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