As I came to the edge of the woods, <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /> Thrush music—hark! Now if it was dusk outside, Inside it was dark. Too dark in the woods for a bird By sleight of wing To better its perch for the night, Though it still could sing. The last of the light of the sun That had died in the west Still lived for one song more In a thrush’s breast. Far in the pillared dark Thrush music went— Almost like a call to come in To the dark and lament. But no, I was out for stars; I would not come in. I meant not even if asked, And I hadn’t been. 请进 当我来到森林的边缘, 听哟,画眉的啁啁! 如果此刻林外已昏黄, 林中想必已暗透。 小鸟在如此黑暗的林中, 虽有灵活的翅膀, 也难拣稳当的枝头栖宿, 纵使它仍能歌唱。 落日最后的一线残晖 已经在西方熄没, 却依然亮在画眉心头, 诱它再唱首清歌。 听千杆矗立的林木深处 画眉的歌声回荡—— 仿佛要召我也进入林内, 在暗里伴它悲伤。 哦不行,我原是来找星星: 我不想进入森林 即使有邀请我也不进去, 况且我未受邀请。 |
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