诗选雪莱英文

Ode to the West Wind                   Percy Bysshe Shelley 1 O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes:O thou Who chariltest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odors plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and presserver; hear, oh, hear! 2 Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shedd, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, angels of rain and lightning:there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the Zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm.Thou dirge Of the dying   year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapoursr, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire , and hail will burst :oh, hear! 3 Thou who didst waken from his  summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and fowers Quivering within the eave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them!Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and esepoil themselves:oh, hear! 4 If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee: A wave to pant beneath thy power , and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even I were as im my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderigs over Heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seem'd a vision; I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh, lift me as a wave , a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too lke thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. 5 Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leavers are falling like its own! The tmult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like witheered leaves to quicken a new birth! And , by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, is   from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes , can Spring be far behind? On A Faded Violet 一朵枯萎的紫罗兰 The odor from the flower is gone, Which like thy kisses breathed on me; The color from the flower is flown, Which glowed of thee, and only thee! A shriveled, lifeless, vacant form, It lies on my abandoned breast, And mocks the heart, which yet is warm, With cold and silent rest. I weep ---- my tears revive it not; I sigh ---- it breathes no more on me; Its mute and uncomplaining lot Is such as mine should be. ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN PROFANED  有一个字常被人滥用 One word is too often profaned  For me to profane it,  One feeling too falsely disdained  For thee to disdain it;  One hope is too like despair ?  For prudence to smother,  And pity from thee more dear  Than that from another.  I can give not what men call love,  But wilt thou accept not  The worship the heart lifts above  And the Heavens reject not,  The desire of the moth for the star,  Of the night for the morrow,  The devotion to something afar  From the sphere of our sorrow? To— Yet took on me—take not eyes away Which feed upon the love with in my own Which is indeed but the reflected ray Of thine own beauty from my spirit thrown Yet speak to me—thy voice is as the tone Of my heart's echo,and I think I hear That thou yet lovest me;yet thou alone Like one before a mirror,without care Of aught but thine own features,imaged there And yet I wear out life in watching thee; A toil so sweet at times,and thou indeed And kind when I am sick,and pity me…… To a Skylark  给云雀 Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!  Bird thou never wert,  That from Heaven, or near it,  Pourest thy full heart  In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.  Higher still and higher  From the earth thou springest  Like a cloud of fire;  The blue deep thou wingest,  And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.  In the golden lightning  Of the sunken sun  O'er which clouds are bright'ning,  Thou dost float and run,  Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.  The pale purple even  Melts around thy flight;  Like a star of Heaven  In the broad daylight  Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:  Keen as are the arrows  Of that silver sphere,  Whose intense lamp narrows  In the white dawn clear  Until we hardly see--we feel that it is there.  All the earth and air  With thy voice is loud.  As, when night is bare,  From one lonely cloud  The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.  What thou art we know not;  What is most like thee?  From rainbow clouds there flow not  Drops so bright to see  As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.  Like a poet hidden  In the light of thought,  Singing hymns unbidden,  Till the world is wrought  To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:  Like a high-born maiden  In a palace tower,  Soothing her love-laden  Soul in secret hour  With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:  Like a glow-worm golden  In a dell of dew,  Scattering unbeholden  Its aerial hue  Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:  Like a rose embowered  In its own green leaves,  By warm winds deflowered,  Till the scent it gives  Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.  Sound of vernal showers  On the twinkling grass,  Rain-awakened flowers,  All that ever was  Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.  Teach us, sprite or bird,  What sweet thoughts are thine:  I have never heard  Praise of love or wine  That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.  Chorus hymeneal  Or triumphal chaunt  Matched with thine, would be all  But an empty vaunt--  A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.  What objects are the fountains  Of thy happy strain?  What fields, or waves, or mountains?  What shapes of sky or plain?  What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?  With thy clear keen joyance  Languor cannot be:  Shadow of annoyance  Never came near thee:  Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.  Waking or asleep,  Thou of death must deem  Things more true and deep  Than we mortals dream,  Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?  