加载中…【济慈：夜莺颂】
(2013-04-10 19:21:00)
标签：
文化 |
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
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved
earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country
green,
Dance, and Provencal 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 may drink, and leave the world
unseen,
And with thee fade away into the
forest dim.
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite
forget
What thou amongst 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
grey hairs.
Where youth grows pale, and
spectre-thin, and dies;
Where nut 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,
Clustered 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 covered 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,
Called 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
eas 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
Charmed 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 famed 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 is a vision, or a waking
dream?
Fled is that music -- Do I wake or
sleep?
喜欢
0
赠金笔
前一篇：【狄尔泰论诺瓦利斯】
后一篇：【安徒生童话的另类解读——夜莺】