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文学作品汉译:John Keats - Ode to a Nightingale

2014-10-23    来源:网络    【      美国外教 在线口语培训

文学作品汉译:John Keats - Ode to a Nightingale

文学作品汉译:请欣赏约翰·济慈作品《Ode to a Nightingale》

Ode to a Nightingale

John Keats

1

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.  

2

O for a draught of vintage! that hath been  

Cool’d 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 might drink, and leave the world unseen,  

And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 

3

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget  

What thou among 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 but 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. 

4

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,  

Cluster’d 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. 

5

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 cover’d 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.  

6

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time  

I have been half in love with easeful Death,  

Call’d 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.  



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