济慈《睡与诗》

No one who once the glorious sun has seen,

And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean

For his great Maker’s presence, but must know

What ’tis I mean, and feel his being glow:

Therefore no insult will I give his spirit

By telling what he sees from native merit.

O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen

That am not yet a glorious denizen

Of thy wide heaven—Should I rather kneel

Upon some mountain-top until I feel

A glowing splendour round about me hung,

And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?

O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen

That am not yet a glorious denizen

Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,

Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,

Smoothed for intoxication by the breath

Of flowering bays, that I may die a death

Of luxury, and my young spirit follow

The morning sun-beams to the great Apollo

Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear

The o’erwhelming sweets, ’twill bring me to the fair

Visions of all places: a bowery nook

Will be elysium—an eternal book

Whence I may copy many a lovely saying

About the leaves, and flowers—about the playing

Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade

Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid;

And many a verse from so strange influence

That we must ever wonder how, and whence

It came. Also imaginings will hover

Round my fire-side, and haply there discover

Vistas of solemn beauty, where I’d wander

In happy silence, like the clear meander

Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot

Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,

Or a green hill o’erspread with chequered dress

Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,

Write on my tablets all that was permitted,

All that was for our human senses fitted.

Then the events of this wide world I’d seize

Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze

Till at its shoulders it should proudly see

Wings to find out an immortality.

Stop and consider! life is but a day;

A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way

From a tree’s summit; a poor Indian’s sleep

While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep

Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?

Life is the rose’s hope while yet unblown;

The reading of an ever-changing tale;

The light uplifting of a maiden’s veil;

A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;

A laughing school-boy, without grief or care,

Riding the springy branches of an elm.

O for ten years, that I may overwhelm

Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed

That my own soul has to itself decreed.

Then I will pass the countries that I see

In long perspective, and continually

Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I’ll pass

Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass,

Feed upon apples red, and strawberries,

And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees;

Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,

To woo sweet kisses from averted faces,—

Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white

Into a pretty shrinking with a bite

As hard as lips can make it: till agreed,

A lovely tale of human life we’ll read.

And one will teach a tame dove how it best

May fan the cool air gently o’er my rest;

Another, bending o’er her nimble tread,

Will set a green robe floating round her head,

And still will dance with ever varied ease,

Smiling upon the flowers and the trees:

Another will entice me on, and on

Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon,

Till in the bosom of a leafy world

We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl’d

In the recesses of a pearly shell.

And can I ever bid these joys farewell?

Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,

Where I may find the agonies, the strife

Of human hearts: for lo! I see afar,

O’er sailing the blue cragginess, a car

And steeds with streamy manes—the charioteer

Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear:

And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly

Along a huge cloud’s ridge; and now with sprightly

Wheel downward come they into fresher skies,

Tipt round with silver from the sun’s bright eyes.

Still downward with capacious whirl they glide;

And now I see them on a green-hill’s side

In breezy rest among the nodding stalks.

The charioteer with wond’rous gesture talks

To the trees and mountains; and there soon appear

Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,

Passing along before a dusky space

Made by some mighty oaks: as they would chase

Some ever-fleeting music on they sweep.

Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep:

Some with upholden hand and mouth severe;

Some with their faces muffled to the ear

Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom,

Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom;

Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;

Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways

Flit onward—now a lovely wreath of girls

Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls;

And now broad wings. Most awfully intent

The driver of those steeds is forward bent,

And seems to listen: O that I might know

All that he writes with such a hurrying glow.

The visions all are fled—the car is fled

Into the light of heaven, and in their stead

A sense of real things comes doubly strong,

And, like a muddy stream, would bear along

My soul to nothingness: but I will strive

Against all doubtings, and will keep alive

The thought of that same chariot, and the strange

Journey it went.

 Is there so small a range

In the present strength of manhood, that the high

Imagination cannot freely fly

As she was wont of old? prepare her steeds,

Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds

Upon the clouds? Has she not shewn us all?

