王尔德诗11首
I am weary of lying within the chase
When the knights are meeting in market-place.
Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town
Lest the hooves of the war-horse tread thee down.
But I would not go where the Squires ride,
I would only walk by my Lady's side.
Alack! and alack! thou art over bold,
A Forester's son may not eat off gold.
Will she love me the less that my Father is seen,
Each Martinmas day in a doublet green?
Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,
Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.
Ah, if she is working the arras bright
I might ravel the threads by the fire-light.
Perchance she is hunting of the deer,
How could you follow o'er hill and meer?
Ah, if she is riding with the court,
I might run beside her and wind the morte.
Perchance she is kneeling in S. Denys,
(On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!)
Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle,
I might swing the censer and ring the bell.
Come in, my son, for you look sae pale,
The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.
But who are these knights in bright array?
Is it a pageant the rich folks play?
'Tis the King of England from over sea,
Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.
But why does the curfew toll sae low?
And why do the mourners walk a-row?
O 'tis Hugh of Amiens my sister's son
Who is lying stark, for his day is done.
Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear,
It is no strong man who lies on the bier.
O 'tis old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall,
I knew she would die at the autumn fall.
Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair,
Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair.
O 'tis none of our kith and none of our kin,
(Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!)
But I hear the boy's voice chaunting sweet,
'Elle est morte, la Marguerite.'
Come in my son and lie on the bed,
And let the dead folk bury their dead.
O mother, you know I loved her true:
O mother, hath one grave room for two?
我不会去乡绅骑马的地方，
我只是围着淑女的身影转。
哎哟！哎哟！你可真大胆，
守林人的儿子休想用金盘。
圣马丁节我父亲穿着绿上衣，
她是否就不再像从前那般爱我？
或许她正在编织花挂毯，
你不该看见纺锤和织布机。
哦，如果她正在编织花壁毯，
我愿意在火光边为她理线团。
如果她正在打猎追小鹿，
你怎能跟随她穿越山岭与河谷？
哦，如果她策马在御园，
我就追随左右，为她奏乐呐喊。
或许她跪拜在圣丹尼斯教堂，
（但愿上帝会庇佑她的灵魂！）
如果她在清冷的小教堂祈祷，
我会替她上香，摇动铃铛。
快进来，儿子，你的脸色那样憔悴，
你父亲会为你斟满啤酒一杯。
但这些华服的骑士都是谁？
莫非是富人们在排演古装剧？
那是越洋而来的英格兰国王，
他到我们美丽的国家造访。
熄灯的钟声为什么如此低沉？
送葬人为什么要列队向前行？
哦，那就是霍伊，我的外甥，
他静躺在那里，阳寿已尽。
不，不，我清楚看到的是百合花，
并不是强壮的男儿静躺于棺架。
那是掌管厅堂的杰尼特太太，
我知道她的归期将是秋天。
杰尼特太太不可能有一头的金发，
年迈的杰尼特怎会有少女容颜？
哦，她不是至亲，也不是故友，
（但愿圣母赦免她的罪宥！）
但我听到少年甜美如歌的嗓音：
“她去世了，玛格丽特。”
快进来，儿子，躺到床上去，
让死者掩埋掉他们的死。
哦，母亲，你知道我真的爱她：
哦，母亲，一个墓室能否住两人？
Phèdre
How vain and dull this common world must seem
To such a One as thou, who should'st have talked
At Florence with Mirandola, or walked
Through the cool olives of the Academe:
Thou should'st have gathered reeds from a green stream
For Goat-foot Pan's shrill piping, and have played
With the white girls in that Phæacian glade
Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream.
Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay
Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again
Back to this common world so dull and vain,
For thou wert weary of the sunless day,
The heavy fields of scentless asphodel,
The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell.
你应该在碧绿的小溪旁采摘芦管，
让羊足潘神吹出笛音，与白肤少女
在费阿克斯林中空地相互嬉戏，
那里墓中的奥德修斯从长梦中醒来。
啊！雅典的陶制古瓮必定盛放过
你森白的骨灰，你将又一次降临
这个无聊、沉闷的凡俗世界，
你已经厌倦了这个隐晦的日子，
厌倦了种满无味水仙的沉重田野，
还有那地狱里接吻的无爱嘴唇。
Queen Henrietta Maria
In the lone tent, waiting for victory,
She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain,
Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain:
The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky,
War's ruin, and the wreck of chivalry,
To her proud soul no common fear can bring:
Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King,
Her soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy.
