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0楼  发表于: 2015-05-01  

弗罗斯特诗选(英文原版)

管理提醒: 本帖被 孟冲之 执行置顶操作(2015-08-22)

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Fire And Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Acquainted With The Night

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
A luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
仰天曾大笑,低首更沉吟
级别: 创始人
1楼  发表于: 2015-05-01  
这个网站很不错,找英文原版诗可靠,有的还配有朗诵。

诗歌猎人网
仰天曾大笑,低首更沉吟
级别: 一年级
2楼  发表于: 2015-05-01  
回 1楼(孟冲之) 的帖子
冲之兄,那里很多诗是不完整的,要留意。


http://www.poemhunter.com/jiang-haizhou/
级别: 一年级
3楼  发表于: 2015-05-01  
回 1楼(孟冲之) 的帖子
这个网站上的诗基本都完整的:

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/search/?q=Simon+Armitage
级别: 创始人
4楼  发表于: 2015-05-02  
Robert Frost

1874–1963

Robert Frost holds a unique and almost isolated position in American letters. “Though his career fully spans the modern period and though it is impossible to speak of him as anything other than a modern poet,” writes James M. Cox, “it is difficult to place him in the main tradition of modern poetry.” In a sense, Frost stands at the crossroads of 19th-century American poetry and modernism, for in his verse may be found the culmination of many 19th-century tendencies and traditions as well as parallels to the works of his 20th-century contemporaries. Taking his symbols from the public domain, Frost developed, as many critics note, an original, modern idiom and a sense of directness and economy that reflect the imagism of Ezra Pound and Amy Lowell. On the other hand, as Leonard Unger and William Van O’Connor point out in Poems for Study, “Frost’s poetry, unlike that of such contemporaries as Eliot, Stevens, and the later Yeats, shows no marked departure from the poetic practices of the nineteenth century.” Although he avoids traditional verse forms and only uses rhyme erratically, Frost is not an innovator and his technique is never experimental. 



Frost’s theory of poetic composition ties him to both centuries. Like the 19th-century Romantics, he maintained that a poem is “never a put-up job.... It begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a loneliness. It is never a thought to begin with. It is at its best when it is a tantalizing vagueness.” Yet, “working out his own version of the ‘impersonal’ view of art,” as Hyatt H. Waggoner observed, Frost also upheld T. S. Eliot‘s idea that the man who suffers and the artist who creates are totally separate. In a 1932 letter to Sydney Cox, Frost explained his conception of poetry: “The objective idea is all I ever cared about. Most of my ideas occur in verse.... To be too subjective with what an artist has managed to make objective is to come on him presumptuously and render ungraceful what he in pain of his life had faith he had made graceful.” 



To accomplish such objectivity and grace, Frost took up 19th-century tools and made them new. Lawrance Thompson has explained that, according to Frost, “the self-imposed restrictions of meter in form and of coherence in content” work to a poet’s advantage; they liberate him from the experimentalist’s burden—the perpetual search for new forms and alternative structures. Thus Frost, as he himself put it in “The Constant Symbol,” wrote his verse regular; he never completely abandoned conventional metrical forms for free verse, as so many of his contemporaries were doing. At the same time, his adherence to meter, line length, and rhyme scheme was not an arbitrary choice. He maintained that “the freshness of a poem belongs absolutely to its not having been thought out and then set to verse as the verse in turn might be set to music.” He believed, rather, that the poem’s particular mood dictated or determined the poet’s “first commitment to metre and length of line.” 



Critics frequently point out that Frost complicated his problem and enriched his style by setting traditional meters against the natural rhythms of speech. Drawing his language primarily from the vernacular, he avoided artificial poetic diction by employing the accent of a soft-spoken New Englander. In The Function of Criticism, Yvor Winters faulted Frost for his “endeavor to make his style approximate as closely as possible the style of conversation.” But what Frost achieved in his poetry was much more complex than a mere imitation of the New England farmer idiom. He wanted to restore to literature the “sentence sounds that underlie the words,” the “vocal gesture” that enhances meaning. That is, he felt the poet’s ear must be sensitive to the voice in order to capture with the written word the significance of sound in the spoken word. “The Death of the Hired Man,” for instance, consists almost entirely of dialogue between Mary and Warren, her farmer-husband, but critics have observed that in this poem Frost takes the prosaic patterns of their speech and makes them lyrical. To Ezra Pound “The Death of the Hired Man” represented Frost at his best—when he “dared to write ... in the natural speech of New England; in natural spoken speech, which is very different from the ‘natural’ speech of the newspapers, and of many professors.” 