From the clear space of ether, to the small

Breath of new buds unfolding? From the meaning

Of Jove’s large eye-brow, to the tender greening

Of April meadows? Here her altar shone,

E’en in this isle; and who could paragon

The fervid choir that lifted up a noise

Of harmony, to where it aye will poise

Its mighty self of convoluting sound,

Huge as a planet, and like that roll round,

Eternally around a dizzy void?

Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy’d

With honors; nor had any other care

Than to sing out and sooth their wavy hair.

Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a sc[h]ism

Nurtured by foppery and barbarism,

Made great Apollo blush for this his land.

Men were thought wise who could not understand

His glories: with a puling infant’s force

They sway’d about upon a rocking horse,

And thought it Pegasus. Ah dismal soul’d!

The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll’d

Its gathering waves—ye felt it not. The blue

Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew

Of summer nights collected still to make

The morning precious: beauty was awake!

Why were ye not awake? But ye were dead

To things ye knew not of,—were closely wed

To musty laws lined out with wretched rule

And compass vile: so that ye taught a school

Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,

Till, like the certain wands of Jacob’s wit,

Their verses tallied. Easy was the task:

A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask

Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race!

That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face,

And did not know it,—no, they went about,

Holding a poor, decrepid standard out

Mark’d with most flimsy mottos, and in large

The name of one Boileau!

 O ye whose charge

It is to hover round our pleasant hills!

Whose congregated majesty so fills

My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace

Your hallowed names, in this unholy place,

So near those common folk; did not their shames

Affright you? Did our old lamenting Thames

Delight you? Did ye never cluster round

Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound,

And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieu

To regions where no more the laurel grew?

Or did ye stay to give a welcoming

To some lone spirits who could proudly sing

Their youth away, and die? ’Twas even so:

But let me think away those times of woe:

Now ’tis a fairer season; ye have breathed

Rich benedictions o’er us; ye have wreathed

Fresh garlands: for sweet music has been heard

In many places;—some has been upstirr’d

From out its crystal dwelling in a lake,

By a swan’s ebon bill; from a thick brake,

Nested and quiet in a valley mild,

Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wild

About the earth: happy are ye and glad.

These things are doubtless: yet in truth we’ve had

Strange thunders from the potency of song;

Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong,

From majesty: but in clear truth the themes

Are ugly clubs, the Poets Polyphemes

Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower

Of light is poesy; ’tis the supreme of power;

’Tis might half slumb’ring on its own right arm.

The very archings of her eye-lids charm

A thousand willing agents to obey,

And still she governs with the mildest sway:

But strength alone though of the Muses born

Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn,

Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres

Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs,

And thorns of life; forgetting the great end

Of poesy, that it should be a friend

To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.

  Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than

E’er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds

Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds

A silent space with ever sprouting green.

All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,

Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering,

Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing.

Then let us clear away the choaking thorns

From round its gentle stem; let the young fawns,

Yeaned in after times, when we are flown,

Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown

With simple flowers: let there nothing be

More boisterous than a lover’s bended knee;

Nought more ungentle than the placid look

Of one who leans upon a closed book;

Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes

Between two hills. All hail delightful hopes!

As she was wont, th’ imagination

Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone,

And they shall be accounted poet kings

Who simply tell the most heart-easing things.

O may these joys be ripe before I die.

Will not some say that I presumptuously

Have spoken? that from hastening disgrace

’Twere better far to hide my foolish face?

That whining boyhood should with reverence bow

Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach? How!

If I do hide myself, it sure shall be

In the very fane, the light of Poesy:

If I do fall, at least I will be laid

Beneath the silence of a poplar shade;

And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven;

And there shall be a kind memorial graven.

But off Despondence! miserable bane!

They should not know thee, who athirst to gain

A noble end, are thirsty every hour.

What though I am not wealthy in the dower

Of spanning wisdom; though I do not know

The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow

Hither and thither all the changing thoughts

Of man: though no great minist’ring reason sorts

Out the dark mysteries of human souls

To clear conceiving: yet there ever rolls

A vast idea before me, and I glean

Therefrom my liberty; thence too I’ve seen

The end and aim of Poesy. ’Tis clear

As anything most true; as that the year

Is made of the four seasons—manifest

As a large cross, some old cathedral’s crest,

Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should I

Be but the essence of deformity,

A coward, did my very eye-lids wink

At speaking out what I have dared to think.

