| 題名： | 茅屋為秋風所破歌 |
| 作者： | 杜甫 |
| 八月秋高風怒號， 卷我屋上三重茅。 茅飛度江灑江郊， 高者掛罥長林梢， 下者飄轉沈塘坳。 南村群童欺我老無力， 忍能對面為盜賊， 公然抱茅入竹去。 脣焦口燥呼不得， 歸來倚杖自歎息。 俄頃風定雲墨色， 秋天漠漠向昏黑。 布衾多年冷似鐵， 驕兒惡臥踏裏裂。 床床屋漏無乾處， 雨腳如麻未斷絕。 自經喪亂少睡眠， 長夜霑溼何由徹。 安得廣廈千萬間， 大庇天下寒士俱歡顏， 風雨不動安如山。 嗚呼！ 何時眼前突兀見此屋， 吾廬獨破受凍死亦足。 | |
| 英譯： |
THE roof of my house has been blown away
By the fiercest of Autumn 0 winds to-day;
It was merely of grass and branches built—
Yet my only shelter save a wadded quilt.
Across the river it scurried and whirled,
In tangled tufts, by the hurricane hurled,
Ascending in gusts till caught by the trees,
Or falling in ponds and on furrowed leas.
In great delight the village urchins shout,
And say I’m old and cannot run about;
And now before my face the rogues begin
To steal things, and then run away and grin.
At last I drive them off and hobble back
$(To find my home is shelterless, alack!)$
My lips are parched, my tongue is stiff and dry; 0
My strength is gone, I can but rest and sigh 0.
The wind has slackened but dark clouds affright,
$(And wintry is the fast approaching night;)$
0
My bed is worn and hard, my clothing spare,
0
$(I cannot sleep for pain and anxious care.)$
0
0
The rain still drizzles through the rafters high, 0
$(’Tween which I see the drifting stormy sky,)$
$(And everything is damp and comfortless:)$
0
0 What can be done to lighten such distress?
Oh, would there were a mansion of delight,
A hundred million rooms $(both fair and bright)$,
To shelter all the poor beneath the skies,
And give the joy which lasting peace supplies.
0
0
Could I but see this mansion rise sublime
Before my eyes at this, or any time;
My house and life to lose I’d be content,
Could such great blessing to the world be sent.
IT is the Eighth Month, the very height of Autumn. The wind rages and roars. It tears off three layers of my grass-roof. The thatch flies—it crosses the river—it is scattered about in the open spaces by the river. High-flying, it hangs, tangled and floating, from the tops of forest trees; Low-flying, it whirls—turns—and sinks into the hollows of the marsh. The swarm of small boys from the South Village laugh at me because I am old and feeble. How dare they act like thieves and robbers before my face, Openly seizing my thatch and running into my bamboo grove? My lips are scorched, my mouth dry, I scream at them, but to no purpose. I return, leaning on my staff. I sigh and breathe heavily. Presently, of a sudden, the wind ceases. The clouds are the colour of ink. The Autumn sky is endless—endless—stretching toward dusk and night. My old cotton quilt is as cold as iron; My restless son sleeps a troubled sleep, his moving foot tears the quilt. Over the head of the bed is a leak. Not a place is dry. The rain streams and stands like hemp—there is no break in its falling. Since this misery and confusion, I have scarcely slept or dozed. All the long night, I am soaking wet. When will the light begin to sift in? If one could have a great house of one thousand, ten thousand rooms— A great shelter where all the Empire’s shivering scholars could have happy faces— Not moved by wind or rain, solid as a mountain— Alas! When shall I see that house standing before my eyes? Then, although my own hut were destroyed, although I might freeze and die, I should be satisfied. In the Eighth Moon, the autumn gales howl from on high; The thrice-laid thatch rolls from my roof to the sky. Scattered about, across the river, the straws fly, On the tips of the tall trees they hang and twine, Or swirling down to the pools they sink and lie. Urchins from Southern Village tease that I'm an old one, They rob, under my eyes, in the face of the sun, By holding armfuls of straws, and actually run Into the bamboos, taking my shouting as fun. I can only come back, and leaning on my cane groan. Meanwhile, the clouds are dark as ink when the gales cease, And the autumn sky is veiled in dusky sheets. Cold as iron is the quilt worn for many years; My boy, sleeping ill, trod the lining into pieces. Wet is at the bed-side, as the roof there has leaks; The raindrops drip successively down like hemp seeds. E'er since the upheaval we've been short of sleeps; How to endure the soakage till the long night flees? If there were spacious houses, thousands and more, Sheltering all the world to the joy of the poor, Unshaken like the mountains in the storm's uproar! Alas! I'd prefer my cot ruins, I myself frozen to death, To the towering houses that one day stand in my face! |
| 日譯： | 暫無日譯內容 |