加载中…【英译波德莱尔《秋之十四行诗》】
(2016-10-18 09:16:42)Sonnet
d'automne
Charles
Baudelaire
Ils me disent, tes yeux,
clairs comme le cristal:
‘Pour toi, bizarre amant,
quel est donc mon mérite?’
— Sois charmante et
tais-toi! Mon coeur, que tout
irrite,
Excepté la candeur de
l'antique animal,
Ne veut pas te montrer son
secret infernal,
Berceuse dont la main aux
longs sommeils m'invite,
Ni sa noire légende avec la
flamme écrite.
Je hais la passion et
l'esprit me fait mal!
Aimons-nous doucement.
L'Amour dans sa guérite,
Ténébreux, embusqué, bande
son arc fatal.
Je connais les engins de son
vieil arsenal:
Crime, horreur et folie! — Ô
pâle marguerite!
Comme moi n'es-tu pas un
soleil automnal,
Ô ma si blanche, ô ma si
froide Marguerite?
—————————————————————
Autumn
Song
Cyril Scott
(1909)
They ask me— thy crystalline
eyes, so acute,
"Odd lover why am I to thee
so dear?"
Be sweet and keep silent, my
heart, which is sear,
For all, save the rude and
untutored brute,
Is loth its infernal depths
to reveal,
And its dissolute motto
engraven with fire,
Oh charmer! whose arms
endless slumber inspire!
I abominate passion and wit
makes me ill.
So let us love gently.
Within his retreat,
Foreboding, Love seeks for
his arrows a prey,
I know all the arms of his
battle array.
Delirium and loathing O pale
Marguerite!
Like me, art thou not an
autumnal ray,
Alas my so white, my so cold
Marguerite
Sonnet to
Autumn
F P Sturm
(1919)
They say to me, thy clear
and crystal eyes:
“Why dost thou love me so,
strange lover mine?”
Be sweet, be still! My heart
and soul despise
All save that antique
brute-like faith of thine;
And will not bare the secret
of their shame
To thee whose hand soothe me
to slumbers long,
Nor their black legend write
for thee in flame!
Passion I hate, a spirit
does me wrong.
Let us love gently. Love,
from his retreat,
Ambushed and shadowy, bends
his fatal bow,
And I too well his ancient
arrows know:
Crime, horror, folly. O pale
Marguerite,
Thou art as I, a bright sun
fallen low,
O my so white, my so cold
Marguerite.
Autumn
Sonnet
James McGowan
(1993)
I hear them say to me, your
crystal eyes,
“Strange love, what merit do
you find in me?”
--Be charming and be still!
My heart, disturbed
By all except the candour of
the flesh
Prefers t o hide the secret
of its hell
From you whose hand would
rock me into sleep,
Nor will it show the legend
writ with flame.
Passion I hate, and spirit
plays me false!
Let us love gently. Eros in
his den,
Hiding in somber ambush,
bends his bow.
I know his arsenal, his
worn-out bolts,
Crime, madness, horror—oh
pale marguerite,
Are we not both like the
autumnal sun,
My o so cool, my fading
Marguerite?
Autumn
Sonnet
William Aggeler
(1954)
They say to me, your eyes,
clear as crystal:
"For you, bizarre lover,
what is my merit then?"
— Be charming and be still!
My heart, which all things irk,
Except the candor of the
animals of old,
Does not wish to reveal its
black secret to you,
Whose lulling hands invite
me to long sleep,
Nor its somber legend
written with flame.
I hate passion; intelligence
makes me suffer!
Let us love each other
sweetly. Tenebrous Love,
Ambushed in his shelter,
stretches his fatal bow.
I know all the weapons of
his old arsenal:
Crime, horror, and madness!
— pale marguerite!
Are you not, like me, an
autumnal sun,
O my Marguerite, so white
and so cold?
Autumn
Sonnet
Roy Campbell
(1952)
Your eyes like crystal ask
me, clear and mute,
"in me, strange lover, what
do you admire?"
Be lovely: hush: my heart,
whom all things tire
Except the candour of the
primal brute,
Would hide from you the
secret burning it
And its black legend written
out in fire,
O soother of the sleep that
I respire!
Passion I hate, and I am
hurt by wit.
Let us love gently. In his
lair laid low,
Ambushed in shades, Love
strings his fatal bow.
I know his ancient arsenal
complete,
Crime, horror, lunacy — O my
pale daisy!
Are we not suns in Autumn,
silver-hazy,
O my so white, so snow-cold
Marguerite?
Autumn
Sonnet
A.S. Kline
(2005)
Your eyes, clear as crystal,
ask me: ‘Strange lover,
what do I mean to you?’-
Hush, and be charming!
My heart, irritated by all
but the one thing,
the primitive creature’s
absolute candour,
is unwilling to show its
infernal secret to you,
cradler whose hand invites
to deep slumber,
and its black inscription
written in fire,
I hate passion, the spirit
sickens me too!
Let us love gently. Love in
hiding, discreet,
in shadowy ambush, bends his
fatal bow.
The weapons of his ancient
arsenal I know:
Crime, horror, madness! – My
pale marguerite!
are you not, as I am, an
autumn sun though,
O my so white, my so cold
Marguerite?
A Sonnet of
Autumn
Richard
Henninge
They speak to me, your eyes,
clear as a crystal:
“What, bizarre lover, is to
you my meriting trait?”
--Be charming and quiet! My
heart, that all irritate,
Except the candor of an
ancient animal,
Does not want to show you
its secret infernal,
Nurse, the hand of which to
long sleeps beckons me straight,
Nor the black legend it does
with flames create.
I hate passion and the mind
is, to me, evil!
Let us love sweetly. Love
behind his turret grate,
Gloomy, ensconced, bends his
bow so fatal.
I know well the weapons in
his old arsenal:
Crime, horror and
madness!—Oh, pale daisy at the
gate!
As am I, are you not, a sun
autumnal,
Oh, my so white, oh, my so
cold, Daisy at the gate?
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