O Hair of Gold! O Crimson Lips! O Face
Made for the luring and the love of man!
With thee I do forget the toil and stress,
The loveless road that knows no resting place,
Time's straitened pulse, the soul's dread weariness,
My freedom and my life republican!
战争的废墟，骑士精神的衰落
不能给她高傲的灵魂带来惧怕，
她勇敢地等待她的主人，她的君王，
她的灵魂充满激情迷狂的火焰。
哦，金发！哦，红唇！哦，娇容！
天生尤物让男人痴迷和爱恋！
与你在一起，我忘掉劳苦与重压，
忘掉了没有歇脚之处的无爱之路，
时间短促的脉搏，灵魂可怕的倦怠，
我的自由，我共和主义的人生！
Madonna Mia
A lily-girl, not made for this world's pain,
With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,
And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears
Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:
Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,
Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,
And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,
Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.
Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease,
Even to kiss her feet I am not bold,
Being o'ershadowed by the wings of awe.
Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice
Beneath the flaming Lion's breast, and saw
The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.
像穿越了雨雾的两道蓝幽幽的清泉；
苍白的脸颊不曾留下任何亲吻的印痕，
因为惧怕爱而紧抿红色的下唇，
白皙的颈项比银色的鸽子更洁白——
一条紫脉蠕动着穿过青色的大理石。
可是，尽管我的嘴唇毫无保留地赞美她，
我却没有勇气亲吻她的秀足，
只为被敬惧的翅膀所笼罩。
就像但丁，与贝雅特丽采并肩站立
烈焰升腾的雄狮胸膛下，他看见
第七重的水晶天，黄金的阶梯。
Roses and Rue
Ⅰ
I remember we used to meet
By a garden seat,
And you warbled each pretty word
With the air of a bird,
And your voice had a quaver in it
Just like a linnet,
And shook with the last full note
As the thrush's throat.
And your eyes, they were green and grey,
Like an April day,
But lit into amethyst
When I stooped and kissed.
And your hair—well, I never could tie it,
For it ran all riot
Like a tangled sunbeam of gold,
Great fold upon fold.
Ⅱ
You were always afraid of a shower,
(Just like a flower!);
I remember you started and ran
When the rain began.
I remember I never could catch you,
For no one could match you;
You had wonderful luminous fleet
Little wings to your feet.
Yet you somehow would give me the prize,
With a laugh in your eyes,
The rose from your breast, or the bliss
Of a single swift kiss
On your neck with its marble hue,
And its vein of blue—
How these passionate memories bite
In my heart as I write!
Ⅲ
I remember so well the room,
And the lilac bloom
That beat at the dripping pane
In the warm June rain.
And the colour of your gown,
It was amber-brown,
And two yellow satin bows
From the shoulders rose.
And the handkerchief of French lace
Which you held to your face—
Had a tear-drop left a stain?
Or was it the rain?
'You have only wasted your life.'—
(Ah! there was the knife!)
Those were the words you said,
As you turned your head.
I had wasted my boyhood, true,
But it was for you,
You had poets enough on the shelf,
I gave you myself!
Ⅳ
Well, if my heart must break,
Dear Love, for your sake,
It will break in music, I know;
Poets' hearts break so.
But strange that I was not told
That the brain can hold
In a tiny ivory cell
God's Heaven and Hell.