Frost’s use of New England dialect is only one aspect of his often discussed regionalism. Within New England, his particular focus was on New Hampshire, which he called “one of the two best states in the Union,” the other being Vermont. In an essay entitled “Robert Frost and New England: A Revaluation,” W. G. O’Donnell noted how from the start, in A Boy’s Will, “Frost had already decided to give his writing a local habitation and a New England name, to root his art in the soil that he had worked with his own hands.” Reviewing North of Boston in the New Republic, Amy Lowell wrote, “Not only is his work New England in subject, it is so in technique.... Mr. Frost has reproduced both people and scenery with a vividness which is extraordinary.” Many other critics have lauded Frost’s ability to realistically evoke the New England landscape; they point out that one can visualize an orchard in “After Apple-Picking” or imagine spring in a farmyard in “Two Tramps in Mud Time.” In this “ability to portray the local truth in nature,” O’Donnell claims, Frost has no peer. The same ability prompted Pound to declare, “I know more of farm life than I did before I had read his poems. That means I know more of ‘Life.’” 



Frost’s regionalism, critics remark, is in his realism, not in politics; he creates no picture of regional unity or sense of community. In The Continuity of American Poetry, Roy Harvey Pearce describes Frost’s protagonists as individuals who are constantly forced to confront their individualism as such and to reject the modern world in order to retain their identity. Frost’s use of nature is not only similar but closely tied to this regionalism. He stays as clear of religion and mysticism as he does of politics. What he finds in nature is sensuous pleasure; he is also sensitive to the earth’s fertility and to man’s relationship to the soil. To critic M. L. Rosenthal, Frost’s pastoral quality, his “lyrical and realistic repossession of the rural and ‘natural,’” is the staple of his reputation. 



Yet, just as Frost is aware of the distances between one man and another, so he is also always aware of the distinction, the ultimate separateness, of nature and man. Marion Montgomery has explained, “His attitude toward nature is one of armed and amicable truce and mutual respect interspersed with crossings of the boundaries” between individual man and natural forces. Below the surface of Frost’s poems are dreadful implications, what Rosenthal calls his “shocked sense of the helpless cruelty of things.” This natural cruelty is at work in “Design” and in “Once by the Pacific.” The ominous tone of these two poems prompted Rosenthal’s further comment: “At his most powerful Frost is as staggered by ‘the horror’ as Eliot and approaches the hysterical edge of sensibility in a comparable way.... His is still the modern mind in search of its own meaning.” 



The austere and tragic view of life that emerges in so many of Frost’s poems is modulated by his metaphysical use of detail. As Frost portrays him, man might be alone in an ultimately indifferent universe, but he may nevertheless look to the natural world for metaphors of his own condition. Thus, in his search for meaning in the modern world, Frost focuses on those moments when the seen and the unseen, the tangible and the spiritual intersect. John T. Napier calls this Frost’s ability “to find the ordinary a matrix for the extraordinary.” In this respect, he is often compared with Emily Dickinson and Ralph Waldo Emerson, in whose poetry, too, a simple fact, object, person, or event will be transfigured and take on greater mystery or significance. The poem “Birches” is an example: it contains the image of slender trees bent to the ground temporarily by a boy’s swinging on them or permanently by an ice-storm. But as the poem unfolds, it becomes clear that the speaker is concerned not only with child’s play and natural phenomena, but also with the point at which physical and spiritual reality merge. 



Such symbolic import of mundane facts informs many of Frost’s poems, and in “Education by Poetry” he explained: “Poetry begins in trivial metaphors, pretty metaphors, ‘grace’ metaphors, and goes on to the profoundest thinking that we have. Poetry provides the one permissible way of saying one thing and meaning another.... Unless you are at home in the metaphor, unless you have had your proper poetical education in the metaphor, you are not safe anywhere.” 



Frost’s own poetical education began in San Francisco where he was born in 1874, but he found his place of safety in New England when his family moved to Lawrence, Massachusetts, in 1884 following his father’s death. The move was actually a return, for Frost’s ancestors were originally New Englanders. The region must have been particularly conducive to the writing of poetry because within the next five years Frost had made up his mind to be a poet. In fact, he graduated from Lawrence High School, in 1892, as class poet (he also shared the honor of co-valedictorian with his wife-to-be Elinor White); and two years later, the New York Independent accepted his poem entitled “My Butterfly,” launching his status as a professional poet with a check for $15.00. 



To celebrate his first publication, Frost had a book of six poems privately printed; two copies of Twilight were made—one for himself and one for his fiancee. Over the next eight years, however, he succeeded in having only thirteen more poems published. During this time, Frost sporadically attended Dartmouth and Harvard and earned a living teaching school and, later, working a farm in Derry, New Hampshire. But in 1912, discouraged by American magazines’ constant rejection of his work, he took his family to England, where he could “write and be poor without further scandal in the family.” In England, Frost found the professional esteem denied him in his native country. Continuing to write about New England, he had two books published, A Boy’s Will and North of Boston, which established his reputation so that his return to the United States in 1915 was as a celebrated literary figure. Holt put out an American edition of North of Boston, and periodicals that had once scorned his work now sought it. 



