老庄房“ 又加逍遥之情 — 夕阳散漫西沉下，慵懒黄昏星升起。宠辱不惊的超然，沉静一切的哲境。

展卷亦是青香，和茶绿甘苦，同酩，不亦梦乎。


* 起笔就落在那里的风光：自然和大地

芦哨风中轻吟， 落上鹿眠处，更怯一惊。
闲卧绿丛观云痴，任天光泛盈，直到迷蒙洪荒。

格兰切斯特啊，风光，就在格兰切斯特的天上


*撑一竿长篙，向青草更青处漫朔：康河

月色沁凉透亮，风声轻狂。水尽风流波尽娇，魅影荡漾。
晨光渐入幽径，赤脚途归，牧歌野唱。

怎样的一种优哉悠哉，月夜裸泳，赤脚散步，果蜜为食，独舟往返。我原以为徐志摩的剑桥已是寻梦的田园。


* 与野风同游，绿水同雅，除了果青柳垂蝉鸣鸟歌，最美还在：其人。

凝眸白莲花启，童笑梦柔云开。
清醒贵气俱还我，半酣诗醉长笛。雅集高思豁论，不与凡间比。

格兰切斯特啊，到底有多少骄子智者，引后人不远万里到此呷一口热茶。


* 教堂的钟是不是还停在差十分三点? 喝茶时加的蜂蜜还有吗?

水味风咽晨羞涩，枝桠筛月暮色惊。依然清凉甘甜 ，还有什么美丽？
勿能忘，亦难忘，梦魂飞不到，时空都静。

反反复复，徘徘徊徊。我想背下这里太多的美丽。格兰切斯特的天，康河，和那个年轻的诗人再也不会忘记。也许不用等到明年，我撑一支长篙，慢慢悠进林荫深处的苹果茶园。。。

余曰：好梦！

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附：格兰切斯特的老庄房---儒泊特。布鲁克--（翻译） - by 伍子涵

 
 

此时此刻 我旧时的小屋前
丁香正在盛放 --
我想
花圃里，石竹和康乃馨绽开笑容
篱边的罂粟和三色槿
齐齐，吐露芬芳
哦，河边的栗树搭起夏日的帐幕
绿荫如沉睡的巷道
寂寂，进入梦乡
那一弯清流谜一般悄悄滑过
绿的象幔纱之梦
深邃有如死亡
哦，还有那
五月的原野一片金黄
我如何能不裸裎了双脚向你飞奔
当白昼依然年轻甜美，
灿烂地 给它们镀上金色的光芒
 
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仁慈的上帝啊！
我在这个鬼地方
窒热、病恹、汗流如浆
闹哄哄的德国犹太佬端着啤酒四处游荡
尽管郁金香在杂草丛生的篱下应时而开
甚至，还有一枝英格兰的野玫瑰攀出围栏
楚楚轻飏
却怎比我的格兰切斯特：
浓荫下的河水多么清凉
多想撩一捧
泼在赤裸的身上
清晨的露珠如此温柔
在金色的早霞中晶莹闪亮
还有优游自在的斜阳散漫西沉，
唤醒忠实的晚星
朦胧地，挂在天上
哦，还有 通向柯顿和海斯林菲尔德的牧场
任我徜徉

  >
呵，我向往
格兰切斯特啊，我的格兰切斯特
假若在你身旁
便能，摩抚你的绿野、大地
以及所有自然的欢畅
你看，绿丛中幼鹿的那一瞥
怯生生，多么温驯又惊慌
令博学的今人悠然思古、心驰神往
依稀，戴水草头冠的凌波仙子
翩翩，在水一方
彼得。潘幽幽地吹响芦哨，婉转悠扬
你可以一整天躺在草地上
看天光流逝
任日影西斜
听清风回绕
还有多情的花儿悄悄
在微醺的草丛中，吟唱
直到暮色四合，
糅合了岁月
迷蒙了洪荒
在格兰切斯特，啊！ 就在格兰切斯特的天空上

