| 題名： | 對雪 |
| 作者： | 杜甫 |
| 戰哭多新鬼， 愁吟獨老翁。 亂雲低薄暮， 急雪舞迴風。 瓢棄尊無綠， 爐存火似紅。 數州消息斷， 愁坐正書空。 | |
| 英譯： |
Tumult, weeping, many new ghosts.
Heartbroken, aging, alone, I sing
To myself. Ragged mist settles
In the spreading dusk. Snow skurries
In the coiling wind. The wineglass
Is spilled. The bottle is empty.
The fire has gone out in the stove.
Everywhere men speak in whispers.
I brood on the uselessness of letters.
Out of the north the snow Is assaulting Changsha: Its clouds over Human go (Where few snows are): A myriad homes makes cold Far borne on the gale With scattered leaflets old Where raindrops hail. Not grown to flake-like flowers. Empty of angels pale Flaccid my purse. Yet a silver pot may bail Credit for wine. No one to fetch it? Why then I drain off the froth. Must I wait again and again Till the dizzy crows Come home to their roosting bowers? There're e'ven more ghosts crying in battle-field; I, a lonely old man, sigh, with sorrows filled. The tumbling clouds lay down the e'ening pall; The scurry snow-flakes dancing with the squall. No wine in the cup, the gourd dipper I shove; A seeming fire-glow in the empty stove. News from several counties the war prevents; I sit, figuring out in the air my plaints. Enough new ghosts now to mourn any war, and a lone old grief-sung man. Clouds at Twilight's ragged edge foundering, wind Buffets a dance of headlong snow. A ladle Lies beside this jar drained of emerald Wine. The stove's flame-red mirage lingers. News comes from nowhere. I sit here, Spirit-wounded, tracing words onto air. Tumult, weeping, many new ghosts. Heartbroken, aging, alone, I sing To myself. Ragged mist settles In the spreading dusk. Snow skurries In the coiling wind. The wineglass Is spilled. The bottle is empty. The fire has gone out in the stove. Everywhere men speak in whispers. I brood on the uselessness of letters. The ghosts of the newly dead lament for their lost battles and I, an aging codger, mumble my litany of woes the swirling wind conducts a mad dance of snowflakes the clouds, confused by it all, crowd toward the sunset what good is this serving ladle next to an empty wine pot? the embers in the stove are ashes their heat is mostly my imagination no news comes in from the outlying provinces no sense in all of this, no sense! There're e'en more new ghosts crying in battle-field, I, a lonely old man, sigh, with sorrows filled. The tumbling clouds lay down the e'ening pall, The scurry snow-flakes dancing with the squall. No wine in the cup, the gourd dipper I shove, A seeming fire-glow in the $(empty)$ stove. News from several counties the war prevents, I sit, fingering out in the air my plaints. |
| 日譯： | 暫無日譯內容 |