酷兔英语
    当前位置:
  1. 首页
  2. 文章
  3. 娱乐英语
  4. 原版小说
  5. 正文

The Golden Threshold-Part4_Sarojini Naidu(1879-1949)_English Literature(文学名著)

0 收藏 0 分享 0 赞

章节正文

Deign, Prince, my tribute to receive,
This lyric offering to your name,

Who round your jewelled scepter bind
The lilies of a poet's fame;

Beneath whose sway concordant dwell
The peoples whom your laws embrace,

In brotherhood of diverse creeds,
And harmony of diverse race:

The votaries of the Prophet's faith,
Of whom you are the crown and chief

And they, who bear on Vedic brows
Their mystic symbols of belief;

And they, who worshipping the sun,
Fled o'er the old Iranian sea;

And they, who bow to Him who trod
The midnight waves of Galilee.

Sweet, sumptuous fables of Baghdad
The splendours of your court recall,

The torches of a Thousand Nights
Blaze through a single festival;

And Saki-singers down the streets,
Pour for us, in a stream divine,

From goblets of your love-ghazals
The rapture of your Sufi wine.

Prince, where your radiant cities smile,
Grim hills their sombre vigils keep,

Your ancient forests hoard and hold
The legends of their centuried sleep;

Your birds of peace white-pinioned float
O'er ruined fort and storied plain,

Your faithful stewards sleepless guard
The harvests of your gold and grain.

God give you joy, God give you grace
To shield the truth and smite the wrong,

To honour Virtue, Valour, Worth.
To cherish faith and foster song.

So may the lustre of your days
Outshine the deeds Firdusi sung,

Your name within a nation's prayer,
Your music on a nation's tongue.

LEILI
The serpents are asleep among the poppies,

The fireflies light the soundless panther's way
To tangled paths where shy gazelles are straying,

And parrot-plumes outshine the dying day.
O soft! the lotus-buds upon the stream

Are stirring like sweet maidens when they dream.
A caste-mark on the azure brows of Heaven,

The golden moon burns sacred, solemn, bright
The winds are dancing in the forest-temple,

And swooning at the holy feet of Night.
Hush! in the silence mystic voices sing

And make the gods their incense-offering.
IN THE FOREST

Here, O my heart, let us burn the dear dreams that are dead,
Here in this wood let us fashion a funeral pyre

Of fallen white petals and leaves that are mellow and red,
Here let us burn them in noon's flaming torches of fire.

We are weary, my heart, we are weary, so long we have borne
The heavy loved burden of dreams that are dead, let us rest,

Let us scatter their ashes away, for a while let us mourn;
We will rest, O my heart, till the shadows are gray in the west.

But soon we must rise, O my heart, we must wander again
Into the war of the world and the strife of the throng;

Let us rise, O my heart, let us gather the dreams that remain,
We will conquer the sorrow of life with the sorrow of song.

PAST AND FUTURE
THE NEW HATH COME AND NOW THE OLD RETIRES:

And so the past becomes a mountain-cell,
Where lone, apart, old hermit-memories dwell

In consecrated calm, forgotten yet
Of the keen heart that hastens to forget

Old longings in fulfilling new desires.
And now the Soul stands in a vague, intense

Expectancy and anguish of suspense,
On the dim chamber-threshold . . . lo! he sees

Like a strange, fated bride as yet unknown,
His timid future shrinking there alone,

Beneath her marriage-veil of mysteries.
LIFE

Children, ye have not lived, to you it seems
Life is a lovely stalactite of dreams,

Or carnival of careless joys that leap
About your hearts like billows on the deep

In flames of amber and of amethyst.
Children, ye have not lived, ye but exist

Till some resistless hour shall rise and move
Your hearts to wake and hunger after love,

And thirst with passionatelonging for the things
That burn your brows with blood-red sufferings.

Till ye have battled with great grief and fears,
And borne the conflict of dream-shattering years,

Wounded with fierce desire and worn with strife,
Children, ye have not lived: for this is life.

