章节正文
dissolved into aerialessence, this flaming blue and gold sky is
the 'very me,' that part of me that incessantly and in- solently,
yes, and a little deliberately, triumphs over that other part--a
thing of nerves and tissues that suffers and cries out, and that
must die to-morrow perhaps, or twenty years hence."
Then there was her humour, which was part of her strange wisdom,
and was always awake and on the watch. In all her letters,
written in exquisite English prose, but with an ardent imagery
and a vehementsincerity of emotion which make them, like the
poems, indeed almost more directly, un-English, Oriental, there
was always this intellectual, critical sense of humour, which
could laugh at one's own enthusiasm as frankly as that enthusiasm
had been set down. And partly the humour, like the delicate
reserve of her manner, was a mask or a shelter. "I have taught
myself," she writes to me from India, "to be commonplace and like
everybody else superficially. Every one thinks I am so nice and
cheerful, so 'brave,' all the banal things that are so
comfortable to be. My mother knows me only as 'such a tranquil
child, but so strong-willed.' A tranquil child!" And she writes
again, with deeper significance: "I too have learnt the subtle
philosophy of living from moment to moment. Yes, it is a subtle
philosophy, though it appears merely an epicurean doctrine:
'Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die.' I have gone
through so many yesterdays when I strove with Death that I have
realised to its full the wisdom of that sentence; and it is to me
not merely a figure of speech, but a literal fact. Any to-morrow
I might die. It is scarcely two months since I came back from
the grave: is it worth while to be anything but radiantly glad?
Of all things that life or perhaps my temperament has given me I
prize the gift of laughter as beyond price."
Her desire, always, was to be "a wild free thing of the air like
the birds, with a song in my heart." A spirit of too much fire
in too frail a body, it was rarely that her desire was fully
granted. But in Italy she found what she could not find in
England, and from Italy her letters are radiant. "This Italy is
made of gold," she writes from Florence, "the gold of dawn and
daylight, the gold of the stars, and, now dancing in weird
enchanting rhythms through this magic month of May, the gold of
fireflies in the perfumed darkness--'aerial gold.' I long to
catch the subtle music of their fairy dances and make a poem with
a rhythm like the quick irregular wild flash of their sudden
movements. Would it not be wonderful? One black night I stood
in a garden with fireflies in my hair like darting restless stars
caught in a mesh of darkness. It gave me a strange sensation, as
if I were not human at all, but an elfin spirit. I wonder why
these little things move me so deeply? It is because I have a
most 'unbalanced intellect,' I suppose." Then, looking out on
Florence, she cries, "God! how beautiful it is, and how glad I am
that I am alive to-day!" And she tells me that she is drinking
in the beauty like wine, "wine, golden and scented, and shining,
fit for the gods; and the gods have drunk it, the dead gods of
Etruria, two thousand years ago. Did I say dead? No, for the
gods are immortal, and one might still find them loitering in
some solitary dell on the grey hillsides of Fiesole. Have I seen
them? Yes, looking with dreaming eyes, I have found them sitting
under the olives, in their grave, strong, antique
beauty--Etruscan gods!"
In Italy she watches the faces of the monks, and at one moment
longs to attain to their peace by renunciation, longs for
Nirvana; "then, when one comes out again into the hot sunshine
that warms one's blood, and sees the eager hurrying faces of men
and women in the street, dramatic faces over which the disturbing
experiences of life have passed and left their symbols, one's
heart thrills up into one's throat. No, no, no, a thousand times
no! how can one deliberatelyrenounce this coloured, unquiet,
fiery human life of the earth?" And, all the time, her subtle
criticism is alert, and this woman of the East marvels at the
women of the West, "the beautiful worldly women of the West,"
whom she sees walking in the Cascine, "taking the air so
consciously attractive in their brilliant toilettes, in the
brilliant coquetry of their manner!" She finds them "a little
incomprehensible," "profound artists in all the subtle
intricacies of fascination," and asks if these "incalculable
frivolities and vanities and coquetries and caprices" are, to us,
an essential part of their charm? And she watches them with
amusement as they flutter about her, petting her as if she were a
nice child, a child or a toy, not dreaming that she is saying to
herself sorrowfully: "How utterly empty their lives must be of
all spiritual beauty IF they are nothing more than they appear to
be."