Ah! rather let me like a madman run

Over some precipice; let the hot sun

Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me down

Convuls’d and headlong! Stay! an inward frown

Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile.

An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,

Spreads awfully before me. How much toil!

How many days! what desperate turmoil!

Ere I can have explored its widenesses.

Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees,

I could unsay those—no, impossible!

Impossible!

  For sweet relief I’ll dwell

On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay

Begun in gentleness die so away.

E’en now all tumult from my bosom fades:

I turn full hearted to the friendly aids

That smooth the path of honour; brotherhood,

And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.

The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet

Into the brain ere one can think upon it;

The silence when some rhymes are coming out;

And when they’re come, the very pleasant rout:

The message certain to be done to-morrow.

’Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow

Some precious book from out its snug retreat,

To cluster round it when we next shall meet.

Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs

Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs;

Many delights of that glad day recalling,

When first my senses caught their tender falling.

And with these airs come forms of elegance

Stooping their shoulders o’er a horse’s prance,

Careless, and grand—fingers soft and round

Parting luxuriant curls;—and the swift bound

Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye

Made Ariadne’s cheek look blushingly.

Thus I remember all the pleasant flow

Of words at opening a portfolio.

Things such as these are ever harbingers

To trains of peaceful images: the stirs

Of a swan’s neck unseen among the rushes:

A linnet starting all about the bushes:

A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted

Nestling a rose, convuls’d as though it smarted

With over pleasure—many, many more,

Might I indulge at large in all my store

Of luxuries: yet I must not forget

Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet:

For what there may be worthy in these rhymes

I partly owe to him: and thus, the chimes

Of friendly voices had just given place

To as sweet a silence, when I ’gan retrace

The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease.

It was a poet’s house who keeps the keys

Of pleasure’s temple. Round about were hung

The glorious features of the bards who sung

In other ages—cold and sacred busts

Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts

To clear Futurity his darling fame!

Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim

At swelling apples with a frisky leap

And reaching fingers, ’mid a luscious heap

Of vine leaves. Then there rose to view a fane

Of liny marble, and thereto a train

Of nymphs approaching fairly o’er the sward:

One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward

The dazzling sun-rise: two sisters sweet

Bending their graceful figures till they meet

Over the trippings of a little child:

And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild

Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping.

See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping

Cherishingly Diana’s timorous limbs;—

A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims

At the bath’s edge, and keeps a gentle motion

With the subsiding crystal: as when ocean

Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothiness o’er

Its rocky marge, and balances once more

The patient weeds; that now unshent by foam

Feel all about their undulating home.

Sappho’s meek head was there half smiling down

At nothing; just as though the earnest frown

Of over thinking had that moment gone

From off her brow, and left her all alone.

Great Alfred’s too, with anxious, pitying eyes,

As if he always listened to the sighs

Of the goaded world; and Kosciusko’s worn

By horrid suffrance—mightily forlorn.

Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green,

Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can wean

His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they!

For over them was seen a free display

Of out-spread wings, and from between them shone

The face of Poesy: from off her throne

She overlook’d things that I scarce could tell.

The very sense of where I was might well

Keep Sleep aloof: but more than that there came

Thought after thought to nourish up the flame

Within my breast; so that the morning light

Surprised me even from a sleepless night;

And up I rose refresh’d, and glad, and gay,

Resolving to begin that very day

These lines; and howsoever they be done,

I leave them as a father does his son.