THE POET'S LOVE-SONG
In noon-tide hours, O Love, secure and strong,

I need thee not; mad dreams are mine to bind
The world to my desire, and hold the wind

A voiceless captive to my conquering song.
I need thee not, I am content with these:

Keep silence in thy soul, beyond the seas!
But in the desolate hour of midnight, when

An ecstasy of starry silence sleeps
On the still mountains and the soundless deeps,

And my soul hungers for thy voice, O then,
Love, like the magic of wild melodies,

Let thy soul answer mine across the seas.
TO THE GOD OF PAIN

Unwilling priestess in thy cruel fane,
Long hast thou held me, pitiless god of Pain,

Bound to thy worship by reluctant vows,
My tired breast girt with suffering, and my brows

Anointed with perpetual weariness.
Long have I borne thy service, through the stress

Of rigorous years, sad days and slumberless nights,
Performing thine inexorable rites.

For thy dark altars, balm nor milk nor rice,
But mine own soul thou'st ta'en for sacrifice:

All the rich honey of my youth's desire,
And all the sweet oils from my crushed life drawn,

And all my flower-like dreams and gem-like fire
Of hopes up-leaping like the light of dawn.

I have no more to give, all that was mine
Is laid, a wrested tribute, at thy shrine;

Let me depart, for my whole soul is wrung,
And all my cheerless orisons are sung;

Let me depart, with faint limbs let me creep
To some dim shade and sink me down to sleep.

THE SONG OF PRINCESS ZEB-UN-NISSA
IN PRAISE OF HER OWN BEAUTY

(From the Persian)
When from my cheek I lift my veil,

The roses turn with envy pale,
And from their pierced hearts, rich with pain,

Send forth their fragrance like a wail.
Or if perchance one perfumed tress

Be lowered to the wind's caress,
The honeyed hyacinths complain,

And languish in a sweet distress.
And, when I pause, still groves among,

(Such loveliness is mine) a throng
Of nightingales awake and strain

Their souls into a quivering song.
INDIAN DANCERS

Eyes ravished with rapture, celestially panting,
what passionate bosoms aflaming with

fire
Drink deep of the hush of the hyacinth

heavens that glimmer around them in
fountains of light;

O wild and entrancing the strain of keen music
that cleaveth the stars like a wail of

desire,
And beautiful dancers with houri-like faces

bewitch the voluptuous watches of
night.

The scents of red roses and sandalwood flutter
and die in the maze of their gem-tangled

hair,
And smiles are entwining like magical ser-

pents the poppies of lips that are opiate-
sweet;

Their glittering garments of purple are burn-
ing like tremulous dawns in the quiver-

ing air,
And exquisite, subtle and slow are the tinkle

and tread of their rhythmical, slumber-
soft feet.

Now silent, now singing and swaying and swing-
ing, like blossoms that bend to the

breezes or showers,
Now wantonly winding, they flash, now they

falter, and, lingering, languish in radiant
choir;

Their jewel-girt arms and warm, wavering, lily-
long fingers enchant through melodious

hours,
Eyes ravished with rapture, celestially pant-

ing, what passionate bosoms aflaming
with fire!

MY DEAD DREAM
Have you found me, at last, O my Dream?

Seven aeons ago
You died and I buried you deep under forests

of snow.
Why have you come hither? Who bade you

awake from your sleep
And track me beyond the cerulean foam of the

deep?
Would you tear from my lintels these sacred

green garlands of leaves?
Would you scare the white, nested, wild

pigeons of joy from my eaves?
Would you touch and defile with dead fingers

the robes of my priest?
Would you weave your dim moan with the

chantings of love at my feast?
Go back to your grave, O my Dream, under

forests of snow,
Where a heart-riven child hid you once, seven

aeons ago.


文章标签:名著  

章节正文
Copyright © 2023 Qeto All rights reserved.
商务合作 | 联系我们 | 关于我们 | 版权声明 | 隐私条款 | 如果智培

京ICP备05059198号-1 京公网安备 11011202003401号