She sat in our midst, and judged us, and few knew what was
passing behind that face "like an awakening soul," to use one of
her own epithets. Her eyes were like deep pools, and you seemed
to fall through them into depths below depths.
ARTHUR SYMONS.
FOLK SONGS
PALANQUIN BEARERS
Lightly, O lightly we bear her along,
She sways like a flower in the wind of our song;
She skims like a bird on the foam of a stream,
She floats like a laugh from the lips of a dream.
Gaily, O gaily we glide and we sing,
We bear her along like a pearl on a string.
Softly, O softly we bear her along,
She hangs like a star in the dew of our song;
She springs like a beam on the brow of the tide,
She falls like a tear from the eyes of a bride.
Lightly, O lightly we glide and we sing,
We bear her along like a pearl on a string.
WANDERING SINGERS
(Written to one of their Tunes)
Where the voice of the wind calls our wandering feet,
Through echoing forest and echoing street,
With lutes in our hands ever-singing we roam,
All men are our kindred, the world is our home.
Our lays are of cities whose lustre is shed,
The laughter and beauty of women long dead;
The sword of old battles, the crown of old kings,
And happy and simple and sorrowful things.
What hope shall we gather, what dreams shall we sow?
Where the wind calls our wandering footsteps we go.
No love bids us tarry, no joy bids us wait:
The voice of the wind is the voice of our fate.
INDIAN WEAVERS
Weavers, weaving at break of day,
Why do you weave a garment so gay? . . .
Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild,
We weave the robes of a new-born child.
Weavers, weaving at fall of night,
Why do you weave a garment so bright? . . .
Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green,
We weave the marriage-veils of a queen.
Weavers, weaving solemn and still,
What do you weave in the moonlight chill? . . .
White as a feather and white as a cloud,
We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.
COROMANDEL FISHERS
Rise, brothers, rise, the wakening skies pray
to the morning light,
The wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn
like a child that has cried all night.
Come, let us gather our nets from the shore,
and set our catamarans free,
To capture the leaping wealth of the tide, for
we are the sons of the sea.
No longer delay, let us hasten away in the
track of the sea-gull's call,
The sea is our mother, the cloud is our brother,
the waves are our comrades all.
What though we toss at the fall of the sun
where the hand of the sea-god drives?
He who holds the storm by the hair, will hide
in his breast our lives.
Sweet is the shade of the cocoanut glade, and
the scent of the mango grove,
And sweet are the sands at the full o' the
moon with the sound of the voices we love.
But sweeter, O brothers, the kiss of the spray
and the dance of the wild foam's glee:
Row, brothers, row to the blue of the verge,
where the low sky mates with the sea.
THE SNAKE-CHARMER
Whither dost thou hide from the magic of my flute-call?
In what moonlight-tangled meshes of perfume,
Where the clustering keovas guard the squirrel's slumber,
Where the deep woods glimmer with the jasmine's bloom?
I'll feed thee, O beloved, on milk and wild red honey,
I'll bear thee in a basket of rushes, green and white,
To a palace-bower where golden-vested maidens
Thread with mellowlaughter the petals of delight.
Whither dost thou loiter, by what murmuring hollows,
Where oleanders scatter their ambrosial fire?
Come, thou subtle bride of my mellifluous wooing,
Come, thou silver-breasted moonbeam of desire!
CORN-GRINDERS
O LITTLE MOUSE, WHY DOST THOU CRY
WHILE MERRY STARS LAUGH IN THE SKY?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah, who will ease my bitter pain?