静下来想一想！生命不过是瞬间；

如一滴易晞的朝露挂在树尖

摇摇欲坠；如印第安不幸者的睡眠，

正当他 的船冲向可怕的悬岩，

在蒙莫朗西。但何必叹息悲伤？  

生命是待放的玫瑰蕴含的希望；

生命是诵读变化无穷的故事；

是把少女的面纱轻轻揭起；

是炎夏凉风中野鸽子疾飞骤降，

是欢笑的学童，全不知痛苦忧伤，

把榆树伸出的弹性枝条当马骑。

啊，给我十年吧！我可以在诗里

征服自己；我可以大有作为，

听从我灵魂对我自己的指挥。

我可以遍历各国，看国土成串

在我的眼前展开，我还将不断

品尝各地的清泉。我首先前往

花神和牧神之国：我睡在草地上，

吃的是紫色的草莓，红色的苹果，

凭我的幻想去寻找种种欢乐；

抓住仙女的素手在隐蔽的树阴，

恳求躲避的面颊给一串甜吻，——

抚弄纤指，触摸白皙的肩膀，

使她们娇嗔地退缩，却硬硬心肠

用嘴唇蜇了我一口：终于同意，

我们将共读人生的美好故事。

有一个仙女将教会鸽子怎样

待我睡着了给我轻轻地扇凉；

另一个仙女，弯着腰灵巧地举步，

将披上绿衣，让它在周身飘舞，

她还将随心所欲地跳各种舞蹈，

朝着绿树和鲜花发出微笑：

另一个仙女招引我前去，前去，

走过扁桃花丛和茂盛的肉桂树，

进入个葳蕤绿叶世界的怀抱，

我们静静地安歇，像两粒珍宝

深深隐藏在贝壳里，蜷伏在一起。

那么，我能否把这些欢乐舍弃？

是的，我必须抛开这些，去追寻

更崇高的生活，去发现人类心灵

深处的痛苦和撞击：瞧！我看见

一辆马车疾驰过峭拔的蓝天，

辕马的鬃毛飞动——驾车的驭手

带着辉煌的惶恐探看着风头：

马蹄轻举，沿着巍峨的云巅

奔踏而过；一会儿又轴轮飞旋。

车驾下降，驶入清朗的蓝天。

太阳的金眼把车轮镀成银盘。

他们如一阵旋风般继续下降；

这会儿我看见他们在绿色山岗

旁边歇下来，周围是颠簸的花枝。

那驭手打着令人惊奇的手势

向山峦和树木说话；于是马上

出现欢乐、神秘和恐惧的形状，

这些形体在一群巨大的橡树

造成的阴影面前飞速地移过去，

仿佛在追赶稍纵即逝的音符。

瞧它们在低诉，哗笑，微笑，哀哭：

有的举着手，嘴角是严厉的神态；

有的伸出两臂，把面孔遮盖，

直盖到耳朵；有的正青春焕发，

微笑着跨过幽影，怒放着心花；

有的回头看，而有的抬头凝视；

是的，千万形体以千万种方式

掠过—— 一会儿一圈可爱的女孩子

跳着舞，把光润的头发跳成乱丝；

一会儿展现巨翅。赶马的驭手

敬畏而专注地躬身倾向前头，

好像在倾听：哦，我真想了解

他在闪光的飞驰中录下的一切。

所有的幻象消失了——马车隐灭，

化入明亮的天光，代替这一切，

现实世界的感觉顽强地到来，

像一条混浊的小河，它硬拽

我灵魂向幻灭：但我将奋力扫除

这一切疑虑，在心里活生生记住

那辆马车，和那辆马车的经历——

奇异的旅程。

如今勇敢的心力

驰骋的疆场如此小，以至人类

崇高的想象竟不能自由地腾飞——

像过去那样？她不能备好马匹，  

向阳光冲去，完成奇妙的业绩

在云端？难道她不曾显示这一切？

从灏灏苍穹，一直到花苞绽裂

吐出的一缕幽香？从约夫眉间

隐含的意蕴，一直到绿茵片片

涌自四月的牧场？她的神坛

在岛上也曾发 过光；谁能超赶

热情的歌队？——它唱过和谐的歌声，  

