Ode to a Nightingale.doc

I. Read the following words selected from Preface to Lyrical Ballads by William Wordsworth in1800 and pay special attention to highlighted ones. It was published, as an experiment, which, I hoped, might be of some use to ascertain, how far, by fitting to metrical arrangement a selection of the real language of men in a state of vivid sensation, that sort of pleasure and that quantity of pleasure may be imparted, which a Poet may rationally endeavour to impart.The principal object, then, proposed in these Poems was to choose incidents and situations from common life, and to relate or describe them, throughout, as far as was possible in a selection of language really used by men, and, at the same time, to throw over them a certain colouring of imagination, whereby ordinary things should be presented to the mind in an unusual aspect; and, further, and above all, to make these incidents and situations interesting by tracing in them, truly though not ostentatiously, the primary laws of our nature: chiefly, as far as regards the manner in which we associate ideas in a state of excitement. Humble and rustic life was generally chosen, because, in that condition, the essential passions of the heart find a better soil in which they can attain their maturity, are less under restraint, and speak a plainer and more emphatic language;The language, too, of these men has been adopted。because such men hourly communicate with the best objects from which the best part of language is originally derived; and because, from their rank in society and the sameness and narrow circle of their intercourse, being less under the influence of social vanity, they convey their feelings and notions in simple and unelaborated expressions. Accordingly, such a language, arising out of repeated experience and regular feelings, is a more permanent, and a far more philosophical language, than that which is frequently substituted for it by Poets, who think that they are conferring honour upon themselves and their art, in proportion as they separate themselves from the sympathies of men, and indulge in arbitrary and capricious habits of expression, in order to furnish food for fickle tastes, and fickle appetites, of their own creation.For all good poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: and though this be true, Poems to which any value can be attached were never produced on any variety of subjects but by a man who, being possessed of more than usual organic sensibility, had also thought long and deeply. For our continued influxes of feeling are modified and directed by our thoughts, which are indeed the representatives of all our past feelings; and, as by contemplating the relation of these general representatives to each other, we discover what is really important to men,What is a Poet? to whom does he address himself? and what language is to be expected from him?He is a man speaking to men: a man, it is true, endowed with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, who has a greater knowledge of human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be common among mankind; a man pleased with his own passions and volitions, and who rejoices more than other men in the spirit of life that is in him; delighting to contemplate similar volitions and passions as manifested in the goings-on of the Universe, and habitually impelled to create them where he does not find them.Poetry is the image of man and nature.。The Poet writes under one restriction only, namely, the necessity of giving immediate pleasure to a human Being possessed of that information which may be expected from him, not as a lawyer, a physician, a mariner, an astronomer, or a natural philosopher, but as a Man.Nor let this necessity of producing immediate pleasure be considered as a degradation of the Poets art. It is far otherwise. It is an acknowledgement of the beauty of the universe, an acknowledgement the more sincere, because not formal, but indirect; it is a task light and easy to him who looks at the world in the spirit of love: further, it is a homage paid to the native and naked dignity of man, to the grand elementary principle of pleasure, by which he knows, and feels, and lives, and moves.In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs: in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed; the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time. The objects of the Poets thoughts are everywhere; though the eyes and senses of man are, it is true, his favourite guides, yet he will follow wheresoever he can find an atmosphere of sensation in which to move his wings. Poetry is the first and last of all knowledgeit is as immortal as the heart of man. If the labours of Men of science should ever create any material revolution, direct or indirect, in our condition, and in the impressions which we habitually receive, the Poet will sleep then no more than at present; he will be ready to follow the steps of the Man of science, not only in those general indirect effects, but he will be at his side, carrying sensation into the midst of the objects of the science itself.I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind.II. Study two poems by John Keats and Walt Whitman and their Chinese versions.Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats 1.My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness, That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 2.O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Coold a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 3.Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 4.Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Clusterd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 5.I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets coverd up in leaves; And mid-Mays eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 6.Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Calld him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain To thy high requiem become a sod. 7.Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charmd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 8.Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toil me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:Do I wake or sleep? 夜莺颂1我的心在痛，困盹和麻木刺进了感官，有如饮过毒鸩，又像是刚刚把鸦片吞服，于是向着列斯忘川下沉：并不是我嫉妒你的好运，而是你的快乐使我太欢欣因为在林间嘹亮的天地里，你呵，轻翅的仙灵。你躲进山毛榉的葱绿和阴影，放开了歌喉，歌唱着夏季。2唉，要是有一口酒！那冷藏在地下多年的清醇饮料，一尝就令人想起绿色之邦，想起花神，恋歌，阳光和舞蹈！要是有一杯南国的温暖充满了鲜红的灵感之泉，杯沿明灭着珍珠的泡沫，给嘴唇染上紫斑；哦，我要一饮而悄然离开尘寰，和你同去阴暗的林中隐没。3远远地、远远地隐没，让我忘掉你在树林中从不知道的一切，忘记这疲劳、热病和焦躁，这使人对坐而悲叹的世界；在这里，青春苍白、削瘦、死亡，而“瘫痪”有几根白发在摇摆；在这里，稍一思索就充满了忧伤和灰眼的绝望，而“美”保持不住明眸的光彩，新生的爱情活不到明天就枯凋。4去吧！去吧！我要朝你飞去，不用和酒神坐文豹的车驾，我要展开诗歌的无形羽翼，尽管这头脑已经困顿、疲乏；去了！呵，我已经和你同往！夜这般温柔，月后正登上宝座，周围是侍卫她的一群星星；但这儿却不甚明亮，除了有一线天光，被微风带过葱绿的幽暗，和苔藓的曲径。5我看不出是哪种花草在脚旁，什么清香的花挂在树枝上；在温馨的幽暗里，我只能猜想这个时令该把哪种芬芳赋予这棵树，林莽和草丛，这白枳花，和田野的玫瑰，这绿叶堆中易谢的紫罗兰，还有五月中旬的骄宠，这缀满了露酒的麝香蔷薇，它成了夏夜蚊蚋的嗡吟的港湾。6我在黑暗里倾听；呵，多少次我几乎爱上了静谧的死亡，我在诗里用尽了好的言辞，求他把我的一息散入空茫；而现在，哦，死是多么富丽：在午夜里溘然魂离人间，当你正倾泻着你的心怀发出这般的狂喜！你仍将歌唱，但我却不再听见你的葬歌只能唱给泥土一块。7永生的鸟呵，你不会死去！饥饿的时代无法将你蹂躏；今夜，我偶然听到的歌曲曾使古代的帝王和村夫喜悦。或许这同样的歌也会激荡露丝忧郁的心，使她不禁落泪，站在异邦的谷田里想着家；就是这声音常常在失掉了的仙域里引动窗扉：一个美女望着大海险恶的浪花。8呵，失掉了！这句话好比一声钟使我猛省到我站脚的地方！别了！幻想，这骗人的妖童，不能老耍弄它盛传的伎俩。别了！别了！你怨诉的歌声流过草坡，越过幽静的溪水，溜上山坡；而此时，它正深深埋在附近的峪谷中：噫，这是个幻觉，还是梦寐？那歌声去了：我是睡？是醒醒？Song of Myself, I, II, VI & LII by Walt Whitman II Celebrate myself, and sing myself,And what I assume you shall assume,For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.I loafe and invite my soul,I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.My tongue, every atom of my blood, formd from this soil,this air,Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,Hoping to cease not till death.Creeds and schools in abeyance,Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but neverforgotten,I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,Nature without check with original energy.II Houses and rooms are full of perfumes. the shelves are crowded with perfumes,I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it,The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.The atmosphere is not a perfume. it has no taste of the distillation. it is odorless,It is for my mouth forever. I am in love with it,I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,I am mad for it to be in contact with me.The smoke of my own breath,Echoes, ripples, and buzzed whispers. loveroot, silkthread, crotch and vine,Myrespiration and inspiration. the beating of my heart. the passing of blood and air through my lungs,The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and darkcolored sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,The sound of the belched words of my voice. words loosed to the eddies of the wind,A few light kisses. a few embraces. reaching around of arms,The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides,The feeling of health. the full-noon trill. the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? Have you reckoned the earth much?Have you practiced so long to learn to read?Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?Stopthis day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,You shall possess the good of the earth and sun. there are millions of suns left,You shall no longer take things at second or third hand. nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.VIA child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with fullhands;How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is anymore than he.I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopefulgreen stuff woven.Or I guess if is the handkerchief of the Lord,A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,Bearing the owners name someway in the corners, that wemay see and remark, and say Whose?Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrowzones,Growing among black folks as among white,Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them thesame, I receive then the same.And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.Tenderly will I use you curling grass,It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken,It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,soon out of their mothers laps,And here you are the mothers laps.This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of oldmothers,Darker than the colorless beards of old men,Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouthsfor nothing.I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young menand women,And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspringtaken soon out of their laps.What do you think has become of the young and old men?And what do you think has become of the women andchildren?They are alive and well somewhere,The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not waitat the end to arrest it,And ceasd the moment life appeard.All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,And to die is different from what any one supposed, andluckier.LII