【英】约翰·济慈
2022年4月5日星期二
我的心在痛，一种让人昏昏欲睡、麻木不仁的痛
恍若刚饮过毒芹或吞服过鸦片
正坠入冥府的忘川
这不是妒忌你的快乐
而是在你的快乐中享受了太多的快乐
---你，羽翼翩然的树精
在山毛榉绿叶和无数阴影中的某个歌声悠扬之地
正敞开着歌喉歌唱着夏天
哦，真希望来口美酒！
那种在地窖里冷藏了多年的美酒！
品尝花草和乡间绿叶的清香
感受载歌载舞、沐浴阳光的狂欢！
哦，真希望来杯美酒！
充满南方的暖温，也充满红色灵泉的清纯
珍珠般的泡沫在杯沿挤眉弄眼
紫红色染遍了我的嘴唇
我会一饮而尽，忘掉这个世界
然后随你消失在幽深的森林
彻底隐去，消失，并且弃忘
你在林中从未知晓的一切：
厌倦，疾病，及烦惋
这里，人们摩肩而坐，彼此倾听着对方的叹怅
这里，瘫痪的老人只剩下几根稀疏的白发在痛苦地摇晃
这里，年轻人脸色惨白，骨瘦如柴，且经常死亡
这里，人们一思想就哀伤，眼睛充满了绝望
这里，美人从来不会持续放彩，新的爱情之树第二天就会枯黄
飞去！飞去！我要向你飞去！
不是乘坐酒神的豹车
而是乘坐诗神的翅膀
尽管脑袋愚钝、困惑、迟滞
但我毕竟已来到你身旁！
夜色温柔
月后也许已登上宝座，并被众星守望
可此处没有光亮，只有少许的天光连同微风一起
穿过茂密的树林，吹照在布满苔藓的小径上
我看不清是什么样的花朵在脚边摇荡
也看不清枝头上悬挂的是何种芬芳
但在这香气扑鼻的夜晚
我能猜出此时的每种芳香来自何方：
青草，灌木，野果树；山楂树，野蔷薇；
凋谢极快并被绿叶覆盖的紫罗兰；
五月中旬的骄子---麝香玫瑰，正散发着酒香
诱使夏夜的蚊蝇出没，嗡嗡作响
我在黑暗中听你歌唱
我多次想过平静地死去
并在诗句中向死神发出过轻轻的呼唤
求他把我的生命悄悄地带入天堂
现在吉时已到
半夜里毫无疼痛地死去
而你那发自灵魂的歌声是如此令人神往
我死后你仍会歌唱，但我再也无法听见
你那高昂的安魂曲，会化为一块草皮
作为我坟墓的衣裳！
你不会死去，永生之鸟啊！
不会有饥饿的后代威胁到你的生命！
我今晚听到的歌声也被古代的帝王和平民听过：
也许是同样的歌声拨动了露丝那悲戚的心弦
当她站在异域的稻田里思乡时，总是泣不成声
这样的歌声也会吸引身处孤僻仙境中的主人
打开门窗，而不会顾及凶险海涛的降临
孤僻无望！此言就像一声钟响
把我从你的世界拽回到了我的世界！
别了！幻想不可能如此完美
这不过是自欺欺人
别了！别了！你那悲凉的歌声
飘过草地，飘过河流，飘过山坡
消失在另一个山谷
这是幻觉，还是梦寐？
歌声已经远去，---我是醒还是在睡？
注：露丝（Ruth)，圣经故事中的人物
原文
Ode to a Nightingale
BY JOHN KEATS
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?