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哦，还有晨曦下的池塘
幽幽闪光
飘忽如魅影的拜伦爵士 泳姿如此洗畅
身手如同横渡斯蒂克斯
畅游广阔的海峡--赫勒斯庞
一如他行云流水的文章
还有-- 乔叟正谛听流水喁喁
水车如幻影孓立
腾尼逊注目沉吟
逝者如斯，康河为何轻狂？
而在夜之明暗的花园里
青草窃窃私语，直到天光
哦，当东方欲晓，鬼魂起舞
乐，夜之未央
无数神甫们掠过草坪
久归尘土的修士们蹑手蹑脚轻如飞鸿，
来去无踪
清癯的主教孤独的影子
隐约在枝叶的那厢
待得日晓九天颤栗
撒旦的狂笑渐渐，消失了音响
死板的神甫也不知所措
唯有露宿的未归人，满脸惊慌
铅灰的天空
传来第一声困倦的鸟鸣
摇摇欲坠的房子，依然伫立地上

> 
呵，上天！我多想
背起行囊 登上火车
即刻回到英格兰，
我的家乡那是何等的土地
胸怀美好的人们，对它无不向往！
当然我更想
回到剑桥乡下，
一个智者的乐土 更
有我钟爱的格兰切斯特
呵，那个可爱的小村庄
不像剑桥街上：
君子不苟言笑
城里人趾高气扬
脑满肠肥、装模作样
也不象南边的罗伊斯顿人
黧黑、暴烈、不知所云
或者象在奥佛，
动不动赌咒发誓
可他们还不如特朗平敦人
发誓，就和放屁一样！

迪顿的姑娘粗野放荡
哈斯顿找不到三十以下的女郎
谢尔福特的那些人都是变态弯弯绕
巴顿人说话一口土腔
柯顿多的是小偷小摸
马丁利人干的事儿难以想象
大年三十他们愣要跑十里八里
樱桃谷的懒汉笑声响
唉，你说这事荒不荒唐！
男人们急赤白脸，
抬手给老婆一枪
也不送去圣伊夫斯
唉，这些个宝贝-- 等到听说巴巴拉汉那旮瘩的事
嚎啕大哭比婴孩还响
怎比我，哦，我的格兰切斯特
宁静平和如天堂
哦，格兰切斯特啊，我的格兰切斯特
大风起兮云飞扬
直如云帆济海洋
儿童柔美如梦幻
男男女女都端庄
密林沉沉入梦境
微风窸窸最有情
千回百转待天晓
犹半清醒半梦酣
哦，格兰切斯特啊，格兰切斯特人
他们皮肤多白皙
日间沐浴夜濯洗
男人从道循天理
女子安分守规矩
爱美德，爱真理
笑时朗声，犹胜翩翩少年郎
（若觉年迈，我获知 起而自戕不彷徨！）

 

哦，上天！
当你看到支离的树枝
凌乱了格兰切斯特的月亮
当你嗅着那甜腻而靡腐的河水--
它，如此让人欣喜若狂、永生不忘
当你听到微风在树丛间呜咽
你，怎能不思量？
哦，傲然矗立的榆树桩
是否依然在守护那块神圣的土地？
栗树的浓荫在旖旎的梦里
是不是正在荫护那条小河，将天光遮挡？
黎明的晨曦有没有携一个沁凉的秘密
象素裹金饰的阿弗洛蒂黛
羞涩地，东躲西藏？
从海斯林菲尔德到马丁利，
夕阳 是不是还象从前，
染一片金色的海洋？
夜幕低垂，
野兔们还会不会出来 找玉米棒？
哦，还有那个池塘
水，是否依旧温柔凉爽？
不息的河流，
有没有在水车下 依然笑语飞扬？
哦，让我再想想--
还有什么美丽尚待我去发现?
那种确实无疑的美，含蓄而不张扬？
比如深广的原野，让人忧思皆忘
无论谎言、真实、痛苦、还是彷徨？
哦，怎能不想，怎能忘
教堂顶上的钟正指向两点五十
夜静更深，还能不能找到蜂蜜调茶 供我一觞？
 
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The Old Vicarage, Grantchester (Café des Westens, Berlin, May 1912)
by Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)

Just now the lilac is in bloom,
All before my little room;
And in my flower-beds, I think,
Smile the carnation and the pink;
And down the borders, well I know,
The poppy and the pansy blow . . .
Oh! there the chestnuts, summer through,
Beside the river make for you
A tunnel of green gloom, and sleep
Deeply above; and green and deep
The stream mysterious glides beneath,
Green as a dream and deep as death.
---Oh, damn! I know it! and I know
How the May fields all golden show,
And when the day is young and sweet,
Gild gloriously the bare feet
That run to bathe . . . Du lieber Gott!

