流萤集 第四章（1）（2/2）
《园丁集》作者：（印度）泰戈尔（Tagore，… 2017-04-14 03:38
My work is rewarded in daily wages, I wait for my final value in love.
Beauty knows to say“Enough”, barbarism clamours for still more.
God loves to see in me, not his servant, but himself who serves all.
The darkness of night is in harmony with day, the morning of mist is discordant.
In the bounteous time of roses love is wine,—it is food in the f***shed hour when their petals are shed.
An unknown flower in a strange land speaks to the poet, “Are we not of the same soil, my love?”
I am able to love my God , because He gives me freedom to deny Him.
My untuned strings beg for music in their anguished cry of shame.
The worm thinks it strange and foolish that man does not eat his books.
The clouded sky today bears the vision of the shadow of a divine sadness on the forehead of brooding eternity.
The shade of my tree is for passers-by, its fruit for the one for whom I wait.
Flushed with the glow of sunset earth seems like a ripe fruit ready to be harvested by night.
Light accepts darkness for his spouse for the sake of creation.
The reed waits for his master’s breath, the Master goes seeking for his reed.
To the blind pen, the hand that writes is unreal, its writing unmeaning.
The sea smites his own barren breast because he has no flowers to offer to the moon.
The greed for fruit misses the flower.
God in His temple of stars waits for man to bring him his lamp.
The fire restrained in the tree fashions flowers.
Released from bonds, the shameless flame dies in barren ashes.
The sky sets no snare to capture the moon, it is her own freedom which binds her.
The light that fills the sky seeks its limit in a dew-drop on the grass.
Wealth is the burden of bigness, Welfare the fullness of being.
The razor-blade is proud of its keenness when is sneers at the sun.
The butterfly has leisure to love the lotus, not the bee busily touring honey.
Child, thou bring to my heart the babble of the wind and the water, the flowers’ speechless secrets, the clouds’ dreams, the mute gaze of wonder of the morning sky.
The rainbow among the clouds may be great, but the little butterfly among the bushes is greater.
The mist weaves her net round the morning, captivates him, and makes him blind.
The Morning Star whispers to Dawn, “Tell me that you are only for me.”
Beauty knows to say“Enough”, barbarism clamours for still more.
God loves to see in me, not his servant, but himself who serves all.
The darkness of night is in harmony with day, the morning of mist is discordant.
In the bounteous time of roses love is wine,—it is food in the f***shed hour when their petals are shed.
An unknown flower in a strange land speaks to the poet, “Are we not of the same soil, my love?”
I am able to love my God , because He gives me freedom to deny Him.
My untuned strings beg for music in their anguished cry of shame.
The worm thinks it strange and foolish that man does not eat his books.
The clouded sky today bears the vision of the shadow of a divine sadness on the forehead of brooding eternity.
The shade of my tree is for passers-by, its fruit for the one for whom I wait.
Flushed with the glow of sunset earth seems like a ripe fruit ready to be harvested by night.
Light accepts darkness for his spouse for the sake of creation.
The reed waits for his master’s breath, the Master goes seeking for his reed.
To the blind pen, the hand that writes is unreal, its writing unmeaning.
The sea smites his own barren breast because he has no flowers to offer to the moon.
The greed for fruit misses the flower.
God in His temple of stars waits for man to bring him his lamp.
The fire restrained in the tree fashions flowers.
Released from bonds, the shameless flame dies in barren ashes.
The sky sets no snare to capture the moon, it is her own freedom which binds her.
The light that fills the sky seeks its limit in a dew-drop on the grass.
Wealth is the burden of bigness, Welfare the fullness of being.
The razor-blade is proud of its keenness when is sneers at the sun.
The butterfly has leisure to love the lotus, not the bee busily touring honey.
Child, thou bring to my heart the babble of the wind and the water, the flowers’ speechless secrets, the clouds’ dreams, the mute gaze of wonder of the morning sky.
The rainbow among the clouds may be great, but the little butterfly among the bushes is greater.
The mist weaves her net round the morning, captivates him, and makes him blind.
The Morning Star whispers to Dawn, “Tell me that you are only for me.”