| 題名： | 聽蜀僧濬彈琴 |
| 作者： | 李白 |
| 蜀僧抱綠綺， 西下峨眉峰。 爲我一揮手， 如聽萬壑松。 客心洗流水， 餘響入霜鐘。 不覺碧山暮， 秋雲暗幾重。 | |
| 英譯： |
IN Szechwan $((I met))$ a monk clasping a zither in a green brocaded cover
Descending the west side of Omei Shan.
When he plucked the strings for me, I listened to the sighing of ten thousand pines in mountain valleys;
My heart was cleansed as with flowing water,
The scattering echoes mingled with the hoar-frost bells.
And I did not perceive that the green hills had grown grey
Nor that autumn clouds had darkened fold upon fold of the hills.
THE Priest of the Province of Shu, carrying his table-lute in a cover of green, shot silk, Comes down the Western slope of the peak of Mount Omei. He moves his hands for me, striking the lute. It is like listening to the waters in ten thousand ravines, and the wind in ten thousand pine-trees. The traveller’s heart is washed clean as in flowing water. The echoes of the overtones join with the evening bell. I am not conscious of the sunset behind the jade-grey hill, Nor how many and dark are the Autumn clouds. The monk from Shu with his green silk lute-case, Walking west down O-mêi Mountain, Has brought me by one touch of the strings The breath of pines in a thousand valleys. I hear him in the cleansing brook, I hear him in the icy bells; And I feel no change though the mountain darkens And cloudy autumn heaps the sky. The monk from Shu with his green silk lute-case, Walking west down O-mêi Mountain, Has brought me by one touch of the strings The breath of pines in a thousand valleys. I hear him in the cleansing brook, I hear him in the icy bells; And I feel no change though the mountain darkens And cloudy autumn heaps the sky. Down Or-mei's western slope there comes A Szechuen priest, whose fingers sweep A lute. For me the chords he thrums, That sound like pines from valleys deep. The wanderer's heart the flowing rill Laves pure. The dying echoes swell With crystal notes the temple bell. I mark not o'er the verdant hill The evening close, nor autumn cloud In piling layers the mountain shroud. Down Or-mei's western slope there comes A Szechuen priest, whose fingers sweep A lute. For me the chords he thrums, That sound like pines from valleys deep. The wanderer's heart the flowing rill Laves pure. The dying echoes swell With crystal notes the temple bell. I mark not o'er the verdant hill The evening close, nor autumn cloud In piling layers the mountain shroud. A monk from Shu his green lute brings, Coming down the west peak of Mount Brow. He sweeps his fingers o'er its strings, I hear the wind through pine-trees sough. A running stream washes my heart, With evening bells its echo's loud. I do not feel the sun depart From mountains green and autumn cloud. Carrying his green silk zither, the monk from Shu Comes down from the west, from the peak of Mount Emei. When he sweeps his hand across the strings for me It’s like listening to the pines in countless valleys. My mind is washed clean by the flowing waters, And the last, lingering sounds sink into a frosty bell. Evening comes unawares to the jade-blue mountains, With layer on dusky layer of autumn cloud. |
| 日譯： | 暫無日譯內容 |