The Darkling Thrush 暗处的鸫鸟 by Thomas Hardy(MP3+双语)

英国著名作家兼诗人托马斯·哈代的名诗“暗处的鸫鸟”创作于世纪之交，正值1900年。表面上，整首诗营造着悲观的氛围，只在最后残留一丝希望的气息。然而，诗歌的基调直到结尾处仍雾里看花。本文旨在探讨这首诗的意象，感受诗人绝望和希望中徘徊的惆怅。
The Darkling Thrush 暗处的鸫鸟 / Thomas Hardy
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
我倚在以树丛做篱的门边，
寒霜像幽灵般发灰，
冬的沉渣使那白日之眼
在苍白中更添憔悴。
纠缠的藤蔓在天上划线，
宛如断了的琴弦，
而出没附近的一切人类
都已退到家中火边。
The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
陆地轮廓分明，望去恰似
斜卧着世纪的尸体，
阴沉的天穹是他的墓室，
风在为他哀悼哭泣。
自古以来萌芽生长的冲动
已收缩得又干又硬，
大地上每个灵魂与我一同
似乎都已丧失热情。
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
突然间，头顶上有个声音
在细枝萧瑟间升起，
一曲黄昏之歌满腔热情
唱出了无限欣喜，----
这是一只鸫鸟，瘦弱、老衰，
羽毛被阵风吹乱，
却决心把它的心灵敞开，
倾泻向浓浓的黑暗。
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
远远近近，任你四处寻找，
在地面的万物上
值得欢唱的原因是那么少，
是什么使它欣喜若狂？
这使我觉得：它颤音的歌词，
它欢乐曲晚安曲调
含有某种幸福希望----为它所知
而不为我所晓。

英国著名作家兼诗人托马斯·哈代的名诗“暗处的鸫鸟”创作于世纪之交，正值1900年。表面上，整首诗营造着悲观的氛围，只在最后残留一丝希望的气息。然而，诗歌的基调直到结尾处仍雾里看花。本文旨在探讨这首诗的意象，感受诗人绝望和希望中徘徊的惆怅。
The Darkling Thrush 暗处的鸫鸟 / Thomas Hardy
我倚在以树丛做篱的门边，
寒霜像幽灵般发灰，
冬的沉渣使那白日之眼
在苍白中更添憔悴。
纠缠的藤蔓在天上划线，
宛如断了的琴弦，
而出没附近的一切人类
都已退到家中火边。
陆地轮廓分明，望去恰似
斜卧着世纪的尸体，
阴沉的天穹是他的墓室，
风在为他哀悼哭泣。
自古以来萌芽生长的冲动
已收缩得又干又硬，
大地上每个灵魂与我一同
似乎都已丧失热情。
突然间，头顶上有个声音
在细枝萧瑟间升起，
一曲黄昏之歌满腔热情
唱出了无限欣喜，----
这是一只鸫鸟，瘦弱、老衰，
羽毛被阵风吹乱，
却决心把它的心灵敞开，
倾泻向浓浓的黑暗。
远远近近，任你四处寻找，
在地面的万物上
值得欢唱的原因是那么少，
是什么使它欣喜若狂？
这使我觉得：它颤音的歌词，
它欢乐曲晚安曲调
含有某种幸福希望----为它所知
而不为我所晓。

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.