He went to seek a millet-grain
In the rich farmer's granary shed;
They caught him in a baited snare,
And slew my lover unaware:
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
O LITTLE DEER, WHY DOST THOU MOAN,
HID IN THY FOREST-BOWER ALONE?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah! who will quiet my lament?
At fall of eventide he went
To drink beside the river-head;
A waitinghunter threw his dart,
And struck my lover through the heart.
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
O LITTLE BRIDE, WHY DOST THOU WEEP
WITH ALL THE HAPPY WORLD ASLEEP?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah, who will stay these hungry tears,
Or still the want of famished years,
And crown with love my marriage-bed?
My soul burns with the quenchless fire
That lit my lover's funeral pyre:
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
VILLAGE-SONG
Honey, child, honey, child, whither are you
going?
Would you cast your jewels all to the breezes
blowing?
Would you leave the mother who on golden
grain has fed you?
Would you grieve the lover who is riding forth
to wed you?
the 'very me,' that part of me that incessantly and in- solently,
yes, and a little deliberately, triumphs over that other part--a
thing of nerves and tissues that suffers and cries out, and that
must die to-morrow perhaps, or twenty years hence."
Then there was her humour, which was part of her strange wisdom,
and was always awake and on the watch. In all her letters,
written in exquisite English prose, but with an ardent imagery
and a vehementsincerity of emotion which make them, like the
poems, indeed almost more directly, un-English, Oriental, there
was always this intellectual, critical sense of humour, which
could laugh at one's own enthusiasm as frankly as that enthusiasm
had been set down. And partly the humour, like the delicate
reserve of her manner, was a mask or a shelter. "I have taught
myself," she writes to me from India, "to be commonplace and like
everybody else superficially. Every one thinks I am so nice and
cheerful, so 'brave,' all the banal things that are so
comfortable to be. My mother knows me only as 'such a tranquil
child, but so strong-willed.' A tranquil child!" And she writes
again, with deeper significance: "I too have learnt the subtle
philosophy of living from moment to moment. Yes, it is a subtle
philosophy, though it appears merely an epicurean doctrine:
'Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die.' I have gone
through so many yesterdays when I strove with Death that I have
realised to its full the wisdom of that sentence; and it is to me
not merely a figure of speech, but a literal fact. Any to-morrow
I might die. It is scarcely two months since I came back from
the grave: is it worth while to be anything but radiantly glad?
Of all things that life or perhaps my temperament has given me I
prize the gift of laughter as beyond price."
Her desire, always, was to be "a wild free thing of the air like
the birds, with a song in my heart." A spirit of too much fire
in too frail a body, it was rarely that her desire was fully
granted. But in Italy she found what she could not find in
England, and from Italy her letters are radiant. "This Italy is
made of gold," she writes from Florence, "the gold of dawn and
daylight, the gold of the stars, and, now dancing in weird
enchanting rhythms through this magic month of May, the gold of
fireflies in the perfumed darkness--'aerial gold.' I long to
catch the subtle music of their fairy dances and make a poem with
a rhythm like the quick irregular wild flash of their sudden
movements. Would it not be wonderful? One black night I stood
in a garden with fireflies in my hair like darting restless stars
caught in a mesh of darkness. It gave me a strange sensation, as
if I were not human at all, but an elfin spirit. I wonder why
these little things move me so deeply? It is because I have a
most 'unbalanced intellect,' I suppose." Then, looking out on
Florence, she cries, "God! how beautiful it is, and how glad I am
that I am alive to-day!" And she tells me that she is drinking
in the beauty like wine, "wine, golden and scented, and shining,
fit for the gods; and the gods have drunk it, the dead gods of
Etruria, two thousand years ago. Did I say dead? No, for the
gods are immortal, and one might still find them loitering in
some solitary dell on the grey hillsides of Fiesole. Have I seen
them? Yes, looking with dreaming eyes, I have found them sitting
under the olives, in their grave, strong, antique
beauty--Etruscan gods!"
In Italy she watches the faces of the monks, and at one moment
longs to attain to their peace by renunciation, longs for
Nirvana; "then, when one comes out again into the hot sunshine
that warms one's blood, and sees the eager hurrying faces of men
and women in the street, dramatic faces over which the disturbing
experiences of life have passed and left their symbols, one's
heart thrills up into one's throat. No, no, no, a thousand times
no! how can one deliberatelyrenounce this coloured, unquiet,
fiery human life of the earth?" And, all the time, her subtle
criticism is alert, and this woman of the East marvels at the
women of the West, "the beautiful worldly women of the West,"
whom she sees walking in the Cascine, "taking the air so
consciously attractive in their brilliant toilettes, in the
brilliant coquetry of their manner!" She finds them "a little
incomprehensible," "profound artists in all the subtle
intricacies of fascination," and asks if these "incalculable
frivolities and vanities and coquetries and caprices" are, to us,
an essential part of their charm? And she watches them with
amusement as they flutter about her, petting her as if she were a
nice child, a child or a toy, not dreaming that she is saying to
herself sorrowfully: "How utterly empty their lives must be of
all spiritual beauty IF they are nothing more than they appear to
be."
She sat in our midst, and judged us, and few knew what was
passing behind that face "like an awakening soul," to use one of
her own epithets. Her eyes were like deep pools, and you seemed
to fall through them into depths below depths.
ARTHUR SYMONS.
FOLK SONGS
PALANQUIN BEARERS
Lightly, O lightly we bear her along,
She sways like a flower in the wind of our song;
She skims like a bird on the foam of a stream,
She floats like a laugh from the lips of a dream.
Gaily, O gaily we glide and we sing,
We bear her along like a pearl on a string.
Softly, O softly we bear her along,
She hangs like a star in the dew of our song;
She springs like a beam on the brow of the tide,
She falls like a tear from the eyes of a bride.
Lightly, O lightly we glide and we sing,
We bear her along like a pearl on a string.
WANDERING SINGERS
(Written to one of their Tunes)
Where the voice of the wind calls our wandering feet,
Through echoing forest and echoing street,
With lutes in our hands ever-singing we roam,
All men are our kindred, the world is our home.
Our lays are of cities whose lustre is shed,
The laughter and beauty of women long dead;
The sword of old battles, the crown of old kings,
And happy and simple and sorrowful things.
What hope shall we gather, what dreams shall we sow?
Where the wind calls our wandering footsteps we go.
No love bids us tarry, no joy bids us wait:
The voice of the wind is the voice of our fate.
INDIAN WEAVERS
Weavers, weaving at break of day,
Why do you weave a garment so gay? . . .
Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild,
We weave the robes of a new-born child.
Weavers, weaving at fall of night,
Why do you weave a garment so bright? . . .
Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green,
We weave the marriage-veils of a queen.
Weavers, weaving solemn and still,
What do you weave in the moonlight chill? . . .
White as a feather and white as a cloud,
We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.
COROMANDEL FISHERS
Rise, brothers, rise, the wakening skies pray
to the morning light,
The wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn
like a child that has cried all night.
Come, let us gather our nets from the shore,
and set our catamarans free,
To capture the leaping wealth of the tide, for
we are the sons of the sea.
No longer delay, let us hasten away in the
track of the sea-gull's call,
The sea is our mother, the cloud is our brother,
the waves are our comrades all.
What though we toss at the fall of the sun
where the hand of the sea-god drives?
He who holds the storm by the hair, will hide
in his breast our lives.
Sweet is the shade of the cocoanut glade, and
the scent of the mango grove,
And sweet are the sands at the full o' the
moon with the sound of the voices we love.