这歌声直达上苍，在那里形成

永远跌宕回旋的宏伟音涛，

巨大如一颗行星，在滚动奔跑，

绕着眩目的真空永恒地运转。

啊，那时候缪斯们已经载满

荣誉；她们整日价无忧无虑，

除了唱歌，把波动的鬈发轻抚。

这一切 都忘了？是的，由蒙昧状态

和浮华风尚豢养的一种教派  

使阿波罗为他的领地感到羞愧。

谁不识他的荣耀，谁就被称为

聪明人：这些人骑着一匹弹簧马，

用尽吃奶的 力气前后摇晃它，

认它作珀加索斯。啊，可悲的灵魂！  

天上有风云激荡，大海有滚滚

浪涛翻卷——你们全不知。蓝天

袒露永恒的胸脯，在夏天的夜晚，

露水暗暗地凝聚，为了使早晨

变得更可爱：啊，美已经苏醒！

你们为什么不醒来？但是你们对

不了解的事物麻木不仁，——你们被

束缚于拙劣的教条，邪恶的指南，

墨守成规：你们教一帮笨蛋

把诗句磨 光，修剪，熨平，镶嵌，

使之像雅各的智慧魔枝一般，

相互搭配。这工作易如反掌：

许多许多的匠人都这样戴上

诗的面具。倒霉的、不肖的一群！

当面亵渎了光辉的抒情诗人，

却还不知道，——不，他们高举起

破烂不堪的旗帜招摇过市，

标榜浅薄的信条，旗子上写着

布瓦洛之流的大名！ 

而你们，哦，

该翱翔在我们可爱山间的一群！

你们群体的威严已经充盈

我虔敬的胸怀，在这不洁的场所，

离这些凡夫太近，我无法追索

你们神圣 的名字；他们的无耻，

你们不惊诧？古老哀伤的泰晤士  

不曾 使你们愉悦？你们从不曾

聚集在怡人的爱汶河边，悲声  

哭泣？难道你们都已经离开

那不再生长月桂枝叶的地带？

或者你们还留下来准备欢迎

那些曾 经骄傲地唱完了青春

就死去的寂寞的精灵？正是这样：  

但我想把那悲苦的时代遗忘：

如今是明媚的季节；你们已赐予

我们以美好的祝福；你们已编出

新鲜的花环：因为到处都可以

听到优美的音乐；——有的人已惊起，  

走出湖上水晶般清澈的住宅，

被天鹅用黑喙唤醒；从密密草莱，

从静静地栖息在幽谷的树丛深处，

流出了笛音；动听的音调正飘浮

在整个大地上：你们幸福而快乐。

这是无疑的：但我们也听到，真的，

从诗歌内部迸出奇异的雷鸣；

其中也渗透着来自威严的强劲、

甜美的成分：但显然，那主题可是

丑陋的棍棒，诗人们——波吕 斐摩斯

搅乱了壮丽的海洋。诗乃是光之雨，  

永无穷尽；诗乃是至高的伟力；

是倚着右臂半睡半醒的潜能。

她那圆圆如弓的眼睑能吸引

万千志愿的使者来为她效力，

她仍凭温和的权威进行治理：

但单独的力量，虽然是缪斯所产，

却像堕落的天使：只有黑暗、

蠕虫、劈裂的树木、尸衣和坟墓

能使它高兴；因为它的食物

是磨石，人生的荆棘；它已经忘记

诗的 伟大的目标是化为友谊

去缓解忧伤，提高人的想象力。

   可是我 也高兴：从苦味草丛里

桃金娘出生，胜过帕福斯的花，  

向空中伸展甜蜜的花冠，还把

新抽的绿芽喂给静静的空间。

这里小鸟们找到了合意的帐幔，

穿越花阴，轻快地拍动翅膀，

戏咬小小的酒盅花，又引吭歌唱。

让我们从它嫩枝的周围清除

那些要把它缠死的荆棘；让小鹿——

我们匆匆离去后诞生的幼兽——

在它的下面找到鲜草坪，上面有

纯洁的花朵：那里不会有喧嚷，

只听到情人屈膝的声音轻响；

