英文詩(shī)詞:感受狄金森的“死亡”

之一：多遠(yuǎn)至天堂

How far is it to Heaven?

As far as Death this way—

Of River or of Ridge beyond

Was no discovery.

How far is it to Hell?

As far as Death this way—

How far left hand the Sepulcher

Defies Topography.

多遠(yuǎn)至天堂?

其遙如死亡;

越過(guò)山與河,

不知路何方.

多遠(yuǎn)至地獄?

其遙如死亡;

多遠(yuǎn)左邊墳,

地形學(xué)難量.

之二： 對(duì)人類而言太晚

It was too late for Man -

But early, yet for God -

Creation - impotent to help -

But Prayer - remained - Our Side -

How excellent the Heaven -

When Earth - cannot be had -

How hospitable - then - the face

Of our Old Neighbor God -

對(duì)人類而言太晚

可對(duì)于上帝還早

創(chuàng)世，虛弱無(wú)力的幫助

可剩下的.，我們還能夠祈禱

當(dāng)?shù)厣喜荒艽嬖?/p>

天堂是何等美妙

那時(shí)，我們老鄰居上帝的表情

會(huì)多么好客，殷勤，周到

注：艾米莉-狄金森 (Emily Dickinson) (1830～1886) ：美國(guó)女詩(shī)人，寫(xiě)過(guò)一千七百多首令人耳目一新的短詩(shī)。詩(shī)風(fēng)獨(dú)特，以文字細(xì)膩、觀察敏銳、意象突出著稱。 題材多半是關(guān)于自然、死亡和永生的。

英文詩(shī)詞

The Nightjar

We loved our nightjar， but she would not stay with us.

We had found her lying as dead， but soft and warm，

Under the apple tree beside the old thatched wall.

Two days we kept her in a basket by the fire，

Fed her and thought she well might live ？ till suddenly

I the very moment of most confiding hope

She arised herself all tense， qivered and drooped and died.

Tears sprang into my eyes- why not？ The heart of man

Soon sets itself to love a living companion，

The more so if by chance it asks some care of him.

And this one had the kind of loveliness that goes

Far deeper than the optic nerve- full fathom five

To the soul抯ocean cave， where Wonder and Reason

Tell their alternate dreams of how the world was made.

So wonderful she was-her wings the wings of night

But powdered here and therewith tiny golden clouds

And wave-line markings like sea-ripples on the sand.

O how I wish I might never forget that bird-

Never！

But even now， like all beauty of earth，

She is fading from me into the dusk of Time.

英文詩(shī)詞：Then

by Spencer Reece

I was a full-time house sitter. I had no title.

I lived in a farmhouse， on a small hill，

surrounded by 100 acres. All was still.

The fields were in a government program

that paid farmers to abandon them. Perfect.

I overlooked Union Lake， a small lake，

with a small ugly island in the middle

a sort of mistake， a cluster of dead elms

encircled by marsh， resembling a smear

of oil paint left to congeal on a palette.

Pesticides farmers sprayed on their crops

over the years had drained into the lake

and made the water black， the fish shake.

About the family that built the house

I knew nothing. Built in 1865，

perhaps they came after the Civil War？

It was a simple house. Two stories.

Six rooms. Every wall crooked.

Before the house， Indians camped there.

If you listened you could hear them.

On Sunday afternoons in early June，

the sun would burnish the interiors.

Shafts of light fell across the rooms.

An old gray cat sparred his mote-swirls.

Up a tiny staircase， ladder steep，

I was often found， adrift， half asleep.

I forgot words， where I lived， my dreams.

Mirrors around the house， those streams，

ran out of gossip. The walls absorbed me.

There was every indication I was safe there.

Outside， children sang， sweetening the air：

Row， row， row your boat， gently down the stream.

Merrily， merrily， merrily， merrily， life is but a dream . . .

their fingers marrying each other with ease

as the dark built its scaffolding above the trees.

Peonies spoiled， dye ran from their centers.

Often， the lawn was covered by a fine soft rain.

Days disappeared as quickly as they came.

The children receded. The moon rose.

Cows paused on the wild green plain

of all that land still left uncommercialized.

Three years I had there. Alone. At peace.

Often I awoke as the light began to cease.

The house breathed and shook like a lover

as I took for myself time needed to recover.

ATurningPoint英文詩(shī)詞

A Turning Point

Seventy years ago I was quite a small little girl, the baby of the family, with an older brother and sister.My father was very ill at the time, and my mother took in sewing of any kind so we could live.She would sew far into the night with nothing but dim gas mantles and an old treadle sewing machine.She never complained even when the fire would be low and the food very scarce.She would sew until the early hours of morning.

Things were very bad that particular winter.Then a letter came from where her sewing machine was purchased, stating that they would have to pick up her machine the next day unless payments were brought up to date.I remember when she read the letter I became frightened; I could picture us starving to death and all sorts of things that could come to a child‘s mind.My mother did not appear to be worried, however, and seemed to be quite calm about the matter.I, on the other hand, cried myself to sleep, wondering what would become of our family.Mother said God would not fail her, that he never had.I couldn‘t see how God was going to help us keep this old sewing machine.

The day the men were to come for our only means of support, there was a knock at the kitchen door.I was frightened as a child would be, for I was sure it was those dreaded men.Instead, a nicely dressed man stood at our door with a darling baby in his arms.

He asked my mother if she was Mrs. Hill.When she said she was, he said, "I‘m in trouble this morning and you have been recommended by the druggist and grocer down the street as an honest and wonderful woman.My wife was rushed to the hospital this morning, and since we have no relatives here, and I must open my dentist office, I have nowhere to leave my baby.Could you possibly take care of her for a few days?"He continued, "I will pay you in advance."With this he took out ten dollars and gave it to my mother.

Mother said, "Yes, yes, I will be glad to do so," and took the baby from his arms.When the man left, Mother turned to me with tears streaming down a face that looked as though a light was shining on it.She said, "I knew God would never let them take away my machine."

Reprinted by permission of Adeline Perkins (c) 1998 from A 5th Portion of Chicken Soup for the Soul by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen.In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent.All rights reserved.