±¾Ìû×îºóÓÉ ×ÏÔÆÉú ÓÚ 2021-2-9 14:32 ±à¼
ÆäÊ®Áù Ë×ÀÛÇ£»³¾ºì¿»Í£¬Į́´ä¸ó¾¡Î߻ġ£ ƽɳ³¾ôè·ç´µÑ©£¬°¨°×Ðëô§±ãÒÝÍö¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XVI The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon Turns Ashes - or it prospers; and anon, Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face Lighting a little Hour or two - is gone.
ÆäÊ®Æß µò²Ðæä¹ÝÄîÓÆÓÆ£¬»§½ÓǬÀ¤ÈÕÒ¹¸¡¡£ Ê¢ÀñËÕµ¤Ê±ÒàÏÞ£¬È¥À´³ÐÐøĪµ¢Áô¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XVII Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
ÆäÊ®°Ë ·ï¸óÁú³ØÀÖ²»½û£¬ÐÛʨòáòæÂþ×·Ñ°¡£ Ұ¿̽Ĺ¾ªº¨×í£¬Ì¤ÆÆ÷¼÷ÃÈëÃÎÉî¡£ ×¢£ºÀÖ²»½ûÕßÖ¸¹Å²¨Ë¹ÍõJamshyd¡£Ò°Â¿¼æÖ¸²¨Ë¹ÈøɺÍõ³¯µÄ°ÍºÕÀÄ·ÎåÊÀBahram£¬Ëû°®ºÃÁÔɱҰ¿£¬ÓС°Ò°Â¿°ÍºÕÀÄ·¡±Ö®³Æ¡£Ê«ÖÐ˵ËûÔÚĹÖз´±»Ò°Â¿Ì¤×Åͷ£¬ÈÔÈ»¾Æ×íδÐÑ¡£Æľ߷íÒâ¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XVIII They say the Lion and the Lizard keep The courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep: And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
ÆäÊ®¾Å ×ÝÉÍõ¹å»ðÓûȼ£¬¾ýÍõà©Ñª»¯ºìÏÊ¡£ ÂúÍ¥·çÐÅÏú»ê´¦£¬Ç¡ËƼÑÈ˶éçíîä¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XIX I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
Æä¶þÊ® Õ§ÐѺӴ½ÄÛ²ÝÈᣬÕíÃßÇáÒÐϧ·¼³ë¡£ ˼ÒÓñÅ®´½ÎÂÔÚ£¬Ü·ÎµÇàÇàÒä¹ÊÇï¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XX And this reviving Herb whose tender Green Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean - Ah, lean upon it lightly; for who knows From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
Æä¶þʮһ ÂúÕµÏãõ¬·îÃÀÈË£¬ÄÒʱ¾Ì»ÚȥʱÐÁ¡£ Ëû³¯Ð¦ÎÒÕùÃ÷Ãð£¬É£º£Æßǧ»¯½Ù³¾¡£ ×¢£º¹Å²¨Ë¹ÈËÈÏΪµØÇòÊÙÁäΪÆßǧËê¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XXI Ah, my Belov¨¦d, fill the Cup that clears To-day of past Regrets and future Fears - To-morrow? - Why, To-morrow I may be Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
Æä¶þÊ®¶þ ÖÁ°®·çÁ÷ϯÉϱö£¬»ýÄê¼ÑÄð¾ø·¼´¼¡£ ÊýѲ»»ÕµÍÇÈ»×í£¬´ÎµÚÏûÉùêîËÀÉñ¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XXII For some we loved, the loveliest and the best That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest, Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, And one by one crept silently to Rest.
Æä¶þÊ®Èý Ñ°»¶ÔݾݹÅÈËÌã¬ÏÄÈÕ¶Œ»ªÀ¡Ê¢×°¡£ ÊÙ¾¡ÄÑÌÓȪÏÂÎÔ£¬ÎáÙÏ×¹Ç×÷Ë´²£¿
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XXIII And we, that now make merry in the Room They left, and Summer dresses in new Bloom, Ourselves must we beneath the couch of Earth Descend, ourselves to make a couch - for whom?
Æä¶þÊ®ËÄ ÇÒ³ÃÉØ»ª×ÝËùÖ®£¬ÖÕ³Á³¾ÈÀ»ÚÏÓ³Ù¡£ ³¾À´³¾Íù³¾¼ä¸¯£¬ÎÞ¾ÆÎÞ¸èÎÞ¾¡ÆÚ¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XXIV Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and - sans End!
Æä¶þÊ®Îå ¿àÒÛ½ñÉúÀÛÍýÇó£¬î„ÆíÀ´ÊÀÁ¢ÃûÍ·¡£ ˾³½°µËþÐûÉñ½ë£ºÀ´ÊÀ½ñÉú¶ÏÔù³ê¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XXV Alike for those who for To-day prepare, And those that after some To-morrow stare, A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries "Fools! your Reward is neither Here norThere!"
Æä¶þÊ®Áù ½ñÉúÀ´ÊÀÎÊÖîÏÍ£¬ÕÜÀíÌÏÌÏÈô°ëÏÉ¡£ Ц±úêÝÈËòãÓï²¥£¬ÄÏɽÍÐÌå×ì·âÌî¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XXVI Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd Of the Two Worlds so wisely - they are thrust Like foolish Prophets forth; their words to scorn Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust. Æä¶þÊ®Æß Ó×ÉÐÐþ̸·ÃÊ¥×ð£¬ÇîͨÃüÊý¹Å½ñ´æ¡£ ÄÑÈÝÀ«ÂÛ½Ôò¿±É£¬¸æÍËÈÔÑÈë´¦ÃÅ¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XXVII Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument About it and about: but evermore Came out by the same door where in I went.
