I can write no stately proem
笔下艰涩
As a prelude to my lay;
欲言又止
From a poet to a poem
妄为诗人
I would dare to say.
但放声言
For if of these fallen petals
若彼落花
One to you seem fair,
如尔所见
Love will waft it till it settles
飘荡恣肆
On your hair.
止于青丝
And when wind and winter harden
若彼寒冬
All the loveless land,
冷酷仙境
It will whisper of the garden,
浅吟低唱
You will understand.
尔或可知
And there is nothing left to do
无复可为
But to kiss once again, and part,
但求吻别
Nay, there is nothing we should rue,
无可后悔
I have my beauty,-you your Art,
吾有吾爱
尔与尔雅
Nay, do not start,
莫言离别
One world was not enough for two
茫茫世界
Like me and you.
难容吾人
To My Wife
与妻诗
作者：Oscar Wilde
译者：水镜门生
I can write no stately proem
我写不出堂皇的诗句
As a prelude to my lay;
作为开篇置于幕前
From a poet to a poem
诗对于诗人而言
I would dare to say.
我总得大了胆子去写
For if of these fallen petals
若似那些飘零的花瓣
One to you seem fair,
有一片为你所见
Love will waft it till it settles
爱在它落地那一刻飘到
On your hair.
你的发间
And when wind and winter harden
当寒风送来冬日莅临的讯息
All the loveless land,
在所有寡情的土地上
It will whisper of the garden,
它将哼唱花园的调子
You will understand.
你会明白会懂。
And there is nothing left to do
还剩下些什么可以去做的呢
But to kiss once again, and part,
除了再次吻上你的唇，然后离别
Nay, there is nothing we should rue,
呐，并非如此，我们无需懊悔
I have my beauty,-you your Art,
我有我的美丽，你有你的艺术
Nay, do not start,
呐，别启程
One world was not enough for two
一个世界容不下两个人
Like me and you.
就像我和你
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
She walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.
II.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
III.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
Was there a time when dancers with their fiddles
In children's circuses could stay their troubles?
There was a time they could cry over books,
But time has sent its maggot on their track.
Under the arc of the sky they are unsafe.
What's never known is safest in this life.
Under the skysigns they who have no arms
have cleanest hands, and, as the heartless ghost
Alone's unhurt, so the blind man sees best.
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west
Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
The evening light was like honey in the trees
When you left me and walked to the end of the street
Where the sunset abruptly ended.
The wedding-cake drawbridge lowered itself
To the fragile forget-me-not flower.
You climbed aboard.
Burnt horizons suddenly paved with golden stones,
Dreams I had, including suicide,
Puff out the hot-air balloon now.
It is bursting, it is about to burst
With something invisible
Just during the days.
We hear, and sometimes learn,
Pressing so close
And fetch the blood down, and things like that.
Museums then became generous, they live in our breath.
英诗汉译 Hope
Hope
Emily Dickinson（1830~1866）
“HOPE” is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul，
And sings the tune without the words，
And never stops at all，
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest Sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of Me.
英诗汉译 火与冰
Fire and Ice
Robert Frost(1874~1963)
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice
