济慈诗歌和书信选(英文版)25 Ode to a Nightingale

 　　Ode to a Nightingale

　　MY heart aches, and a drowsy 1 numbness 2 pains
　　My sense, as though of hemlock 3 I had drunk,
　　Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
　　One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
　　‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
　　But being too happy in thine happiness,—
　　That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
　　In some melodious 4 plot
　　Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
　　Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
　　O, for a draught 5 of vintage! that hath been
　　Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
　　Tasting of Flora 6 and the country green,
　　Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!
　　O for a beaker full of the warm South,
　　Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
　　With beaded bubbles winking 7 at the brim,
　　And purple-stained mouth;
　　That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
　　And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
　　Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
　　What thou among the leaves hast never known,
　　The weariness, the fever, and the fret 8
　　Here, where men sit and hear each other groan 9;
　　Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
　　Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
　　Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
　　And leaden-eyed despairs,
　　Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous 10 eyes,
　　Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
　　Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
　　Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
　　But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
　　Though the dull brain perplexes and retards 11:
　　Already with thee! tender is the night,
　　And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
　　Cluster’d around by all her starry 12 Fays;
　　But here there is no light,
　　Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
　　Through verdurous glooms and winding 13 mossy ways.
　　I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
　　Nor what soft incense 14 hangs upon the boughs 15,
　　But, in embalmed 16 darkness, guess each sweet
　　Wherewith the seasonable month endows
　　The grass, the thicket 17, and the fruit-tree wild;
　　White hawthorn 18, and the pastoral eglantine;
　　Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;
　　And mid-May’s eldest 19 child,
　　The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
　　The murmurous 20 haunt of flies on summer eves.
　　Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
　　I have been half in love with easeful Death,
　　Call’d him soft names in many a mused 21 rhyme,
　　To take into the air my quiet breath;
　　Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
　　To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
　　While thou art pouring forth 22 thy soul abroad
　　In such an ecstasy 23!
　　Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
　　To thy high requiem 24 become a sod.
　　Thou wast not born for death, immortal 25 Bird!
　　No hungry generations tread thee down;
　　The voice I hear this passing night was heard
　　In ancient days by emperor and clown:
　　Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
　　Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
　　She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
　　The same that oft-times hath
　　Charm’d magic casements 26, opening on the foam 27
　　Of perilous 28 seas, in faery lands forlorn.
　　Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
　　To toil 29 me back from thee to my sole self!
　　Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
　　As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.
　　Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive 30 anthem 31 fades
　　Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
　　Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep
　　In the next valley-glades:
　　Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
　　Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?