你的嗓音有一丝震颤，
就像一只蹦跳的红雀，
抖出最后一个圆满的音符，
恰似画眉鸟的歌喉。
你的美眸灰中带绿，
像明媚的四月天，
当我俯身给它们一吻，
却闪烁着紫晶的微光。
你的秀发，我也从不曾编结，
它们总在放肆奔跑，
仿佛相互纠缠的太阳光，
一层又一层地叠加。
2
你总是害怕抛头露面，
（羞涩如一朵鲜花！）；
我记得某次雨水降临，
你撒开脚丫就跑。
我记得我总撵不上你，
没人能是你的对手；
你敏捷如同电光一闪，
双脚长着一对小翅膀。
有时你也给我一点奖励，
美眸荡漾着笑意，
胸佩一朵玫瑰，或者飞速
递过至福的亲吻。
你的颈项有大理石的光泽，
隐现蓝色的静脉——
当我书写的时候，我的心
忍受着激情的回忆噬咬。
3
我清楚地记得那房间，
盛开的紫丁香，
伴随六月温暖的雨水
轻轻扑打着小窗。
还有你长裙的颜色，
是深棕的琥珀色，
两个小小的真丝蝴蝶结，
你香肩上的一朵玫瑰。
还有法兰西风格的手帕，
经常依偎你的香腮——
是否留下一滴泪痕？
抑或是一个雨点？
“你只是在浪费自己的生命，”——
（哦！这可真是一把刀子！）
这是你说出的一句话，
当你转过你的身子。
我已浪费我少年的时光，诚然，
那是为你的缘故，
你的书架摆放着许多诗人，
我还是要把自己呈献！
4
好吧，倘若我的心脏必须破碎，
我的亲亲，让它为你而碎，
它将在音乐中消融，我明白；
诗人的心脏也是如此破碎。
但奇怪的是没有人告诉过我，
人的头脑只用一个
细小的牙雕，就容纳了
上帝的天堂和地狱。
Apologia
Is it thy will that I should wax and wane,
Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey,
And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain
Whose brightest threads are each a wasted day?
Is it thy will—Love that I love so well—
That my Soul's House should be a tortured spot
Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell
The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not?
Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure,
And sell ambition at the common mart,
And let dull failure be my vestiture,
And sorrow dig its grave within my heart.
Perchance it may be better so—at least
I have not made my heart a heart of stone,
Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast,
Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.
Many a man hath done so; sought to fence
In straitened bonds the soul that should be free,
Trodden the dusty road of common sense,
While all the forest sang of liberty,
Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight
Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air,
To where the steep untrodden mountain height
Caught the last tresses of the Sun God's hair.
Or how the little flower he trod upon,
The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold,
Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun
Content if once its leaves were aureoled.
But surely it is something to have been
The best belovèd for a little while,
To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen
His purple wings flit once across thy smile.
Ay! though the gorgèd asp of passion feed
On my boy's heart, yet have I burst the bars,
Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed
The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars!
莫非是你的意愿——爱我至深的爱——
我灵魂的居所是一个拷刑场，
其中居住着如同奸夫淫妇的
不灭的烈火和不死的蠕虫。
不，倘若是你的意愿，我将忍受，
把我的雄心拿去公共市场出售，
让阴郁的失败成为我的衣衫，
让悲哀在我的心脏发掘它的坟墓。
或许那样更好——至少我不至于
把自己的心脏变作一块石头，
不让美食的少年时光为饥饿所苦，
不去涉足美不知为何物的场所。
许多人如此这般做了；渴望用藩篱
来拘禁本应自由的灵魂；
踩踏布满尘埃的常识之路，
而所有森林正在为自由而歌吟，
却没有注意染上污点的兀鹰
伸展宽大的翅膀穿越苍茫的天空，
抵达人迹罕至的巍峨高峰，
这高峰握有太阳神最后一缕发丝。
或者他怎样蹂躏了小小的花朵，
雏菊，那饰有白羽的金盾，
以渴望的眼神追随漫游的太阳，
一旦花叶蒙上光晕便喜不自胜。
而这纯然是人间至美的盛事一桩，
成为最受钟爱者，哪怕只是片刻，
与爱神手拉手漫步，亲眼目睹
他紫色的翅膀轻轻掠过你的微笑。
哦！尽管饕餮的激情毒蛇吞噬
我少年的心，我毕竟挣脱了牢笼，
与美面对面地站立，真切地体会了
那驱动太阳和众星的爱！
Quia Multum Amavi
Dear Heart I think the young impassioned priest
When first he takes from out the hidden shrine
His God imprisoned in the Eucharist,
And eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful wine,
Feels not such awful wonder as I felt
When first my smitten eyes beat full on thee,
And all night long before thy feet I knelt
Till thou wert wearied of Idolatry.
Ah! had'st thou liked me less and loved me more,
Through all those summer days of joy and rain,
I had not now been sorrow's heritor,
Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain.
Yet, though remorse, youth's white-faced seneschal,
Tread on my heels with all his retinue,
I am most glad I loved thee—think of all
The suns that go to make one speedwell blue!
