诗歌翻译:吴文英·《风入松》

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所属分类:典籍英译
摘要

Wind throng Pines

清明节古诗词吴文英《风入松》

风入松

吴文英

 

听风听雨过清明,

愁草瘗花铭。

楼前绿暗分携路,

一丝柳,

一寸柔情。

料峭春寒中酒,

交加晓梦啼莺。

 

西园日日扫林亭,

依旧赏新晴。

黄蜂频扑秋千索,

有当时,

纤手香凝。

惆怅双鸳不到,

幽阶一夜苔生。

 

Wind throng Pines

Wu Wenying

 

Hearing the wind and rain while mourning for the dead,

Sadly I draft an elegy on flowers.

Over dark green lane hang willow twigs like thread,

We parted before the bowers.

Each twig revealing

Our tender feeling.

I drown my grief in wine in chilly spring;

Drowsy, I wake again when orioles sing.

 

In West Garden I sweep the pathway

From day to day

Enjoying the fine view

Still without you.

On the ropes of the swing the wasps often alight

For fragrance spread by fingers fair.

I’m grieved not to see your foot traces, all night

The mossy steps are left untrodden there.

 

(许渊冲 译)

 

Key: Feng Ju Sung

Wu Wen-ying

 

Listening to the winds and rain on this Tomb Sweeping Day,

Even the grasses are sad for the Flower Epitaph.

The road in front of my house forks to two by the green shades,

– An inch of willow shoot, an inch of tender love.

 

On this chilly spring day, I had a cup too much of wine,

And in the dawn, the orioles broke my dream many a time.

I’m content to be a gardener in this West Garden,

And, as always, happy to see the sun after much rain.

 

Wasps are humming around the ropes of the swing,

For where her hands touched, the fragrance still stays.

It is so disappointing that you are not coming,

In the quiet night, mosses had crept onto the door steps.

 

(王季文 译)

 

Memory

Wu Wenying

 

Amid the noisy wind and rain the Clear-bright Festival has passed,

The lamenting grass provides the burial ground for the fallen flowers.

Before the chamber where we parted on the shady green path,

Every thread of willow is draped with a thread of my tender thought.

In the spring chill I am over-intoxicated with wine,

And the singing orioles rouse my dreams at dawn.

 

Daily in the West Garden I weed and sweep the terrace by the wood

To welcome the fair new day as before.

The wasps tap the swing rope time and again,

Where has clung the perfume of her slender hands.

To my disappointment the pair of teals come no more.

While on the secluded doorsteps moss grows overnight.

 

(初大告 译)

 

West Garden

To the Tune of Fengrusong

Wu Wenying

 

Listening to the wind, to the rain,

the day of Qingming fleeing,

I try to write, like an earlier poet,

an ode to buried petals,

the garden trail forking

against the green-shaded bower,

a strand of willow shoot

for a stretch of passion, the spring

chill in a cup of wine, and the oriole

twittering in the morning dream.

 

Day after day,

I sweep the west garden,

the woods and pavilions,

appreciating, as before, the fresh view

after the rain. The bees keep

bumping against the swing

which seems to be redolent

of her fragrant hands then.

Alas, Mandarin ducks fail

to come, the secluded steps

become moss-covered overnight.

 

(裘小龙 译)

 

P’u – Feng Ju Sung

Wu Wen Ying

 

I hear the wind, I hear the rain as the Ch’ing Ming passes by.

Heaped under meagre grass dead blossoms lie.

Facing the house, deep leaf shadows the road where we said farewell:

A willow tendril waves

Each quivering inch responsively.

Lately, in spring’s cold mood, when wine had warmed my rest,

Half roused at dreaming dawn I heard the oriole cry.

 

Daily I sweep the cabin in the western garden trees.

The sun shines as of old and the golden bees

Fly unceasingly to and fro haunting the ropes on the swing

Which harbour from those days

Scent of soft hands, and memories.

That pair of Mandarin ducks, how sad they never came.

Moss on deserted steps has spread by night its fleece.

 

(Duncan Makintosh, Cheng Hsi 译)

 

Tune: “Feng Ru Song”

Missing You

Wu Wenying

 

I spent my Tomb-Sweeping Day by listening to the wind and rain.

I was in no mood to draft an epigraph for flowers’ burying.

In front of the house, the road where

we parted looked dense and green.

One thread of willows equals to

one inch of tender feeling.

I drown myself in wine in the chill of spring.

In my morning dream, I could vaguely

hear orioles chattering.

 

I sweep the west garden every day.

I still enjoy the sunny day after the rain.

But the wasps keep dashing on

the ropes of the swing.

The fragrance that your tender fingers

left behind is responsible for their returning.

I lament that you can no longer be seen.

Did the moss on the steps grown in

the night prevent you from coming?

 

(张畅繁 译)

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