But sweeter, O brothers, the kiss of the spray
and the dance of the wild foam's glee:
Row, brothers, row to the blue of the verge,
where the low sky mates with the sea.
THE SNAKE-CHARMER
Whither dost thou hide from the magic of my flute-call?
In what moonlight-tangled meshes of perfume,
Where the clustering keovas guard the squirrel's slumber,
Where the deep woods glimmer with the jasmine's bloom?
I'll feed thee, O beloved, on milk and wild red honey,
I'll bear thee in a basket of rushes, green and white,
To a palace-bower where golden-vested maidens
Thread with mellowlaughter the petals of delight.
Whither dost thou loiter, by what murmuring hollows,
Where oleanders scatter their ambrosial fire?
Come, thou subtle bride of my mellifluous wooing,
Come, thou silver-breasted moonbeam of desire!
CORN-GRINDERS
O LITTLE MOUSE, WHY DOST THOU CRY
WHILE MERRY STARS LAUGH IN THE SKY?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah, who will ease my bitter pain?
He went to seek a millet-grain
In the rich farmer's granary shed;
They caught him in a baited snare,
And slew my lover unaware:
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
O LITTLE DEER, WHY DOST THOU MOAN,
HID IN THY FOREST-BOWER ALONE?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah! who will quiet my lament?
At fall of eventide he went
To drink beside the river-head;
A waitinghunter threw his dart,
And struck my lover through the heart.
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
O LITTLE BRIDE, WHY DOST THOU WEEP
WITH ALL THE HAPPY WORLD ASLEEP?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah, who will stay these hungry tears,
Or still the want of famished years,
And crown with love my marriage-bed?
My soul burns with the quenchless fire
That lit my lover's funeral pyre:
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
VILLAGE-SONG
Honey, child, honey, child, whither are you
going?
Would you cast your jewels all to the breezes
blowing?
Would you leave the mother who on golden
grain has fed you?
Would you grieve the lover who is riding forth
to wed you?
- humour [´hju:mə]
n.幽默，诙谐 (初中英语单词) - emotion [i´məuʃən] n.感情；情绪；激动 (初中英语单词)
- enthusiasm [in´θju:ziæzəm] n.热心；狂热；爱好 (初中英语单词)
- frankly [´fræŋkli] ad.直率地；慷慨地 (初中英语单词)
- partly [´pɑ:tli] ad.部分地；不完全地 (初中英语单词)
- learnt [lə:nt] learn 的过去式(分词) (初中英语单词)
- wisdom [´wizdəm] n.智慧，聪明，才智 (初中英语单词)
- sentence [´sentəns] n.判决 vt.宣判；处刑 (初中英语单词)
- laughter [´lɑ:ftə] n.笑，笑声 (初中英语单词)
- rarely [´reəli] ad.难得；非凡地 (初中英语单词)