那时也不会有我所体验的巨大惊诧，
当我痴迷的眼睛整个撞上你，
我整夜都跪伏在你的脚下，
直到你最终厌烦了我的膜拜。
啊！在所有这些欢快和滋润的夏日，
你若能少些喜欢我而爱我多些，
我就不会成为悲哀的继承者，
也不会成为痛苦之宫的一个仆役。
可是，尽管悔恨这掌管青春的白脸管家，
带领所有的扈从紧随我的脚踵，
我依然欣慰于爱过你——我思念
让一株虎尾草变蓝的所有阳光！
Silentium Amoris
As oftentimes the too resplendent sun
Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon
Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won
A single ballad from the nightingale,
So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,
And all my sweetest singing out of tune.
And as at dawn across the level mead
On wings impetuous some wind will come,
And with its too harsh kisses break the reed
Which was its only instrument of song,
So my too stormy passions work me wrong,
And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.
But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show
Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung;
Else it were better we should part, and go,
Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,
And I to nurse the barren memory
Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.
恰似黎明有风疾驰，举着翅膀，
鲁莽地越过平坦的草地，
以它粗鲁的亲吻击碎了芦笛，
这歌唱时唯一的乐器，
我过于狂暴的激情令我反常，
爱的过多让我的爱变成哑巴。
但我的眼睛必定已向你表明，
我为何沉默，琴弦为何松弛；
否则我们宁可就分手，作别，
你另找嘴唇吟唱甜美的旋律，
我就去照看荒芜的记忆，
那未吻之吻、无歌之歌的记忆。
Her Voice
The wild bee reels from bough to bough
With his furry coat and his gauzy wing,
Now in a lily-cup, and now
Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,
In his wandering;
Sit closer love: it was here I trow
I made that vow,
Swore that two lives should be like one
As long as the sea-gull loved the sea,
As long as the sunflower sought the sun,—
It shall be, I said, for eternity
'Twixt you and me!
Dear friend, those times are over and done,
Love's web is spun.
Look upward where the poplar trees
Sway and sway in the summer air,
Here in the valley never a breeze
Scatters the thistledown, but there
Great winds blow fair
From the mighty murmuring mystical seas,
And the wave-lashed leas.
Look upward where the white gull screams,
What does it see that we do not see?
Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams
On some outward voyaging argosy,—
Ah! can it be
We have lived our lives in a land of dreams!
How sad it seems.
Sweet, there is nothing left to say
But this, that love is never lost,
Keen winter stabs the breasts of May
Whose crimson roses burst his frost,
Ships tempest-tossed
Will find a harbour in some bay,
And so we may.
And there is nothing left to do
But to kiss once again, and part,
Nay, there is nothing we should rue,
I have my beauty,—you your Art,
Nay, do not start,
One world was not enough for two
Like me and you.
我起誓让两个生命合成一个，
只要海鸥依然眷恋大海，
只要向日葵依然围着太阳旋转，——
在你与我之间，我说，
将永世不变！
亲爱的朋友，那种时光已一去不返，
爱的罗网已经编就。
仰起头来，你看，白杨树
摇摆于夏日的空气，
这山谷没有一丝微风，
不能播撒蒲公英的种子，
那里却有巨风吹动，
来自强大而神秘的海之絮语
和波浪似的草原。
仰起头来，你看，白鸥在尖叫，
它是否见到了我们所未见？
莫非是一颗星？或者是一盏灯，
高悬在出海渔船的桅顶，——
啊！莫非是说
我们经历的生活只是一场梦！
看来多么令人伤心。
甜心，已经没有什么可说，
唯有一点，爱绝不会流失，
酷厉的冬天刺穿五月的胸膛，
五月的红玫瑰撕裂它的严霜，
风暴掀动的船只
终究会在某个海湾找到避风港，
我们也有同样的归宿。
哦，已经没有什么可做，
但还要再吻一次，然后分手，
不，我们没有什么需要悔恨，
我有我的美，——你有你艺术，
不，别着急动身，
一个世界又怎能容得下你我
这样的两个人。
My Voice
Within this restless, hurried, modern world
We took our hearts' full pleasure—You and I,
And now the white sails of our ship are furled,
And spent the lading of our argosy.
Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan,
For very weeping is my gladness fled,
Sorrow hath paled my young mouth's vermilion,
And Ruin draws the curtains of my bed.
But all this crowded life has been to thee
No more than lyre, or lute, or subtle spell
Of viols, or the music of the sea
That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.
