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致 云 雀
珀西•比希•雪萊
為你歡呼，快樂的精靈！
鳥雀只是你外在的形象，
你來自世外，你來自天堂，
你盡情傾訴，
行云流水，婉轉悠揚。
越飛越高，
青云直上，
如火云一團，
在深邃的藍天展開翅膀，
翱翔，歌唱，歌唱，翱翔。
沐浴金色晚霞，
伴著夕陽，
云彩一片明亮，
你漂浮，你翻飛，
你的追尋無比漫長。
淡淡的紫色浸潤，
一路圍繞身旁，
像白晝里的一顆星星，
升起在高高的天上，
雖然難以看見，我卻能聽到你的興奮、激昂：
猶如離弦之箭，
穿透銀色的天幕射向遠方，
那盞明燈收攏，
融入黎明的清朗，
盡管從眼中消失，可我們能感覺到它的去向。
大地、蒼穹，
你的聲音處處回蕩，
恰似明凈的夜晚，
孤云難把月色遮擋，
鋪天蓋地一片輝光。
不知世間還有何物與你相比，
你是何物我們無法想象。
只知你的旋律如甘霖飄灑，
勝過云霓斑斕輝煌，
超出長虹溢彩流光。
就像隱身的詩人，
給人類留下冥想，
由衷地吟誦贊美，
直到世界改變模樣，
去同情它不曾留意的憂患、希望。
就像名門閨秀，
在深宮大院雪藏，
每逢孤獨的時刻，
要排解愛的憂傷，
讓情曲在房中奏響。
像一只金色的螢火蟲，
在露珠滴落的溪澗游蕩，
出沒花叢草叢，
沿著平坡陡崗，
播撒空靈的熒光。
又像一朵玫瑰，
躲在綠葉中沉入夢鄉，
直到熱風吹落，
依舊散發馨香，
太多甜蜜使笨拙的飛賊頭暈腦脹。
滴落的春雨聲聲脆響，
承接的青草熠熠閃亮，
被雨滴喚醒的花朵，
還有明澈、清新、歡快的萬物萬象，
都不及你的音樂令人心醉神往。
無論你是精靈還是鳥類，
請教我懂得你那甜蜜的遐想，
我還從來未曾領略，
對愛情與美酒的這種贊揚，
欣喜的狂潮如此神圣，淋漓酣暢。
婚慶贊歌歡快，
凱旋樂曲豪放，
可與你的嗓音相比，
全是空洞的夸張，
只會隱隱約約令人感到失望。
你歡樂的曲調來自何方？
為何像噴泉不斷流淌？
是怎樣的天空、平原？
是何種高山、田野、波浪？
是怎樣一種獨有的愛戀？為何痛苦永遠退讓？
你只有明快的歡樂，
把倦怠徹底埋葬，
煩惱郁悶的陰影，
無法靠近身旁；
你的愛永無終止，沒有限量。
無論沉睡還是蘇醒，
你都能看透死亡，
更加真切、深邃，
超脫凡俗的想象，
否則，你的曲調怎會如此清澈、流暢？
我們四處尋找，
把那虛無追求渴望，
即使最坦誠的笑聲，
也帶著幾分凄涼，
最甜蜜的歌曲傾訴最悲切的惆悵。
縱然我們有一種能力，
蔑視仇恨、傲慢和驚慌，
縱然我們有與生具來的意志，
不讓淚水涌進眼眶，
如何貼近你的歡樂我卻一片迷茫。
你是世上最美妙的音樂，
你是人間最歡快的聲響，
一切書本的精華，
都敵不過你的寶藏，
你傲視大地，你的詩才萬眾景仰！
你所熟知的歡愉，
哪怕一星半點，請你教我欣賞，
那我就會笑口常開，
和諧就會讓我歡喜欲狂，
世界就會傾聽，正如我現在這樣!
To a Skylark
-- by 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 brightening,
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 Ihear thy thrill delight:
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp nerrows
In the white dawn clear
Until we hardly seem, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.
What thou are 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 embower'd
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower'd,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.
Sound of venral showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken'd 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 devine.
Close hymneal,
Or triumphal chant,
Match'd with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt --
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the foutains
Of thy happy trains?
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
Langour 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 would 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 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!
To a Skylark
-- by 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 brightening,
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 Ihear thy thrill delight:
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp nerrows
In the white dawn clear
Until we hardly seem, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.
What thou are 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 embower'd
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower'd,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.
Sound of venral showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken'd 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 devine.
Close hymneal,
Or triumphal chant,
Match'd with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt --
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the foutains
Of thy happy trains?
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
Langour 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 would 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 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!
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