We look before and after,  And pine for what is not:  Our sincerest laughter  With some pain is fraught;  Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.  Yet if we could scorn  Hate, and pride, and fear;  If we were things born  Not to shed a tear,  I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.  Better than all measures  Of delightful sound,  Better than all treasures  That in books are found,  Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!  Teach me half the gladness  That thy brain must know,  Such harmonious madness  From my lips would flow  The world should listen then, as I am listening now! The Solitary孤独者 Dar'st thou amid the varied multitude To live alone, an isolated thing? To see the busy beings round thee spring, And care for none; in thy calm solitude, A flower that scarce breathes in the desert rude To Zephyr's passing wing? 2. Not the swart Pariah in some Indian grove, Lone, lean, and hunted by his brother's hate, Hath drunk so deep the cup of bitter fate As that poor wretch who cannot, cannot love: He bears a load which nothing can remove, A killing, withering weight. 3. He smiles--'tis sorrow's deadliest mockery; He speaks--the cold words flow not from his soul; He acts like others, drains the genial bowl,-- Yet, yet he longs--although he fears--to die; He pants to reach what yet he seems to fly, Dull life's extremest goal. MUTABILITY 无常 The flower that smiles today Tomorrow dies; All that we wish to stay Tempts and then flies. What is this world's delight? Lightning that mocks the night, Brief even as bright. Virtue, how frail it is! Friendship how rare! Love, how it sells poor bliss For proud despair! But we, though soon they fall, Survive their joy, and all Which ours we call. Whilst skies are blue and bright, Whilst flowers are gay, Whilst eyes that change ere night Make glad the day; Whilst yet the calm hours creep, Dream thouand from thy sleep Then wake to weep. GOOD NIGHT Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill Which severs those it should unite; Let us remain together still, Then it will be good night. How can I call the lone night good, Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight? Be it not said, thought, understood -- Then it will be -- good night. To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light, The night is good; because, my love, They never say good-night. The Indian Serenade 印度小夜曲 I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me -who knows how? To thy chamber-window, Sweet! The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream - The champak odours fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, O beloved as thou art! Oh lift me from the grass! I die! I faint! I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast; Oh press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last! Ozymandias 奥西曼提斯 I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed: And on the pedestal these words appear: 'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!' Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away." Autumn:A Dirge 秋：葬歌 The warm sun is falling, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the Year On the earth is her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. Come, Months, come away, From November to May, In your saddest array; Follow the bier Of the dead cold Year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling, The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling For the Year; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone To his dwelling. Come, Months, come away; Put on white, black and gray; Let your light sisters play-- Ye, follow the bier Of the dead cold Year, And make her grave green with tear on tear. English In 1819 An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king,-- Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who Through public scorn,--mud from a muddy spring,-- Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know, But leech-like to their fainting country cling, Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow,-- A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field,-- An army, which liberticide and prey Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield,-- Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay; Religion Christless, Godless--a book sealed; A Senate, Time's worst statute unrepealed,-- Are graves, from which a glorious Phantom may Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day. On Death 咏死 The pale, the cold, and the moony smile Which the meteor beam of a starless night Sheds on a lonely and sea-girt isle, Ere the dawning of morn's undoubted light, Is the flame of life so fickle and wan That flits round our steps till their strength is gone. O man! hold thee on in courage of soul Through the stormy shades of thy wordly way, And the billows of clouds that around thee roll Shall sleep in the light of a wondrous day, Where hell and heaven shall leave thee free To the universe of destiny. This world is the nurse of all we know, This world is the mother of all we feel, And the coming of death is a fearful blow To a brain unencompass'd by nerves of steel: When all that we know, or feel, or see, Shall pass like an unreal mystery. The secret things of the grave are there, Where all but this frame must surely be, Though the fine-wrought eye and the wondrous ear No longer will live, to hear or to see All that is great and all that is strange In the boundless realm of unending change. Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death? Who lifteth the veil of what is to come? Who painteth the shadows that are beneath The wide-winding caves of the peopled tomb? Or uniteth the hopes of what shall be With the fears and the love for that which we see? A Lament 哀歌 O World! O Life! O Time! On whose last steps I climb, Trembling at that where I had stood before; When will return the glory of your prime? No more -Oh, never more! Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight: Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more -Oh, never more!