Here am I, sweating, sick, and hot,
And there the shadowed waters fresh
Lean up to embrace the naked flesh.
Temperamentvoll German Jews
Drink beer around;---and there the dews
Are soft beneath a morn of gold.
Here tulips bloom as they are told;
Unkempt about those hedges blows
An English unofficial rose;
And there the unregulated sun
Slopes down to rest when day is done,
And wakes a vague unpunctual star,
A slippered Hesper; and there are
Meads towards Haslingfield and Coton
Where das Betreten's not verboten.

. . . would I were
In Grantchester, in Grantchester!---
Some, it may be, can get in touch
With Nature there, or Earth, or such.
And clever modern men have seen
A Faun a-peeping through the green,
And felt the Classics were not dead,
To glimpse a Naiad's reedy head,
Or hear the Goat-foot piping low: . . .
But these are things I do not know.
I only know that you may lie
Day long and watch the Cambridge sky,
And, flower-lulled in sleepy grass,
Hear the cool lapse of hours pass,
Until the centuries blend and blur
In Grantchester, in Grantchester. . . .

Still in the dawnlit waters cool
His ghostly Lordship swims his pool,
And tries the strokes, essays the tricks,
Long learnt on Hellespont, or Styx.
Dan Chaucer hears his river still
Chatter beneath a phantom mill.
Tennyson notes, with studious eye,
How Cambridge waters hurry by . . .
And in that garden, black and white,
Creep whispers through the grass all night;
And spectral dance, before the dawn,
A hundred Vicars down the lawn;
Curates, long dust, will come and go
On lissom, clerical, printless toe;
And oft between the boughs is seen
The sly shade of a Rural Dean . . .
Till, at a shiver in the skies,
Vanishing the Satanic cries,
The prim ecclesiastic rout
Leaves but a startled sleeper-out,
Grey heavens, the first bird's drowsy calls,
The falling house that never falls.

God! I will pack, and take a train,
And get me to England once again!
For England's the one land, I know,
Where men with Splendid Hearts may go;
And Cambridgeshire, of all England,
The shire for Men who Understand;
And of that district I prefer
The lovely hamlet Grantchester.
For Cambridge people rarely smile,
Being urban, squat, and packed with guile;
And Royston men in the far South
Are black and fierce and strange of mouth;
At Over they fling oaths at one,
And worse than oaths at Trumpington,

And Ditton girls are mean and dirty,
And there's none in Harston under thirty,
And folks in Shelford and those parts
Have twisted lips and twisted hearts,
And Barton men make Cockney rhymes,
And Coton's full of nameless crimes,
And things are done you'd not believe
At Madingley on Christmas Eve.
Strong men have run for miles and miles,
When one from Cherry Hinton smiles;
Strong men have blanched, and shot their wives,
Rather than send them to St. Ives;
Strong men have cried like babes, bydam,
To hear what happened at Babraham.
But Grantchester! ah, Grantchester!
There's peace and holy quiet there,
Great clouds along pacific skies,
And men and women with straight eyes,
Lithe children lovelier than a dream,
A bosky wood, a slumbrous stream,
And little kindly winds that creep
Round twilight corners, half asleep.
In Grantchester their skins are white;
They bathe by day, they bathe by night;
The women there do all they ought;
The men observe the Rules of Thought.
They love the Good; they worship Truth;
They laugh uproariously in youth;
(And when they get to feeling old,
They up and shoot themselves, I'm told) . . .

Ah God! to see the branches stir
Across the moon at Grantchester!
To smell the thrilling-sweet and rotten
Unforgettable, unforgotten
River-smell, and hear the breeze
Sobbing in the little trees.
Say, do the elm-clumps greatly stand
Still guardians of that holy land?
The chestnuts shade, in reverend dream,
The yet unacademic stream?
Is dawn a secret shy and cold
Anadyomene, silver-gold?
And sunset still a golden sea
From Haslingfield to Madingley?
And after, ere the night is born,
Do hares come out about the corn?
Oh, is the water sweet and cool,
Gentle and brown, above the pool?
And laughs the immortal river still
Under the mill, under the mill?
Say, is there Beauty yet to find?
And Certainty? and Quiet kind?
Deep meadows yet, for to forget
The lies, and truths, and pain? . . . oh! yet
Stands the Church clock at ten to three?
And is there honey still for tea?