不会有半点粗鲁，只见到有人

面容温和，倚着合上的书本；

更没有扰攘，只有绿草坡静躺

在两山之间。欢迎，美好的希望！

幻想，一如她往常那样，会走进

一座座无比可爱的迷宫去旅行，

谁能讲朴素的故事使心情舒畅，

谁就被拥戴而成为诗人之王。

愿这些欢乐成熟在我死以前。

会不会有人说，我的话都是胡言

乱语？说别等耻辱赶来光顾，

我最好藏起自己愚昧的面目？

说少年呜咽想躲避可怕的雷打

就该敬畏地顶礼膜拜？什么话！

假如要隐藏，我准定让我自己

在诗的神殿、诗的灵光里隐蔽：

假如要倒下，我至少让我自己

躺在白杨树下静静的绿阴里；

覆盖我身躯的青草会修剪平整；

那里会竖起友好的纪念碑铭。

但是，去吧，沮丧！可悲的灾难！

每时每刻都在渴望着登攀

崇高目标的人们与沮丧无缘。

虽然我没有横空的智慧，上天

没给我如许恩赐；虽然我不明白

疾风劲吹，强大的气流往来，

把人类所有变幻的思想向哪里

吹去；虽然没有伟大助人的智力

把人类灵魂的幽暗隐秘化成

清醒的想象：但在我面前始终

滚动着宏大的理想，我从中采撷

我的自由；从中我也已察觉

诗的终极和目标。它像每一件

实物那样的清晰；正如一年

由四个季节组成一样——恰似

古老教堂尖顶上巨大的十字

直插白云般明显。所以，我必将

成为畸形的、扭曲的实体，反常，

一介懦夫，只要我说出我大胆

想象的事物时竟然眨一眨我的眼！

啊！我宁愿像一个狂人，冲下

陡峭的 悬崖；让炽热的阳光熔化

我的代达洛斯的翅膀，促使我  

抽搐着向下迅猛地跌落！慢着！

良心不悦地嘱咐我不要偏激。

庄严的沧海，岛屿星罗着，展示

在我的面前。这需要多少辛劳！

多少时间！多少拼搏和烦恼——

我才能探知这大海有多么深广。

啊，艰巨的工程！我跪向上苍，

尽可以收回前言——但是啊，不！

不可能！

  为了松口气，我要讲出

一些愚见，让这次陌生的试笔

以高雅开始却就这样地完毕。

如今我胸中的纷扰已经平复：

我全心全意期待友好的帮助

为我铺平光荣的道路；我瞩望

兄弟的情谊——相互友善的乳娘。

我期待热心的握手给大脑送上

一首意想不到的迷人的十四行；

我期待诗韵涌出时那一片宁静，

和诗韵涌出后那阵阵笑语欢声：

这显然是信息，明天要再来一次。

也许还可以从那安适的隐居室

取出一本极可珍爱的宝书，

我们下次集会时围着它阅读。

我无法再写了；因为优美的曲调

像鸽子成对，正在屋子里飞绕；

回忆那喜人的一天里多少欢悦，

这欢悦初次触击了我的感觉。

从这些曲调里出现优雅的图像，

一些人俯身坐在腾跃的马车上，

快活，庄严 ——柔润滚圆的手指

分开浓密的鬈发；——酒神巴科斯  

从车上敏捷地跃下，而他的眼睛

直盯得阿里阿德涅的面颊羞红。

这样，当我打开画册的时候，

我忆起美妙的歌词汩汩奔流。

像这样一些事情永远是一连串

安宁形象的先兆：天鹅的弯弯

颈项移动着隐入灯心草丛：

红雀把树林里外的一切都惊动：

蝴蝶张开阔大的金色翅翼，

歇在玫瑰上，它仿佛由于狂喜

而痛苦地抖动——还有很多，很多，

我可以在我的宝库里尽情游乐：

但是我怎样也不能忘记睡眠——

他温和文静，戴一顶罂粟花冠：

假如我这些诗句还有点价值，

