The Darkling Thrush
黑暗中的鸫鸟

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
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.

我倚在通往密林的门边，
寒霜像鬼现出青灰，
冬的尘雾使那白日之眼
在苍白中更添憔悴。
缠绕的藤蔓横挂在空中，
宛如扯断了的琴弦，
而在附近走动的民众
早已回家围坐炉边。

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
已萎缩得又干又硬，
大地上每个生灵与我相同，
仿佛都已丧失热情。

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，头顶上有一声叫鸣
从萧瑟的枝叶间升起，
一首小夜曲充满着衷情，
唱出了无限欣喜，——
那是一只鸫鸟，瘦小、衰老，
羽毛被阵风吹乱，
却决心把它的心声倾倒，
泻向夜色渐浓的昏暗。

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，
在人世间的事务上
值得欢唱的原因是那么少，
什么使它欣喜若狂？
我觉得：那欢乐的晚安曲，
娓娓动听地诉说着
某种幸福的希望——它清楚，
我却对此无法领悟。