| 題名： | 思舊 |
| 作者： | 白居易 |
| 閒日一思舊 舊遊如目前 再思今何在 零落歸下泉 退之服硫黃 一病訖不痊 微之鍊秋石 未老身溘然 杜子得丹訣 終日斷腥膻 崔君誇藥力 經冬不衣綿 或疾或暴夭 悉不過中年 唯予不服食 老命反遲延 況在少壯時 亦為嗜慾牽 但耽葷與血 不識汞與銳 飢來吞熱物 渴來飲寒泉 詩役五臟神 酒汩三丹田 隨日合破壞 至今粗完全 齒牙未缺落 肢體尚輕便 已聞第七秩 飽食仍安眠 且進盃中物 其餘皆付天 | |
| 英譯： |
In a time of idleness
Old days and old frolics
Pass before my mind's eye.
Then I wonder what has become of them?
They've returned lonely and forlorn
To the springs of the underworld.
T'ui-chih, who had only a single illness,
Swallowed sulfur and never recovered.
Wei-chih made an elixir,
Smelting minerals in autumn,
Only to die suddenly
Long before he was old.
Tu-tzu consumed cinnabar,
Eating no meat.
Ts'ui-chün boasted
Of the efficacy of the herbs
That he plucked in the depths of winter,
Though wearing not even a cotton garment.
All these sickened and suddenly died,
Not even living beyond middle age.
Only I refrained from herbs
Yet my feeble life has been prolonged.
When young and vigorous
I was driven by desire,
Ate meat and abjured alchemy.
When I was starved, I gorged hot foods,
When I was thirsty, I gulped cold spring-water.
Poetry rules over my five visceral gods,
Wine has ruined my three cinnabar fields.
By rights, each day I should be destroyed,
But today I am whole and hearty.
My teeth have not yet fallen,
My limbs are still sturdy
I am approaching seventy,
Eating well, sleeping in peace.
I proceed to the contents within the wine-cup,
Entrusting all else to Heaven.
Idle day, once I think of the old the old frolics seem to be before my eyes. Then I think, where are they? Lone-forlorn they've reverted to the spings below. T'ui-chih swallowed sulfur but one sickness and he never recovered. Wei-chih smelted the autumn rocks only to perish suddenly not yet old, Master Tu got the cinnabar, all day ate no meat; Sir Ts'ui boasted of the efficacy of herbs, got through the winters wearing not even a cotton garment. But they sickened or died of a sudden, never got past the middle years. Only I don't take herbs but my old life has been prolonged. When young and vigorous I was drawn by desire, eating meat, unknowing of alchemic arts. Starved I swallow down hot things, thirsty I drink from the cold spring. Poetry rules my five visceral gods, wine ruins my three cinnabar fields. Daily I should have been broken-ruined but right to now I'm whole-preserved. Teeth not yet fallen out, limbs still limber useful. Starting on the towards-seventy cycle eating well, sleeping in peace, I proceed to the thing in the cup, entrust all else to Heaven. |
| 日譯： | 暫無日譯內容 |