流萤集 第四章（1）
《园丁集》作者：（印度）泰戈尔（Tagore，… 2017-04-14 03:38
流萤集 第四章（1）
Let not my love be a burden on you, my friend, know that it pays itself.
Dawn plays her lute before the gate of darkness, and naturally vanish when the sun comes out.
Beauty is truth’s smile when she beholds her own face in a perfect mirror.
The dew-drop knows the sun only within its own tiny orb.
Forlorn thoughts from the forsaken hive of all ages, swarming in the air, hum round my heart and seek my voice.
The desert is imprisoned the wall of its unbounded barrenness.
In the thrill of little leaves I see the air’s invisible dance, and in their glimmering the secret heart beats of the sky.
You are like a flowering tree, amazed when I praise you for your gifts.
The earth’s sacrificial fire flames up in her trees, scattering sparks in flowers.
Forests, the clouds of earth, hold their silence up to the sky, and clouds from above come down in resonant showers.
The world speaks to me in pictures, my soul answers in music.
The sky tells its beads all night on the countless stars in memory of the sun.
The darkness of night, like pain, is dumb, the darkness of dawn, like peace, is silent.
Pride engraves his frowns in stones, love offers her surrender in flowers.
The obsequious brush curtails truth in deference to the canvas which is narrow.
The hill in its longing for the far-away sky wishes to be like the cloud with its endless urge of seeking.
To justify their own spilling of ink they spell the day as night.
Profit smiles on goodness when the good is profitable.
In its swelling pride the bubble doubts the truth of the sea, and laughs abursts into emptiness.
Love is an endless mystery, for it has nothing else to explain it.
My clouds, sorrowing in the dark, forget that they themselves have hided the sun.
Man discovers his own wealth when God comes to ask gifts of him.
You leave your memory as a flame to my lonely lamp of separation.
I came to offer thee a flower, but thou must have all my garden, it is thine.
The picture—a memory of light treasured by the shadow.
It is easy to make faces at the sun. He is exposed by his own light in all directions.
Love remains a secret even when spoken, for only a lover truly knows that he is loved.
History slowly smothers its truth, but hastily struggles to revive it in the terrible penance of pain.
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Let not my love be a burden on you, my friend, know that it pays itself.
Dawn plays her lute before the gate of darkness, and naturally vanish when the sun comes out.
Beauty is truth’s smile when she beholds her own face in a perfect mirror.
The dew-drop knows the sun only within its own tiny orb.
Forlorn thoughts from the forsaken hive of all ages, swarming in the air, hum round my heart and seek my voice.
The desert is imprisoned the wall of its unbounded barrenness.
In the thrill of little leaves I see the air’s invisible dance, and in their glimmering the secret heart beats of the sky.
You are like a flowering tree, amazed when I praise you for your gifts.
The earth’s sacrificial fire flames up in her trees, scattering sparks in flowers.
Forests, the clouds of earth, hold their silence up to the sky, and clouds from above come down in resonant showers.
The world speaks to me in pictures, my soul answers in music.
The sky tells its beads all night on the countless stars in memory of the sun.
The darkness of night, like pain, is dumb, the darkness of dawn, like peace, is silent.
Pride engraves his frowns in stones, love offers her surrender in flowers.
The obsequious brush curtails truth in deference to the canvas which is narrow.
The hill in its longing for the far-away sky wishes to be like the cloud with its endless urge of seeking.
To justify their own spilling of ink they spell the day as night.
Profit smiles on goodness when the good is profitable.
In its swelling pride the bubble doubts the truth of the sea, and laughs abursts into emptiness.
Love is an endless mystery, for it has nothing else to explain it.
My clouds, sorrowing in the dark, forget that they themselves have hided the sun.
Man discovers his own wealth when God comes to ask gifts of him.
You leave your memory as a flame to my lonely lamp of separation.
I came to offer thee a flower, but thou must have all my garden, it is thine.
The picture—a memory of light treasured by the shadow.
It is easy to make faces at the sun. He is exposed by his own light in all directions.
Love remains a secret even when spoken, for only a lover truly knows that he is loved.
History slowly smothers its truth, but hastily struggles to revive it in the terrible penance of pain.