| 英譯： |
Today, the fifth moon, there are rice shoots at Chun-k'u:
Slender and green are the smooth flooded felds,
And on the far mountains the peaks press down.
I grieve for the jagged green rocks, afraid they will fall.
Pure brightness of air where no autumn is:
Cool winds drifting through enchanted green lands.
There is a sad loneliness among the scented bamboos;
White powdered gnarls, leaves freshly green,
Furry grass drooping sorrowful hairs,
Glistening dew shedding faint tears,
A road winding to a green cavern among dense leaves,
Where the flowers in the pathway are faded, drunken and red.
There, swarms of woodlice bore into ancient willows
And the cicades cry shrilly from the brightest and deepest leaves.
The huge scarves of yellow vines weave down:
Criss-crossed over slender streams are the purple flagleave
Thick moss like pennies clings to the stones
And there are succulent clusters of hanging leaves.
O white and smooth is the washed sand
Where green emblems are printed by horses' hooves.
In the evening fishes swim smoothly along.
In the dusk the lone, lean stork stands.
Liao-liao sing the damp frogs,
And a slow surprised stream dashes against the rock.
Crooked and winding is True Jade Road:
A virgin goddess lies in a violet flower.
Willow-sedge coils over pebbles and streams:
Mountain fruit hang scarlet and red.
Sappling cypresses shake like waved fans,
And plump pines ooze out crimson juices.
A singing stream utters resonant songs:
Glowing corn-ears droop from the autumn slopes,
While orioles mimic a song of a bird-throated girl.
Like a white satin dress hangs the waterfall,
The spray is filled with laughing eyes.
The cave-crannied cliffs are about to fall.
Tangled bamboo shoots sprout from the highest rocks,
And the slender-necked bird clamours from the fountains' stones.
The sun rays sweep up the dun mist,
New clouds rise with transparent depths of colour.
Silent and clear is this hateful summer night:
A west wind pours through the crystal air.
She sleeps in her shrine, her jade face is at peace:
Incense of burnt cinnamon adores her heavenly throne.
In this dark night she lies clothed in veils of scent:
Deep in meditation she dreams of her sleeping altar.
Waiting for the king, the ancient roosting birds of bronze.
The walls in the old place are broken and yellow like pepper.
Ting-ling sound the few remnants of the bells.
The wandering courtier listens, filled with his icy thoughts.
Cool ivy binds the red doorsprings:
There are evil spirits dwelling in the dragon-painted curtains:
Flowering willows pierce through the green blinds.
The scented bedsheets once served the fallen dukes.
Dust of singing-maidens lies on the worm-eaten floor
And the skirts of dancers are curled up like tenuous clouds.
The tithes of earth are stripped into lengths of satin.
Once did the peasants cherish their virtuous ancestral customs:
Once at funerals no one beat time with pestles,
Nor was their evil witchcraft concerning plagues and disease.
Then old men with fish-scale skins were generous and kind,
And children with horn-braided hair knew shame and modesty.
There was no need to have judges at court
And no one thought of scolding tax-collectors.
Bamboo clusters add to lost bamboo-leaves.
The stone banks tempt the fishermen with hook and line:
The streams wind liquid scarves,
Banana trees incline their papery leaves.
Gleams from high peaks dazzle like shot gauze:
Seeing the lonely moon sweeps away sorrows.
The spring stream flows like a beaker of Tao-ch'ien's wine.
Ting-ling ring the distant bells.
Chiao-Chiao echoes t the lonely bird.
High soaring porphyry rocks shine black and purple.
Dangerous explosions of spring rival the fountain's uproar.
The moon floating in a smooth cobalt sky
Lies dim, the invader, among haggard clouds.
A cool light overflows the banks and streams,
Dissolving all outlines of the mountain.
The fisherman's boy lowers his net at night:
The frost-bird claps smoke-grey wings.
In the mirror-clear pool glides the crocodile's saliva.
Fish spit floating bubbles of pearl.
The plane-tree in the wind soughs like a harp encased
in jade:
The fire-flies are messengers coming to the embroidered city.
Branches of willow weave out long streamers.
A bamboo grove quivering rustles with the sound of small flutes.
Green moss creeps among pebbles:
The reed shoots peer through the muddy water.
The sky is reflected in drifting whirlpools.
Old junipers seize the hand of a cloud.
In the sombre moonlight shine the red curtains of eglantine.
The scented thorn-grasses lie under overhanging clouds.
The beards of wheat stretch for a hundred miles.
Thousands of empty carts lie idle in the market-place.
I, a descendant of the royal house, now a servant of others
With the deepest pleasure bow low to the earth.
|