济慈诗歌和书信选(英文版)33 Ode to Psyche

 　　Ode to Psyche 1

　　O GODDESS! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung 2
　　By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
　　And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
　　Even into thine own soft-conched ear:
　　Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
　　The winged Psyche with awaken’d eyes?
　　I wander’d in a forest thoughtlessly,
　　And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
　　Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side
　　In deepest grass, beneath the whisp’ring roof
　　Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
　　A brooklet 3, scarce espied 4:
　　‘Mid hush’d, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
　　Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
　　They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;
　　Their arms embraced, and their pinions 5 too;
　　Their lips touch’d not, but had not bade adieu,
　　As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber 6,
　　And ready still past kisses to outnumber
　　At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:
　　The winged boy I knew;
　　But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
　　His Psyche true!
　　O latest born and loveliest vision far
　　Of all Olympus’ faded hierarchy 7!
　　Fairer than Phoebe’s sapphire-region’d star,
　　Or Vesper, amorous 8 glow-worm of the sky;
　　Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
　　Nor altar heap’d with flowers;
　　Nor virgin-choir 9 to make delicious moan
　　Upon the midnight hours;
　　No voice, no lute 10, no pipe, no incense 11 sweet
　　From chain-swung censer teeming 12;
　　No shrine 13, no grove 14, no oracle 15, no heat
　　Of pale-mouth’d prophet dreaming.
　　O brightest! though too late for antique vows 16,
　　Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
　　When holy were the haunted forest boughs 17,
　　Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
　　Yet even in these days so far retir’d
　　From happy pieties 18, thy lucent fans,
　　Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
　　I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.
　　So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
　　Upon the midnight hours;
　　Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
　　From swinged censer teeming;
　　Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
　　Of pale-mouth’d prophet dreaming.
　　Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
　　In some untrodden region of my mind,
　　Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
　　Instead of pines shall murmur 19 in the wind:
　　Far, far around shall those dark-cluster’d trees
　　Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;
　　And there by zephyrs 20, streams, and birds, and bees,
　　The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull’d to sleep;
　　And in the midst of this wide quietness
　　A rosy 21 sanctuary 22 will I dress
　　With the wreath’d trellis of a working brain,
　　With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
　　With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign 23,
　　Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:
　　And there shall be for thee all soft delight
　　That shadowy thought can win,
　　A bright torch, and a casement 24 ope at night,
　　To let the warm Love in!