Since 1915 Frost’s position in American letters has been firmly rooted; in the years before his death he came to be considered the unofficial poet laureate of the United States. On his seventy-fifth birthday, the U.S. Senate passed a resolution in his honor which said, “His poems have helped to guide American thought and humor and wisdom, setting forth to our minds a reliable representation of ourselves and of all men.” In 1955, the State of Vermont named a mountain after him in Ripton, the town of his legal residence; and at the presidential inauguration of John F. Kennedy in 1961, Frost was given the unprecedented honor of being asked to read a poem. Frost wrote a poem called “Dedication” for the occasion, but could not read it given the day’s harsh sunlight. He instead recited “The Gift Outright,” which Kennedy had originally asked him to read, with a revised, more forward-looking, last line.



Though Frost allied himself with no literary school or movement, the imagists helped at the start to promote his American reputation. Poetry: A Magazine of Verse published his work before others began to clamor for it. It also published a review by Ezra Pound of the British edition of A Boy’s Will, which Pound said “has the tang of the New Hampshire woods, and it has just this utter sincerity. It is not post-Miltonic or post-Swinburnian or post Kiplonian. This man has the good sense to speak naturally and to paint the thing, the thing as he sees it.” Amy Lowell reviewed North of Boston in the New Republic, and she, too, sang Frost’s praises: “He writes in classic metres in a way to set the teeth of all the poets of the older schools on edge; and he writes in classic metres, and uses inversions and cliches whenever he pleases, those devices so abhorred by the newest generation. He goes his own way, regardless of anyone else’s rules, and the result is a book of unusual power and sincerity.” In these first two volumes, Frost introduced not only his affection for New England themes and his unique blend of traditional meters and colloquialism, but also his use of dramatic monologues and dialogues. “Mending Wall,” the leading poem in North of Boston, describes the friendly argument between the speaker and his neighbor as they walk along their common wall replacing fallen stones; their differing attitudes toward “boundaries” offer symbolic significance typical of the poems in these early collections. 



Mountain Interval marked Frost’s turn to another kind of poem, a brief meditation sparked by an object, person or event. Like the monologues and dialogues, these short pieces have a dramatic quality. “Birches,” discussed above, is an example, as is “The Road Not Taken,” in which a fork in a woodland path transcends the specific. The distinction of this volume, the Boston Transcript said, “is that Mr. Frost takes the lyricism of A Boy’s Will and plays a deeper music and gives a more intricate variety of experience.” 



Several new qualities emerged in Frost’s work with the appearance of New Hampshire, particularly a new self-consciousness and willingness to speak of himself and his art. The volume, for which Frost won his first Pulitzer Prize, “pretends to be nothing but a long poem with notes and grace notes,” as Louis Untermeyer described it. The title poem, approximately fourteen pages long, is a “rambling tribute” to Frost’s favorite state and “is starred and dotted with scientific numerals in the manner of the most profound treatise.” Thus, a footnote at the end of a line of poetry will refer the reader to another poem seemingly inserted to merely reinforce the text of “New Hampshire.” Some of these poems are in the form of epigrams, which appear for the first time in Frost’s work. “Fire and Ice,” for example, one of the better known epigrams, speculates on the means by which the world will end. Frost’s most famous and, according to J. McBride Dabbs, most perfect lyric, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” is also included in this collection; conveying “the insistent whisper of death at the heart of life,” the poem portrays a speaker who stops his sleigh in the midst of a snowy woods only to be called from the inviting gloom by the recollection of practical duties. Frost himself said of this poem that it is the kind he’d like to print on one page followed with “forty pages of footnotes.” 



West-Running Brook, Frost’s fifth book of poems, is divided into six sections, one of which is taken up entirely by the title poem. This poem refers to a brook which perversely flows west instead of east to the Atlantic like all other brooks. A comparison is set up between the brook and the poem’s speaker who trusts himself to go by “contraries”; further rebellious elements exemplified by the brook give expression to an eccentric individualism, Frost’s stoic theme of resistance and self-realization. Reviewing the collection in the New York Herald Tribune, Babette Deutsch wrote: “The courage that is bred by a dark sense of Fate, the tenderness that broods over mankind in all its blindness and absurdity, the vision that comes to rest as fully on kitchen smoke and lapsing snow as on mountains and stars—these are his, and in his seemingly casual poetry, he quietly makes them ours.” 



