罗伯特·弗罗斯特诗10首
她兴起不让我呆在家里，
她话多而我乐意听她侃：
她很高兴鸟儿们已消失；
她很高兴普通的灰毛衣
在迷蒙烟雨中银光闪闪。
还有那荒凉落寞的树林，
消隐的大地，阴沉的长天，
她看得真切的种种美景
她当我没有欣赏的眼睛，
并责问我为什么看不见。
我并非直到昨天才明白
在雪天还没有来临之前
荒凉的十一月多么可爱，
但不必徒劳向她作交代，
何况它们胜过她所赞叹。
My November Guest
My sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.
In Neglect
They leave us so to the way we took,
As two in whom them were proved mistaken,
That we sit sometimes in the wayside nook,
With mischievous, vagrant, seraphic look,
And try if we cannot feel forsaken.
而当我走进花园地里时，
黯淡的鸟儿振翅
飞出蓬乱的枯草的响声
悲伤过任何言辞。
墙边的一棵树枝干光秃，
却见一褐色残叶，
我料想，是受我幽思所扰，
从枝头簌簌凋谢。
再前行不远我停下脚步，
把仅存的紫菀花
褪落的片片蓝色拾起来，
再次带给你一把。
A Late Walk
When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.
And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words
A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.
I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.
也可能是说周围没半点声息——
所以它这才把话音压得老低。
它可没梦到忙里得闲的造化，
或仙女精灵手中的大把黄金：
真相以外的东西好像都无力
满足使洼地成排的真挚爱情，
没有勉强戳起的花蕊(白兰花)、
一条绿莹莹的蛇受惊可不行。
事实是干活所知的最美的梦。
我的镰刀窸窣只等干草晒成。
Mowing
There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound—
And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.
使积雪的路边水汽蒸腾；
找到那白色下面的褐色；
可不管你今晚做些什么，
洗洗我的窗吧，让它流动，
融掉它吧就像冰雪消融；
融掉玻璃只把窗棂留下，
像是隐居教士的十字架；
灌进我这窄溜溜的房间，
将挂在墙上的画幅摇晃；
哗哗哗将这些书页翻遍，
把诗篇满地散开，
把诗人赶出门外。
To the Thawing Wind
Come with rain, O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
Make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate'er you do tonight,
Bathe my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit's crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o'er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.
仿佛对我们命运感到好奇，
看我们将蹒跚脚步
印上白雪卧处，走进黎明
看不见的安息之处，——
可那些星星并无爱恨之意，
就如同一些雪白的
密涅瓦雪白的大理石眼睛
全没有天赋的视力。
Stars
How countlessly they congregate
O'er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
When wintry winds do blow!—
As if with keenness for our fate,
Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
Invisible at dawn, —
And yet with neither love nor hate,
Those stars like some snow-white
Minerva's snow-white marble eyes
Without the gift of sight.
我这就出去把那牛犊牵过来，
它正在母马身边站着，好年轻。
她用舌头舔它时它蹒跚不定。
我不会去太久。——你也来吧。
The Pasture
I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha'n't be gone long.--You come too.
I'm going out to fetch the little calf
That's standing by the mother. It's so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I sha'n't be gone long.--You come too.
我不会身受羁縻而某个日子
我会偷走进他们那茫茫无际，
哪怕在任何时候与空地相遇，
或碰上车轮拨沙徐行的通衢。
我可看不出有什么理由回头
或人们不该循我足迹往前走
赶上我，他们将在此把我追忆，
想知我是否爱他们一如往昔。
他们会发现斯人仍是那个他——
但已更确信过去相信的看法。
Into My Own
One of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.
I should not be withheld but that some day
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.
I do not see why I should e'er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.
They would not find me changed from him they knew--
Only more sure of all I thought was true.
Dust of Snow
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
越过葡萄藤掩蔽的破栅栏，
树林回到了先前的田地间；
果园里早已经是杂树交长，
啄木鸟砍剁于新树老树上；
去水井的小路也已被埋湮。
我怀着莫名的悲痛住在这
再没有癞蛤蟆沐浴尘土的
这条被弃置而遗忘的路边
已消失的一间僻房子里面。
夜来了；黑蝙蝠上下翻飞着；
欧夜鹰即将来扯开大嗓门，
噤声后咯咯叫又四处扑棱；
一次又一次我远远就听见
它在还没有到这地方之前
就大声发表它自己的高论。
夏夜里小小的孤星光朦朦，
不知道这些都是谁不作声
和我一起在这昏黑处安身，——
低丫的树木下有墓碑横陈，
覆苔的名字肯定已看不清。
他们都不知倦，却迟缓悲伤，
虽则有紧挨的少女和少男，——
他们中没有谁曾放声歌唱，
但考虑到世上的种种情况，
他们已算是极亲密的伙伴。
周 旋 久 译
Ghost House
I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.
O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;
The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.
It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me--
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.
They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad, --
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
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