旧时月色。算几番照我，梅边吹笛？唤起玉人，不管清寒与攀摘。何逊而今渐老，都忘却、春风词笔。但怪得、竹外疏花，香冷入瑶席。 江国，正寂寂。叹寄与路遥，夜雪初积。翠尊易泣。红萼无言耿相忆。长记曾携手处，千树压、西湖寒碧。又片片、吹尽也，几时见得？ Hidden Fragrance (To the Tune of Anxiang) How often did the moon of old Illuminate me playing a bamboo flute under a plum tree? I would wake her, a beauty of jade, to pluck a blossoming sprig in spite of the chilly air. Now no longer young, forgetting about the spring breeze flowing out of my brush pen, I wonder how the cold fragrance, coming from the sparse petals, beyond the bamboo groove, disturbs the wine in my cup. The south of Yangtze lies in solitude. The branches weighed down by the night's snow, I try to break a sprig, In vain, for the one now far, far away. The clear liquor seems to be sobbing in an emerald goblet, the red blossoms silent, yet stubborn in my memory. Long I remember where we stood, hand in hand, viewing thousands of trees reflecting on the cold green West Lake. All are soon blown out of sight, petals after petals. When can I see her again? （裘小龙 译） |
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