A Further Range, which earned Frost another Pulitzer Prize and was a Book-of-the-Month Club selection, contains two groups of poems subtitled “Taken Doubly” and “Taken Singly.” In the first, and more interesting, of these groups, the poems are somewhat didactic, though there are humorous and satiric pieces as well. Included here is “Two Tramps in Mud Time,” which opens with the story of two itinerant lumbermen who offer to cut the speaker’s wood for pay; the poem then develops into a sermon on the relationship between work and play, vocation and avocation, preaching the necessity to unite them. Of the entire volume, William Rose Benet wrote, “It is better worth reading than nine-tenths of the books that will come your way this year. In a time when all kinds of insanity are assailing the nations it is good to listen to this quiet humor, even about a hen, a hornet, or Square Matthew.... And if anybody should ask me why I still believe in my land, I have only to put this book in his hand and answer, ‘Well-here is a man of my country.’” 

Most critics acknowledge that Frost’s poetry in the forties and fifties grew more and more abstract, cryptic, and even sententious, so it is generally on the basis of his earlier work that he is judged. His politics and religious faith, hitherto informed by skepticism and local color, became more and more the guiding principles of his work. He had been, as Randall Jarrell points out, “a very odd and very radical radical when young” yet became “sometimes callously and unimaginatively conservative” in his old age. He had become a public figure, and in the years before his death, much of his poetry was written from this stance. 



Reviewing A Witness Tree in Books, Wilbert Snow noted a few poems “which have a right to stand with the best things he has written”: “Come In,” “The Silken Tent,” and “Carpe Diem” especially. Yet Snow went on: “Some of the poems here are little more than rhymed fancies; others lack the bullet-like unity of structure to be found in North of Boston.” On the other hand, Stephen Vincent Benet felt that Frost had “never written any better poems than some of those in this book.” Similarly, critics were let down by In the Clearing. One wrote, “Although this reviewer considers Robert Frost to be the foremost contemporary U.S. poet, he regretfully must state that most of the poems in this new volume are disappointing.... [They] often are closer to jingles than to the memorable poetry we associate with his name.” Another maintained that “the bulk of the book consists of poems of ‘philosophic talk.’ Whether you like them or not depends mostly on whether you share the ‘philosophy.’” 



Indeed, many readers do share Frost’s philosophy, and still others who do not nevertheless continue to find delight and significance in his large body of poetry. In October, 1963, President John F. Kennedy delivered a speech at the dedication of the Robert Frost Library in Amherst, Massachusetts. “In honoring Robert Frost,” the President said, “we therefore can pay honor to the deepest source of our national strength. That strength takes many forms and the most obvious forms are not always the most significant.... Our national strength matters; but the spirit which informs and controls our strength matters just as much. This was the special significance of Robert Frost.” The poet would probably have been pleased by such recognition, for he had said once, in an interview with Harvey Breit: “One thing I care about, and wish young people could care about, is taking poetry as the first form of understanding. If poetry isn’t understanding all, the whole world, then it isn’t worth anything.” 



Frost’s poetry is revered to this day. When a previously unknown poem by Frost titled “War Thoughts at Home,” was discovered and dated to 1918, it was subsequently published in the fall, 2006, edition of the Virginia Quarterly Review. Frost’s Complete Works are currently being published by Harvard University Press.


Career


Poet. Held various jobs between college studies, including bobbin boy in a Massachusetts mill, cobbler, editor of a country newspaper, schoolteacher, and farmer. Lived in England, 1912-15. Tufts College, Medford, MA, Phi Beta Kappa poet, 1915 and 1940; Amherst College, Amherst, MA, professor of English and poet-in-residence, 1916-20, 1923-25, and 1926-28; Harvard University, Cambridge, MA, Phi Beta Kappa poet, 1916 and 1941; Middlebury College, Middlebury, VT, co-founder of the Bread-Loaf School and Conference of English, 1920, annual lecturer, beginning 1920; University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, professor and poet-in-residence, 1921-23, fellow in letters, 1925-26; Columbia University, New York City, Phi Beta Kappa poet, 1932; Yale University, New Haven, CT, associate fellow, beginning 1933; Harvard University, Charles Eliot Norton Professor of Poetry, 1936, board overseer, 1938-39, Ralph Waldo Emerson Fellow, 1939-41, honorary fellow, 1942-43; associate of Adams House; fellow in American civilization, 1941-42; Dartmouth College, Hanover, NH, George Ticknor Fellow in Humanities, 1943-49, visiting lecturer.
仰天曾大笑,低首更沉吟
级别: 创始人
5楼  发表于: 2015-05-02  
回 3楼(姜海舟) 的帖子
我还未入门,慢慢瞧,看能否瞧出点门道来。
仰天曾大笑,低首更沉吟
级别: 创始人
6楼  发表于: 2015-07-12  
玫瑰木兰花(诗集)弗罗斯特/著;薛舟/译

采  花

我在早晨离开你,
在早晨的光辉中离开,
你沿着我身边的另一条路走,
这让我走得更加悲伤。
你可知道在黄昏里,
我憔悴地漫游,满身灰尘
你沉默是因为你知道还是
因为你并不知道,所以你沉默?