因此我的双颊过早地失去血色，
我的快乐飞逝，成日与泪相伴，
忧伤让我的少年的嘴唇不再红润，
毁灭已在我的床头拉起一道帷幕。
但对你而言，这全部忙碌的生活
等同于竖琴和琵琶，或者是小提琴
微妙的魅力，或者是大海沉睡的
音乐，贝壳里模拟的回声。
Γλυκύπικρος Ëρως
Sweet I blame you not for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common clay
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.
From the wildness of my wasted passion I had struck a better, clearer song,
Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled with some Hydraheaded wrong.
Had my lips been smitten into music by the kisses that but made them bleed,
You had walked with Bice and the angels on that verdant and enamelled mead.
I had trod the road which Dante treading saw the suns of seven circles shine,
Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening, as they opened to the Florentine.
And the mighty nations would have crowned me, who am crownless now and without name,
And some orient dawn had found me kneeling on the threshold of the House of Fame.
I had sat within that marble circle where the oldest bard is as the young,
And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the lyre's strings are ever strung.
Keats had lifted up his hymenæal curls from out the poppyseeded wine,
With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead, clasped the hand of noble love in mine.
And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush the burnished bosom of the dove,
Two young lovers lying in an orchard would have read the story of our love.
Would have read the legend of my passion, known the bitter secret of my heart,
Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as we two are fated now to part.
For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by the cankerworm of truth,
And no hand can gather up the fallen withered petals of the rose of youth.
Yet I am not sorry that I loved you—ah! what else had I a boy to do,—
For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the silent-footed years pursue.
Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and when once the storm of youth is past,
Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death a silent pilot comes at last.
And within the grave there is no pleasure, for the blind-worm battens on the root,
And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of Passion bears no fruit.
Ah! what else had I to do but love you, God's own mother was less dear to me,
And less dear the Cytheræan rising like an argent lily from the sea.
I have made my choice, have lived my poems, and, though youth is gone in wasted days,
I have found the lover's crown of myrtle better than the poet's crown of bays.
亲亲，我不会因为我的过失而责备你，倘若我并非出自普通的泥土，
我的双唇被亲吻击打成音乐，因此而残留着一丝丝殷红的血迹，
你曾经陪同贝雅特丽采和天使们漫步于珐琅似葱郁的草地。
我曾经走过但丁走过的道路，看见七个太阳置身于七重光环，
啊！或许我已目睹天庭豁然开启，正如它曾经向佛罗伦萨人敞开。
而那些强大的国家将为我加冕，尽管我仅是寂寂无名的一介布衣，
而某一个东方的黎明将会发现我正跪拜在荣誉之宫殿的门槛前。
我坐在一圈大理石雕像中间，那里最年迈的游吟诗人跟年轻人一样，
那一枝竖笛不断流淌着蜂蜜，七弦琴弹奏出悠扬的乐声直抵云霄。
济慈抬起他那一头赞美诗般美丽的卷发，放下罂粟粒浸泡的美酒，
以品尝过仙品的嘴唇亲吻我的额头，用高贵之爱的手握紧我的手。
伴随着春潮涌动，当苹果花轻拂鸽子那白得耀眼的胸脯，
在果园里躺下的两个年轻人将读到关于我的爱情掌故。
他们将读到我激情的传奇，了解蕴藏在我内心苦涩的秘密，
像我们曾经亲吻的那样亲吻，但绝不会像我们命定分离那样分离。
因为我们生命的彤红之花已被真理的蛆虫所吞噬，
没有一只手能够捡拾起青春四下凋零的玫瑰花瓣。
但我不后悔曾经爱过你，——唉！除此，我一个少年还可做什么？——
因为时间饥饿的牙齿吞食着一切，蹑足的岁月在后面穷追不舍。
失去了船舵，我们在风浪中颠簸，那时已不再有青春的风暴，
没有竖琴，没有笛管与合唱队的歌声，死亡这舵手最终来引导。
坟墓里没有任何欢愉可言，盲目的蛆虫噬咬着我的根部，
情欲战战兢兢地化为灰烬，激情之树结不出任何水果。
哪怕像银色的百合花缓缓升起在海面的阿佛洛狄忒也没有如此亲近。
我做出了自己的选择，以诗为生，尽管青春已在虚掷的光阴里消逝，
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