我一半归功于他：这样，真挚

而谐调的乐声就让位给那同样

可爱的宁静，当我休憩在榻上，

开始追 忆那令人愉快的一日。

那是位诗人的房间，他有把钥匙  

能开启欢乐的神庙。室内挂着

诗人们光辉的画像，他们高歌

在过去的时代——冷静圣洁的胸像

面对面微笑。乐观的人呵，他向

晴朗的未来托付他珍爱的名声！

这里有牧神和森林神挽弓对准

茂密的葡萄藤叶间鼓圆的苹果，

等射中便一跃而出，用手指抓获

那些果子。还可以见到大理石

建筑的神殿，一群仙女这时

正跨过草地温雅地向神殿走去：

一个仙女，最美的，伸手指出

炫目的旭日：可爱的姊妹二人

弯下窈窕的形体使两身挨近，

护着个小小孩童轻快地跳舞：

有一些仙女在聆听，神态专注，

听芦笛如露珠滚动的自由颤音。

看，另一幅画上，仙女们在细心

揩干月神狄安娜畏怯的手足；——

浴池边，细布斗篷戏水般浮出

折叠的一角，随着水珠的沉降

轻轻地左右摆动：像大海汪洋

静静地涌起平稳的巨浪漫过

岩石的边缘，使耐心的海草能得

再一次摆动；海水不再来冲击，

海草在起伏波动中感到惬意。

周邦彦是位学者型的艺术家。他深于礼乐，曾参予修订礼书的工作。他的文章汪洋博恣，诗尤奇崛老苍，可惜这类作品大部分都散失了，只有《清真词集》流传了下来，南宋末年陈元龙为它作注时易名《片玉集》。陈郁《藏一话腴》称他：“二百年来以乐府独步，贵人、学士、市儇（xuān）、妓女皆知美成词为可爱。”

周邦彦的词风与柳永相近，都工于慢词，多写男女欢情，爱用铺叙的手法。但他格律严谨，语言更加洗练，风格也更为蕴藉。他爱用典故，因而更带书卷气，也更渊雅些，被称为婉约派的集大成者和格律派的创始人。后世词家模拟者多，流风余韵及于明清而未已。

周词精于审音。据夏承焘先生考订，除少数几首小令外，其工拗句、严上去者十居七八。如《绕佛阁》之双拽头（即一段前面的两个字句相同的小段）：

暗尘四敛。楼观迥出，高映孤馆。清漏将短。厌闻夜久，签声动书幔。桂华又满。闲步露草，偏爱幽远。花气清婉。望中迤逦，城阴度河岸。

每段廿五字，有意安排了大量拗句，两段之间，各字四声无一不合，可谓精审入微了。难怪王国维要说：“今其声虽亡，读其词者，犹觉拗怒之中，自饶和婉。曼声促节，繁会相宣。清浊抑扬，辘轳交往。两宋之间，一人而已。”我们读周词，对于他这方面的造诣也不应放过。

在词调整理和创制上，周邦彦也作出了重要的贡献。张炎《词源》称：“迄于崇宁，立大晟府，命周美成诸人讨论古音，审定古调。沦落之后，少得存者。由此八十四调之声稍传。而美成诸人又复增演慢、曲、引、近，或移宫换羽，为三犯、四犯之曲，按月律为之，其曲遂繁。”今《片玉集》中《花犯》、《倒犯》以及《无闷》、《绕佛阁》、《夜飞鹊》诸调，前不经见，应是邦彦所创。对于丰富词调，不为无功。

周邦彦是语言艺术大师，在这方面的成就尤为突出。他创造了许多优美的语汇和生动的形象，如：“水涨鱼天拍柳桥”、“砑绫小字夜来封”、“笼灯就月”、“小桥冲雨”、“小唇秀靥”、“砧杵韵高”等等，或为他所新创，或为他所巧用，都丰富了词的境界和表现的力量。邦彦长于对句，善用动词，如“褪粉梅梢，试华桃树”、“名园露饮，东城闲步”、“风老莺雏，雨肥梅子”、“蝉咽凉柯”、“燕飞尘幕”、“暗竹敲凉，疏萤照晚”等等，都是珠鲜玉润的佳词妙句。