那可全是为了我?而不是一个
关于凋谢的快乐的花朵的问题
这问题能把我从你身边带走
在一天中所有的辰光?
他们是你的,也是他们价值的
尺度,便于你去把他们珍惜,
这也是短暂时光的尺度
而这时光早已经不再属于我。

玫瑰木兰花

一片深绿色的牧场,
太阳的形状,珍珠般大小,
周围的树木不高
这个牧场同样不是很大;
在这里风被排斥,
空气里有着沉闷的芳香,因为
众多的花的呼吸,——
这是个热力的殿堂。

就像我们崇拜太阳,
我们在他的燃烧中弯腰,
去采摘一千朵兰花,没有人
会把她们轻易地错过;
即使草地被践踏得四散,
而新抽的每一颗针茅
都如同被彩色的翅膀覆盖,
他们把空气弄得令令作响。

在离开这里之前,
我们高声发出朴素的祈祷,
在普遍的收割中
那地方或许被遗忘;
或者并非一切都这般幸运,
能拥有时间如此的恩赐,
在那里没有人能够将青草收割
因为他们已经与花融汇在一起。

索要玫瑰花

一座房屋看来没有主妇也没有男主人,
它的门除了风没有什么能够将之关闭,
玻璃渣和水泥把地板弄得凌乱不堪;
它坐落在长着老式玫瑰花的花园里。

在黄昏,我和玛丽一起经过那条路;
我说,“不知道谁是这里的主人。”
“哦,不管谁你都不会知道,”她狡黠地回答,
“可是如果我们想要些玫瑰花,就必须问一个人。”

在树木的安静之中房屋静立,
所以我们必须在来临的寒冷的露珠中手挽着手
转身,上前,去勇敢地把门打开,
在敲门的回声中像个乞讨者,索要玫瑰花。

“请问,你在里面吗,女主人,而你是谁?”
这是玛丽在说话,她透露了我们的使命。
“请问,是你在里面吗?善良的人,善良的人啊!”
又是夏天了;这里有两个人来此索要玫瑰花。

“和你说吧,那是回忆里的一个歌手的话—
老海里克:有一句谚语每一个少女都知道
一朵没有采摘的花只有等待凋零,
不采集玫瑰就什么也收获不到。”

我们的手缠绕在一起,毫不放松
(她猜想的那么多,我们也不去关心),
她带着满身的光芒轻轻地朝我们走来,
在沉默里给我们园中玫瑰的恩赐。

等  待

在黄昏离开家乡
会有什么样的事物进入梦境,当幽灵一样的
东西在高大蓬松的干草堆中移动,
我孤独地走进断茎的田野,
工人们的嗓音在这里渐渐沉寂,
在晚霞和上升的满月
的呼应中,我让自己坐下
坐在满月的光辉中,在第一个干草堆旁
让自己在更多的干草中迷失。

我梦见时间中逆行的光,
在月亮上升到头顶之前阻止住阴影;
我梦见夜鹰住满了天堂,
每一只都在环绕飞翔每一只都哭喊得暧昧而又神秘,
或者在猛烈的声响中莽撞地冲向远处;
而且在蝙蝠喑哑怪异的姿态里,会有谁
迷茫地充填我秘密的位置,
当他以脚尖旋转,就只有迷路,
然后是无尽的寻找,盲目而又慌张;
最后的燕子掠过;在刺耳的声音中
在气味的深渊和我背后的飒飒声里,
这一切因为我的到来而沉默,间歇之后,
将再一次被发现,他有他的乐器,
并将尝试一次——两次——甚至三次,如果我在那里;
破旧的印有怀旧金曲的书籍
我带来并非为了阅读,只是握在手中
让它在弥漫着黯淡芳香的空气中重新变得新鲜;
在缺席的大部分人的记忆里,
这书将为他们存在,当他们凝视着她的眼睛。

在山谷

少年时,我们居住在山谷中
靠近雾蒙蒙的沼泽地,它整夜鸣响不停,
这样以来,她就像个苍白的少女
当她的衣服蔓延开来,我知道
她将穿过芦苇丛去接近窗户里的灯光。

沼泽地里开满各种旺盛的花,
每一种花都是一个面孔
一个声音,我曾在房间中听见
那声音穿过外面的黑暗和窗台来到我的房间。
每一个都孤单地来到她的住所,

但是每一夜他们都会和雾一起来临;
而且经常地仿佛他们有话要说
关于事物关于瞬间,他们知道,
要说给孤独的乐于倾听的人,
星星们光芒变得暗淡几乎要消失不见

在最后的星星消失之前,她回到来的地方
满身的露珠使她沉重,
她那里鸟儿正在飞翔,
她那里花儿正在生长,
那里鸟还是原来的鸟,花也还是原来的花。

因此我也知道
为什么花有气味,鸟要歌唱,
你只能问我,我可以告诉你。
不,我不是徒劳地在那里居住,
也不是徒劳地整夜倾听黑夜的声音。
梦中之痛

我已在森林里退缩,我的歌
被那飘扬的落叶淹没;
而你在某一天来到森林的边缘
(这只是我的梦)你只是观看和长久地沉思,
却不进入,尽管你的愿望是那么强烈:
摇着忧郁的头你仿佛在说,
“我不敢——在他迷路的脚步中走得太远——
而他一定会来寻找我如果他想纠正错误。”

