夜鶯頌
我心絞痛並且睏倦痲痺
感覺像是喝下了毒芹草
或是吞下無味的鴉片劑
頃刻間就沒入忘川巨濤
痛苦非因嫉妒你的幸福
反而你的雀躍令我歡暢
你這揮著輕翅的樹精靈
抒放優美音符
山毛櫸蔥綠底陰影幢幢
夏日大展歌喉如此從容
喔若是能飲口葡萄美酒
曾深藏地下冷封多年呵
品嚐花神與綠園的蒸餾
歌之舞之在炙陽下歡樂
喔一大盞裝滿南國溫存
真實而赧紅的繆思山泉
杯緣轉爍著珍珠般泡沫
它染紫了雙唇
也許我能一飲遺世不返
與你一起遁入林間幽陌
遠遁消失並且全然相忘
繁茂綠葉間你不曾聽聞
所有的困頓熱病與惆悵
此處人們坐聽彼此呻吟
此處癱瘓哀傷留下白髮
此處青春蒼白枯萎消瘦
此處僅僅只能憂抑滿懷
滿眼絕望沉痂
此處美神無法留住明眸
初生的愛天明形容枯敗
走吧走吧我將朝你飛去
不必酒神和同伴的馬車
僅乘著詩歌無形的翅羽
遲鈍的腦袋雖困惑癡痾
夜色溫柔我已經貼近你
恰逢月后登上她的寶座
讓星星仙子們成串簇擁
四處沒有光暈
只天堂吹送的微風拂過
碧綠的陰暗與蜿蜒苔徑
我看不見腳下甚麼花朵
也嗅不出枝頭何種幽香
只在濃郁的黑暗裡揣度
這時令該開的哪種芬芳
小草灌木叢和果樹野生
白山楂和田園裡的薔薇
枝葉間易凋零的紫羅蘭
五月的大孩童
那盛滿露酒的麝香玫瑰
嗡嗡飛蟲在夏夜裡盤旋
黑暗裡我傾聽多少回合
我幾乎愛上安逸的死亡
輕喚它用各種詩韻吟哦
將我微弱氣息送入穹蒼
沒有比現在更富於死去
在半夜裡安息沒有痛苦
當您處處吐放您的魂氣
這狂喜的感覺
你仍會歌唱而我將聽無
崇高的安魂曲下成草皮
不會死去你不朽的鳥兒
不會被饑餓的一代蹂躪
即逝的今夜我聽見的歌
古代帝王庶民都曾耳聞
也許同樣的歌找到路徑
惹露絲哀傷當思鄉無奈
玉米田中央她淚流滿面
經常是這歌聲
魔法搖窗在水沫上打開
荒涼的仙境裡危浪撲岸
荒涼這字正像一記鐘鳴
讓我回到自我從你身旁
再會吧幻術無法再得逞
不要再耍這騙人的伎倆
別了別了您的悲歌已息
越草原飛過安靜的河野
爬上山坡現在深埋谷中
下一村空地裡
這是醒著的夢還是幻覺？
音樂消失時我是睡是醒？
翻譯自濟慈(John Keats，1795-1821) "Ode To A Nightingale" https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44479/ode-to-a-nightingale
"Ode To A Nightingale" By John Keats.
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.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Coold 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:
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 gray 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.
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,
Clusterd 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.
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 coverd up in leaves;
And mid-Mays eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Calld 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.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.,
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famd to do, deceiving elf. ,
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep?