Æä¶þÊ®°Ë ÔøÂñ»ÛÊ÷½¥¿ªÃÉ£¬Ï¸×÷¾«Åà¼ûÓô´Ð¡£ ÈôÎʽñʱºÎËù»ñ£¬À´ÈçÁ÷ˮȥÈç·ç¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XXVIII With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow, And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow; And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd- "I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
Æä¶þÊ®¾Å ¶ÝÈëÐþԪĪÎÊÓÉ£¬ÌÏÌÏÈçË®ÈÎÆ®Á÷¡£ ÃÔãÀ´ÊÀÖªºÎÈ¥£¬ÒâÐ÷Ëæ·ç¹ý·ÏÇð¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XXIX Into this Universe, and Why not knowing, Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing: And out of it, as Wind along the Waste, I know not Whiter willy-nilly blowing.
ÆäÈýÊ® ÉúĪ׷ԴËÀ¾ø×Ù£¬È¥À´ÒÉ»ó¹Å½ñͬ¡£ ǧ±½û¾ÆÌÕÈ»×ã¬Ò»×íÍüÐοàÒä¿Õ¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XXX What, without asking, hither hurried Whence? And, without asking, Whither hurried hence! Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine Must drown the memory of that insolence!
ÆäÈýʮһ µØÐÄÌÚÔ½ÆßÖعأ¬°²´ïÌîÐǾᱦöÇ¡£ Âú·ÒÉÔƾãʶÆÆ£¬ÈËÉúËÞÃü½áÃÕÍÅ¡£ ×¢£º¹Å²¨Ë¹´«ËµÈÏΪÓîÖæ×î¸ß´¦ÊǵÚÆßÖØÌ죬³ÆÍÁÐÇÌì¡£ÌîÐÇ£¬¼´ÍÁÐÇ¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XXXI Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate, And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road; But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
ÆäÈýÊ®¶þ ±Õ»§ÎÞ³×Í÷ÓÃÉñ£¬ÁýÉ´ÕÏÄ¿·ÑåÒѲ¡£ »ÐȻƬÓïºôÇäÎÒ£¬×ªË²Ëæ·ç»¯Êų¾¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XXXII There was the door to which I found no Key; There was the Veil through which I might not see: Some little Talk awhile of Me and Thee There was - and then no more of Thee and Me.
ÆäÈýÊ®Èý ´óµØÍÌÉùº£·þÉ¥£¬×ÏÌΰ§âúÆú¾ýÍõ¡£ DZÐÐÖçÒ¹Ðdz½×ª£¬ÍÂÄÉǬÀ¤ÐäÀï²Ø¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XXXIII Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn; Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
ÆäÈýÊ®ËÄ ÈËÉñºÏÒ»Òþ᡼䣬Çý°µÇæµÆ̽ÏóÐþ¡£ ÉíÍâºöÎÅÌáÐÑÓÈËÖÐÉñÎïî¿°Á¯¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XXXIV Then of the Thee in Me who works behind The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard, As from Without - "The Me within Theeblind!"
ÆäÈýÊ®Îå ¸©¾ÍÌÕé×½üÌù´½£¬ÈËÉú°ÂÃØϸÕ÷ѯ¡£ ÌÕ´½à©à©´ßÎáÒû£¬ÐÐÀÖ¼ÑʱĪ¸º´º¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XXXV Then to the lip of this poor earthen Urn I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn: And Lip to Lip it murmur'd - "While you live Drink! - for once dead you never shall return."
ÆäÈýÊ®Áù ϸζ½ð±Óû±æÕ棬µ±ÆÚÔø×÷×íÏçÈË Ç§·½ÎǾ¡Õ´å¦´¦£¬ÊÚÊܺξÐÈêÒ»´½¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XXXVI I think the Vessel, that with fugitive Articulation answer'd, once did live, And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd, How many Kisses might it take - and give!
ÆäÈýÊ®Æß ×¤²½ÓÚ;¿´ÔìÅ÷£¬ÌÕ¹¤Àͽߵ·ÍÅÄà¡£ ÄàÍŹÖÓïÎËÉùËߣ¬¾´µ»ÈÊÐÖÁ¦½µµÍ¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XXXVII For I remember stopping by the way To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay: And with its all-obliterated Tongue It murmur'd - "Gently, Brother, gently,pray!"
ÆäÈýÊ®°Ë ¿õ¹ÅÁ÷´«»Ã»òÕ棿活ÊÞÒÍÁËܲÔÃñ¡£ ÕçÌÕ´ú´úÎÞÇîÒÑ£¬ÄàÄ׳ÉÄ£Ô컯¾û¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XXXVIII And has not such a Story from of Old Down Man's successive generations roll'd Of such a clod of saturated Earth Cast by the Maker into Human mould?
ÆäÈýÊ®¾Å Çæ±áUµØ¼ÀÏȾý£¬ä¸µÎǪ̈̄Ë÷±¡õ¸¡£ ǧËêÇàíøÁÄÊÍñ«£¬Éî²ØÍ´»ÚÎÔÜã·Ø¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XXXVIII And not a drop that from our Cups we throw For Earth to drink of, but may steal below To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye There hidden - far beneath, and long ago.
ÆäËÄÊ® ³¿Ë¼³Ð¶Óô½ðÏ㣬ÑöÊÓ³¤Ììà¨Óñ½¬¡£ ÈêЧò¯³ÏÐý×÷Î裬é×ÇãÈ˵¹×íÓÈ¿ñ¡£
Ó¢ÎÄÔÊ«XL As then the Tulip for her morning sup Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up, Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n To Earth invert you - like an empty Cup.
|