不远,而且很近,我站着就能看见全部
在低低的主枝下面,树木垂向外边;
甜蜜的疼痛它叫我不能呼喊
并告诉你那些我所见的还在忍受。
但是因此说我居住得孤独却并不正确,
因为树木醒来,而你在这里也是证明。

疏忽

他们把我们扔在曾经走过的路上,
在我们两个身上他们的错误得以验证,
有时我们坐在路边的隐蔽之处,
带着淘气、迷离、天使一般的眼光观看,
我们试着感觉自己是否能被遗弃。
仰天曾大笑,低首更沉吟
级别: 创始人
7楼  发表于: 2015-08-22  
弗罗斯特诗选(翻译    李晖)
李晖  译


雪末

一只乌鸦
从铁杉树
摇落雪的碎末
在我头顶。

我的心境
一时改变
一天中的懊悔
有所挽回。


残雪

角落里一片残雪,
要我没猜错,那是
一张随风刮来的报纸,雨
使它停歇在这里。

那上面污渍斑驳,
似印满细小的字迹,
那天的新闻我已不记得——
假如我曾读过。


说话的功夫

当一个朋友在路上叫我,
让他的马慢下来想要走一走,
我并非站在那环顾四周——
所有那些山坡我还没锄完。
我从我在的地方喊道:“什么事?”
不,不是因为有说话的功夫。
我将锄子插进松软的泥土,
锄头朝上五英尺高,
脚步缓重地:走向那石墙
为一次友好的来访。


火与冰

有人说世界将终结于火;
有人说是冰。
从我对欲望的体验
我赞同持终结于火者。
但假如它必须毁灭两次,
我想我对恨的认识已足以
说明,要想毁灭,冰
也同等伟大
而且将足够。


在废弃的墓地

生者踏青草而至
阅读山上的墓碑;
墓地仍吸引生者,
但逝者永远不再。

死亡之诗反复述说:
“今天活着来这里的人
阅读这些石头并离去
明天死亡将留下来。”

死亡如此确定,大理石吟诗歌颂,
然而你始终没法不在意。
没有一个死者会自愿来这里,
人所畏惧的究竟是什么?

说到底其实很简单,
告诉那些石头:人们憎恨死
且永远都在阻挡死。
我想他们宁愿相信谎言。


目的在于歌唱

在人类让它正确地吹以前
未经教化的风曾经随心所欲,
在任何它遇见的不平之地
昼夜敞开它响亮的喉咙。

后来人类告诉它错误之处:
它没找到该吹的地方;
它吹得太猛——目的在于歌唱;
听着——风应该怎么吹!

他嘴里吸了一点儿风,
将它保持了很久,
足以让北颠倒为南,
然后有分寸地往外吹。

要有分寸。那是词语和音符,
风原本打算要做的风——
只有一点儿通过嘴唇和喉咙。
目的是歌唱——风能明白的。


雪夜林边小驻

这林子的主人我想我知道,
他就住在这村子里,尽管
他不会看到我在此驻足,
观看他白雪纷飞的树林。

我的马儿肯定觉得稀奇,
停在这不着房舍之地,
这林子和冰冻的湖之间,
这一年中最黑的夜晚。

他晃了晃他马具上的铃儿,
询问是否哪出了问题。
只听见轻风拂过树林
和轻柔的雪花飘落的声音。

这林子如此美妙,昏暗,幽深。
但是我尚有承诺在身
还要走一段路才能安睡。
还要走一段路才能安睡。


蓝蝴蝶的春日

这是春天里蓝蝴蝶的时节,
这些天空的碎片一阵阵上下翻飞,
它们翅膀上纯粹的蓝色,胜于
白天花朵的艳丽,可它们太匆忙了。

这些会飞的花儿,几乎就要唱歌了:
现在,安然经历过情欲之后
它们在风中叠合,附着,
那里,车轮刚切过四月的泥泞。


春池

这些水坑,虽然在森林里,仍然反射出
整个天空,几乎完美无暇,
而且像它们边上的花草一样,寒栗而颤抖,
像它们边上的花草一样,不久就会消失,
然而它们不是借任何小溪或者河流远去,
而是由树根向上,以生发浓密的枝叶。