笔触细腻入微是周词的又一特点。他写嫩竹：“墙头青玉旆，洗铅霜都尽，嫩梢相触”（《大酺》）。真把蒙蒙春雨中解箨（tuò，笋壳）初出的新竹神态写活了。他写风荷：“叶上初阳干宿雨，水面清圆，一一风荷举。”（《苏幕遮》）试问还有更好的形容么？

勾勒与白描，在周词中是各极其工的：

并刀如水，吴盐胜雪，纤手破新橙。锦幄初温，兽烟不断，相对坐调笙。低声问，向谁行宿？城上已三更。马滑霜浓，不如休去，直是少人行。

——《少年游》

全用口语白描，把男女的情爱写得这样温馨旖旎，没有一点恶俗气味，真是恰到好处的本色佳作。

正单衣试酒，恨客里光阴虚掷。愿春暂留，春归如过翼，一去无迹。为问花何在？夜来风雨，葬楚宫倾国。钗钿堕处遗香泽。乱点桃蹊，轻翻柳陌。多情为谁追惜？但蜂媒蝶使，时叩窗隔。东园岑寂，渐蒙笼暗碧。静绕珍丛底，成叹息。长条故惹行客。似牵衣待话，别情无极。残英小，强簪巾帻。终不似、一朵钗头颤袅，向人欹侧。漂流处、莫趁潮汐。恐断红尚有相思字，何由见得？

——《六丑·落花》

这是首以勾勒见工的名篇，结构严谨而曲折多变，每字纤悉必当，决不苟下。“过翼”三句，一步三折，可谓千锤百炼。他人一勾勒便易板滞，邦彦则愈勾勒而愈浑厚生动，这是其独到处。“故惹”二句，不写人怜花，而写花恋人，以拟人法出之，格外感人。“漂流处”以下，从落花转写身世，是点睛之笔。“莫要追逐那涨落无休的潮头吧，只怕漂流的花瓣上还剩有相思的字句，何忍重见啊！”联想巧妙，比喻深刻，真有回肠荡气的力量。

蕴藉含蓄，这是周词的基本风格。他的词不像柳永那样以直叙为主，也不同于苏轼的恣肆汪洋。他善用委婉的笔触，曲折而从容地表现自己的情绪。比如下面一段：

年年，如社燕，飘流瀚海，来寄修椽。且莫思身外，长近尊前。憔悴江南倦客，不堪听、急管繁弦。歌筵畔，先安簟枕，容我醉时眠。

——《满庭芳》

词作于溧水知县任上。这时他年近四十，长期的漂泊生活和政治上的失意，使他身心憔悴，这就是词里所表现的情绪。陈廷焯说：“此中有多少说不出处。或是依人之苦，或有患失之心。但说得虽哀怨，却不激烈。沉郁顿挫中，别饶蕴藉。”“歌筵畔，先安簟枕，容我醉时眠”，多么复杂的心境，表现得又何其从容，这就是清真词的风格。他与苏轼那种怒澜飞空、淋漓痛快的作风不同，他是百炼钢化为绕指柔，一以从容深厚出之。这也可说是两派的一个相异之处吧。

周邦彦对词的发展，固然作出了重要的贡献，但无可讳言，他也有消极的一面。从内容上看，他把苏轼所开辟的广阔局面又拉回到风月流连、艳情涂抹的老路上来，思想境界也不出叹老嗟卑、伤离忆旧之类的范围，与苏词比较，要苍白和贫弱得多，不能不说是一大缺陷。从艺术手法上讲，他深谙音律，字句精工，达到了圆融美艳、修琢无痕的境地，这自然是好的。可却也减弱了前期词坛上比较质朴自然的风气，渐开了南宋词人纤巧琐碎之风。这虽是不善学习之过，但同他偏重形式的倾向也有关系。

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