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致 云 雀
珀西•比希•雪莱
为你欢呼，快乐的精灵！
鸟雀只是你外在的形象，
你来自世外，你来自天堂，
你尽情倾诉，
行云流水，婉转悠扬。
越飞越高，
青云直上，
如火云一团，
在深邃的蓝天展开翅膀，
翱翔，歌唱，歌唱，翱翔。
沐浴金色晚霞，
伴着夕阳，
云彩一片明亮，
你漂浮，你翻飞，
你的追寻无比漫长。
淡淡的紫色浸润，
一路围绕身旁，
像白昼里的一颗星星，
升起在高高的天上，
虽然难以看见，我却能听到你的兴奋、激昂：
犹如离弦之箭，
穿透银色的天幕射向远方，
那盏明灯收拢，
融入黎明的清朗，
尽管从眼中消失，可我们能感觉到它的去向。
大地、苍穹，
你的声音处处回荡，
恰似明净的夜晚，
孤云难把月色遮挡，
铺天盖地一片辉光。
不知世间还有何物与你相比，
你是何物我们无法想象。
只知你的旋律如甘霖飘洒，
胜过云霓斑斓辉煌，
超出长虹溢彩流光。
就像隐身的诗人，
给人类留下冥想，
由衷地吟诵赞美，
直到世界改变模样，
去同情它不曾留意的忧患、希望。
就像名门闺秀，
在深宫大院雪藏，
每逢孤独的时刻，
要排解爱的忧伤，
让情曲在房中奏响。
像一只金色的萤火虫，
在露珠滴落的溪涧游荡，
出没花丛草丛，
沿着平坡陡岗，
播撒空灵的荧光。
又像一朵玫瑰，
躲在绿叶中沉入梦乡，
直到热风吹落，
依旧散发馨香，
太多甜蜜使笨拙的飞贼头晕脑胀。
滴落的春雨声声脆响，
承接的青草熠熠闪亮，
被雨滴唤醒的花朵，
还有明澈、清新、欢快的万物万象，
都不及你的音乐令人心醉神往。
无论你是精灵还是鸟类，
请教我懂得你那甜蜜的遐想，
我还从来未曾领略，
对爱情与美酒的这种赞扬，
欣喜的狂潮如此神圣，淋漓酣畅。
婚庆赞歌欢快，
凯旋乐曲豪放，
可与你的嗓音相比，
全是空洞的夸张，
只会隐隐约约令人感到失望。
你欢乐的曲调来自何方？
为何像喷泉不断流淌？
是怎样的天空、平原？
是何种高山、田野、波浪？
是怎样一种独有的爱恋？为何痛苦永远退让？
你只有明快的欢乐，
把倦怠彻底埋葬，
烦恼郁闷的阴影，
无法靠近身旁；
你的爱永无终止，没有限量。
无论沉睡还是苏醒，
你都能看透死亡，
更加真切、深邃，
超脱凡俗的想象，
否则，你的曲调怎会如此清澈、流畅？
我们四处寻找，
把那虚无追求渴望，
即使最坦诚的笑声，
也带着几分凄凉，
最甜蜜的歌曲倾诉最悲切的惆怅。
纵然我们有一种能力，
蔑视仇恨、傲慢和惊慌，
纵然我们有与生具来的意志，
不让泪水涌进眼眶，
如何贴近你的欢乐我却一片迷茫。
你是世上最美妙的音乐，
你是人间最欢快的声响，
一切书本的精华，
都敌不过你的宝藏，
你傲视大地，你的诗才万众景仰！
你所熟知的欢愉，
哪怕一星半点，请你教我欣赏，
那我就会笑口常开，
和谐就会让我欢喜欲狂，
世界就会倾听，正如我现在这样!
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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