这些树郁积的幼芽靠吸收它
来加深大自然的颜色,成就夏天的树林——
它们该多想想,在它们施展自己的威力
来遮蔽、吸干并彻底清除之前,
这些花一般的水和水灵灵的花
来自仅昨天才融化的冰雪。


魅力
——花园墙壁题词

风吹着一处荒凉的长满杂草的空地,
这里,一堵老旧的墙却燃起和煦的脸颊。
风在上面盘旋,推得它摇摇欲坠,
吹着大地或任何自生自灭之物,
水分,颜色及气息在这里变得浓郁。
白昼之光在此处聚集魅力。


一掠而过的一瞥
——致瑞吉利•托伦斯①
       感于最后一次读《赫斯珀里得斯》②

经常我从行驶的车上看见一些花朵
我还来不及辨别它们,车已经开过去了。

我想从火车上下来,走回去
看看它们是什么,在铁轨旁边。

我数出所有的花名,但肯定它们都不是;
不是爱在烧过的树林里生长的柳兰——

不是装点在隧道入口的蓝铃草——
不是长在沙土或旱地的羽扇豆。

是某种刷过我记忆的什么东西
世间没一个人会再次发现?

上天仅仅让那些不是在太近的位置
去看它的人投予它仓促的一瞥。

①瑞吉利•托伦斯(1874-1950),美国诗人,弗罗斯特的朋友。
②《赫斯珀里得斯》,托伦斯的一部诗集。赫斯珀里得斯,希腊神话中看守金苹果园的四姊妹。


一次在太平洋边

被击碎的海水发出一片喧嚣。
巨浪汹涌着一浪阅过一浪,
企图对海岸、对陆地
做某种前所未有的举动。
天空中低矮的云絮令人恐惧,
像被风吹在眼前的毛发。
你没法说,然而看起来似乎
海岸幸好有山崖支撑,
山崖幸而有陆地作后盾;
看似一个有黑暗意图的黑夜
即将到来,不只一夜,一个时代。
某些人最好做狂欢的准备。
将有比破碎的太平洋更大的浩瀚
在上帝最后说让光熄灭之前。


安静的牧羊人

如果天空要重新创造,
我要在牧场的栅栏上,
给散乱的星星
排列出数字,

我应会受某种引诱而忘记,
我担心,统治的王冠,
交易的天平,信仰的十字架,
因几乎不值得重新开始。

这一切统治着我们的生活,
看看人类的争斗吧!
十字架,王冠,天平,或许
也都是利剑。


熟悉黑夜

我是一个与黑夜相熟的人。
我出来到雨中——再走回去。
我走出了最远的城市灯光。

我低头在最凄凉的城中小巷,
从巡逻的守夜人身边经过,
我垂下眼睛,不想去解释。

我静静站立,脚步声停止,
远处一声突然的叫喊
越过另一条街的房屋传来,

但不是唤我回去或跟我道别;
而更远处,在一个非尘世的高度,
一座发光的时钟映照于天空

宣示着时间——既不错误,也不正确。
我是一个与黑夜相熟的人。


大犬星座

那巨大而高贵的犬
天国的野兽
一颗星在它的眼睛
纵身自东方一跃。
他一路直立着
舞蹈至西方
他的前腿不曾有一次
落下来休息。
我是一只可怜的落魄的狗
但今夜我将和那头巨大的
天犬一起狂吠
痛快地穿透黑暗。


荒野

雪落下来,夜幕很快降下,真快啊!
在一处野地我放眼望去,
几乎被雪覆平的地面
只剩几株杂草和残梗裸露。

这荒野属于周围的树林——那是它们的。
所有的动物都在巢穴里冬眠。
这一切我已无心细述;
孤独在不意中将我笼罩。

一如这野地的荒凉,
那孤独有增无减——
夜色下的雪白茫茫一片
一派冷漠,无以言喻。

群星之间——杳无人烟的星球之上,
它们的空旷并不令我惊恐。
离家更近处,我自己内心的荒野
致我以莫大的恐惧。


设计

我发现一只带酒窝的蜘蛛,又胖又白,
在一株白色万灵草①上,举着一只蛾子
像一块僵硬的白色丝缎——
各种死亡与枯萎的征状
混杂着,正准备开启这个早晨,
如同一名女巫肉汤里的作料——
一滴雪白的蜘蛛,一只泡沫般的花朵,
扛着的死翅膀像一叶纸风筝。

那花朵怎么会变成白色呢,
路边蓝色而纯真的万灵草?
是什么将那只相似的蜘蛛带到那种高度,
趁黑夜在那里控制那只白色飞蛾?
除了这让人惊恐的黑暗还有什么设计——
假如在此微小的事物中也存在掌控?
  