- restless [´restləs] a.没有休息的 (初中英语单词)
- sensation [sen´seiʃən] n.感觉；轰动；轰动一时 (初中英语单词)
- immortal [i´mɔ:təl] a.不死的n.不朽的人物 (初中英语单词)
- attain [ə´tein] v.取得；到达；成为 (初中英语单词)
- dramatic [drə´mætik] a.戏剧的；戏剧般的 (初中英语单词)
- throat [θrəut] n.咽喉；嗓子；出入口 (初中英语单词)
- attractive [ə´træktiv] a.有吸引力；诱人的 (初中英语单词)
- brilliant [´briliənt] a.灿烂的；杰出的 (初中英语单词)
- essential [i´senʃəl] a.必需的 n.要素，要点 (初中英语单词)
- flutter [´flʌtə] vi.飘扬；摆 n.拍动 (初中英语单词)
- spiritual [´spiritʃuəl] a.精神(上)的；神圣的 (初中英语单词)
- lightly [´laitli] ad.轻微地，稍微 (初中英语单词)
- softly [´sɔftli] ad.软化地；柔和地 (初中英语单词)
- garment [´gɑ:mənt] n.衣服，外衣 (初中英语单词)
- purple [´pə:pl] n.紫色 a.紫(红)的 (初中英语单词)
- solemn [´sɔləm] a.严肃的；隆重的 (初中英语单词)
- moonlight [´mu:nlait] n.&a.月光(的) (初中英语单词)
- feather [´feðə] n.羽毛 (初中英语单词)
- funeral [´fju:nərəl] n.葬礼，丧葬；困难 (初中英语单词)
- capture [´kæptʃə] vt.&n.捕获；俘获；夺取 (初中英语单词)
- wealth [welθ] n.财富，财产 (初中英语单词)
- hasten [´heisən] vt.催促；促进 vi.赶紧 (初中英语单词)
- beloved [bi´lʌvd] a.为....所爱的 n.爱人 (初中英语单词)
- waiting [´weitiŋ] n.等候；伺候 (初中英语单词)
- hunter [´hʌntə] n.猎人；猎狗；猎马 (初中英语单词)
- grieve [gri:v] v.&n.(使)悲痛；哀悼 (初中英语单词)
- deliberately [di´libərətli] ad.故意地；慎重地 (高中英语单词)
- exquisite [ik´skwizit] a.精巧的；敏锐的 (高中英语单词)
- oriental [ɔ:ri´entl] a.东方人的 (高中英语单词)
- intellectual [,inti´lektʃuəl] n.知识分子 (高中英语单词)
- critical [´kritikəl] a.批评的；关键性的 (高中英语单词)
- significance [sig´nifikəns] n.意义；重要性 (高中英语单词)
- strove [strəuv] strive的过去式 (高中英语单词)
- temperament [´tempərəmənt] n.气质；性格 (高中英语单词)
- radiant [´reidiənt] a.发光的 n.光源(体) (高中英语单词)
- irregular [i´regjulə] a.不规则的；不正当的 (高中英语单词)
- solitary [´sɔlitəri] a.独居的；孤独的 (高中英语单词)
- saying [´seiŋ, ´sei-iŋ] n.言语；言论；格言 (高中英语单词)
- kindred [´kindrid] n.亲属关系；同源关系 (高中英语单词)
- peacock [´pi:kɔk] n.(雄)孔雀 vi.炫耀 (高中英语单词)
- mellow [´meləu] a.芳醇的 v.(使)成熟 (高中英语单词)
- aerial [´eəriəl] a.空中的 n.天线 (英语四级单词)
- essence [´esəns] n.本质；要素；精华 (英语四级单词)
- flaming [´fleimiŋ] a.熊熊燃烧的；热情的 (英语四级单词)
- ardent [´ɑ:dənt] a.热心的；热情洋溢的 (英语四级单词)
- sincerity [sin´seriti] n.真诚；诚意 (英语四级单词)
- commonplace [´kɔmənpleis] a.平凡的；常见的 (英语四级单词)
- florence [´flɔrəns] n.佛罗伦萨 (英语四级单词)
- rhythm [´riðəm] n.(诗的)韵律；格律 (英语四级单词)
- renounce [ri´nauns] v.拒绝 n.放弃权力 (英语四级单词)
- worldly [´wə:ldli] a.现世的；世俗的 (英语四级单词)
- sorrowful [´sɔrəuful] a.悲伤的，使人伤心的 (英语四级单词)
- glimmer [´glimə] n.&vi.闪光 (英语四级单词)
- incessantly [in´sesntli] ad.不断地，不停地 (英语六级单词)
- vehement [´viəmənt] a.猛烈的；热烈的 (英语六级单词)
- tranquil [´træŋkwil] a.平静的，稳定的 (英语六级单词)
- awakening [ə´weikəniŋ] n.&a.觉醒(中的) (英语六级单词)
- loiter [´lɔitə] v.闲逛，消磨时间 (英语六级单词)
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