一蓑烟雨任平生 双星隔汉遥相望——中国“传奇兄妹译匠”杨宪益杨苡

Home-Thoughts, from Abroad

Oh, to be in England

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

In England—now!

And after April, when May follows,

And the whitethroat builds,and all the swallows!

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover

Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,

Lest you should think he never could recapture

The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew

The buttercups, the little children's dower

——Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

罗伯特·勃朗宁/作

Robert Browning,1812-1889

杨苡/译

Autumn

A touch of cold in the Autumn night—

I walked abroad,

And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge

Like a red-faced farmer.

I did not stop to speak, but nodded,

And round about were the wistful stars

With white faces like town children.

T.E.休姆/作

TE.Hulme,1883-1917

杨宪益/译

Above the Dock

Above the quiet dock in mid night,

Tangled in the tall mast's corded height,

Hangs the moon. What seemed so far away

Is but a child's balloon, forgotten after play.

T.E.休姆/作

T.E.Hulme,1883-1917

杨宪益/译

The Tyger

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forest of the night;

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,

And watered heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

威廉·布莱克 / 作

William Blake, 1757—1827

杨苡 / 译