园丁集 第十二章（1）（2/2）
《园丁集》作者：（印度）泰戈尔（Tagore，… 2017-04-14 03:38
me here to wash their weary feet.
They spread their mats in the courtyard in the dim light of the early moon, and sat and talked of strange lands.
They work refreshed in the morning when birds made them glad, and friendly flowers nodded their heads at them from the wayside.
But no lighted lamp awaited me when I came here.
The black smudges of smoke left by many a forgotten evening lamp stare, like blind eyes, from the wall.
Fireflies flit in the bush near the dried-up pond, and bamboo branches fling their shadows on the grass-grown path.
I am the guest of no one at the end of my day.
The long night is before me, and I am tired.
The Gardener 65
Is that your call again?
The evening has come. Weariness clings around me like the arms of entreating love.
Do you call me?
I had given all my day to you, cruel mistress, must you also rob me of my night?
Somewhere there is an end to everything , and the loneness of the dark is one’s own.
Must your voice cut through it and smite me?
Has the evening no music of sleep at your gate?
Do the silent-winged stars never climb the sky above your pitiless tower?
Do the flowers never drop on the dust in soft death in your garden?
Must you call me, you unquiet one?
Then let the sad eyes of love vainly watch and weep.
Let the lamp burn in the lonely house.
Let the ferry-boat take the weary labourers to their home.
I leave behind my dreams and I hasten to your call.
The Gardener 66
They spread their mats in the courtyard in the dim light of the early moon, and sat and talked of strange lands.
They work refreshed in the morning when birds made them glad, and friendly flowers nodded their heads at them from the wayside.
But no lighted lamp awaited me when I came here.
The black smudges of smoke left by many a forgotten evening lamp stare, like blind eyes, from the wall.
Fireflies flit in the bush near the dried-up pond, and bamboo branches fling their shadows on the grass-grown path.
I am the guest of no one at the end of my day.
The long night is before me, and I am tired.
The Gardener 65
Is that your call again?
The evening has come. Weariness clings around me like the arms of entreating love.
Do you call me?
I had given all my day to you, cruel mistress, must you also rob me of my night?
Somewhere there is an end to everything , and the loneness of the dark is one’s own.
Must your voice cut through it and smite me?
Has the evening no music of sleep at your gate?
Do the silent-winged stars never climb the sky above your pitiless tower?
Do the flowers never drop on the dust in soft death in your garden?
Must you call me, you unquiet one?
Then let the sad eyes of love vainly watch and weep.
Let the lamp burn in the lonely house.
Let the ferry-boat take the weary labourers to their home.
I leave behind my dreams and I hasten to your call.
The Gardener 66