译注:
①    万灵草也叫万灵药,夏枯草属。


恶势力抵消

枯萎病会杀死这棵栗树吗?
农夫们宁可猜测它不会。
它不断地在根部郁积,
喷发新的枝条,
直到另一种寄生者
来将这枯萎病终结。


戒备的黄蜂

在光滑的电线上艺术地弯曲.
充分地伸展他的肢体,
灵巧的翅膀自信地竖起
刺人的部位威胁地示意。
可怜的自我主义者,他无从知晓
但他也是向善的,跟任何人一样。


心不在焉

我转向上帝请教
关于这世界的绝望;
但却使问题变得更糟
我发现上帝心不在焉。

上帝转而对我讲话
(任何人都别笑);
上帝发现我心不在焉——
顶多不超过一半。


在帝维斯酒馆①

夜已深了,我仍在输钱,
但仍然镇定,谁也不责怪。

只要有宣言在那儿
保证我在牌数上权利平等,

是谁的酒馆对我都没什么。
我们看下一把,再来五张牌。

译注:
①一家供喝酒、赌博和娱乐的地下酒吧。帝维斯(Divés,意思是富人),路加福音第十六章中一个没有名字的富人(Luke 16:19-31)。


山毛榉

树林中,我假想中的线
弯成直角的地方,一根铁柱
和一堆真正的岩石竖立着。
它们被从这野地的角落
之外推过来在此堆积,
一棵树,由于被深深划伤,
而作为见证之树令我印象深刻,
且将我并非不受约束的
证据,提交给记忆。
真相由此被确立和支持,
尽管处于昏昧和疑惑——
尽管被疑虑重重包围。
          ——穆迪•福瑞斯特①

译注:
①    作者虚构的人名,在此用作题款,别有用意。“穆迪”取自他母亲结婚前的名字,以为纪念。


进来

当我来到树林边,
画眉鸟的乐曲——听!
此时如果外面是黄昏,
里面已是黑夜。

林子里太暗了,一只鸟
灵巧的翅膀
也不能改变它夜间的栖息,
尽管它还能唱歌。

最后一抹阳光
在西天逝去
仍盼望再听一曲歌声
自画眉鸟的胸膛。

远处柱状的黑暗当中
画眉鸟放声歌唱——
几乎像一种召唤,让人
进到那悲恸和黑暗。

但是我不,我出来
是为了星星;我不会进去。
我是说就算请我也不去;
再说没请我。


云影

一缕微风发现我打开的书本
便哗哗地翻动书页,寻找
一首有关春天的诗歌。
我试图告诉她:“没有那种东西!”

一首写春天的诗,会是为了谁呢?
微风不屑于做出回答,
一片云影从她脸上掠过,
担心我会让她错过那个地方。


一个问题

星空中一个声音说:看着我
跟我说实话,地上的人们,
是否所有灵与肉之创痛
都不足以抵偿出生的代价。


一次打扰

一次我跪下来栽种植物,
用工具慢吞吞戳着泥土,
不时夹杂着哼几句歌;
但渐渐察觉一些学校来的孩子
他们停留在栅栏外面张望。
我停止唱歌,也几乎没了心情,
任何一只眼睛都是有罪的眼睛,
当窥视让别人心绪不宁。


绝壁穴居

那沙尘看着像金色的天空
而金色的天空又像是沙地。
没有任何房屋进入视线,
除了地平线边缘
岩壁上半中腰的某处,
那黑色的一块并非一个斑痕
或者阴影,而是一个山洞,
曾经某个人登山或者攀爬时
用来暂缓恐惧的所在。
我看见他灵魂上的老茧
看见他和他的种族
饥饿羸弱中最后的消失。
多少年前啊——上万年了吧。


对被踩的抗议

在一行的尽头
我踩着一把不用的
锄头的顶端。
它恼怒地翻起来
给了我一击
打在我鼻子的位置。
那原本不该怪它,
但我骂了它一句。
我必须说它对付我
的这一击令我感觉
像蓄意的预谋。
你可能说我是笨蛋,
但是否有一个规则
——武器应当
被变为一种工具?
而我们看到什么?
起初我踩着的工具
变成了一种武器。


惊疑的面孔

冬天,一只猫头鹰及时地侧身飞过
使自己免于撞破窗户的玻璃。
同时她的翅膀突然间张开
承接住傍晚最后一抹红色
向玻璃内映出的窗边的孩子们
展露它身体下的羽绒和翎毛。
仰天曾大笑,低首更沉吟
级别: 创始人
8楼  发表于: 10-11  
@浪激天涯 
从没有能够永恒的金子


大自然第一抹绿是金子,

她的色泽最难以留持。

她的嫩叶是一朵鲜花,

却只绽放一小时的芳华。

随之是叶叶更替的凋败,

如此伊甸渐沦入悲哀。

如此黎明让位与白日,

从没有能够永恒的金子。


仰天曾大笑,低首更沉吟
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