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Music , When Soft Voices Die
(Percy Bysshe Shelley)

Music , when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory -
Odours , when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves , when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts , when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.


³o¬O³·µÜ¬°¤@¦ì·N¤j§Q©h®Q¥ì¦Ì©gÔÕ¼gªº¤@­º¤p¸Ö
.1820¦~10¤ë,³·µÜ
¦]¬°¬Fªv­ì¦]²¾©~·N¤j§Q
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.³·µÜªº·R±¡¤§¹Ú¯}·À¤F,¦ý¥L²`²`Ãh©À³o¦ì¬ü
ÄR¦Ó¯Â±¡ªº©h®Q
,©Ò¥H¼g¤U¤F³o­º¸Ö.ªí²{¤F¸Ö¤H®öº©ªº±¡Ãh.
¥þ½g¨ì¤F³Ì«á¤@¦æ¤~¥X²{¤F"love"³o­Óµü.¸Ö¤H¨S¦³¤@¶}©l´Nª½±µ½Í½×
·R±¡,¦Ó¬O¥©§®¦a¹B¥ÎÃþ¤ñ¤âªk,§â·R±¡¤ñ³ë¬°­µ¼Ö,ªáªºªÚ­»,¥H¤Îª´ºÀ
ªº¸­¤l.¸Ö¤H¤£¬Oªxªx¦a½Í·R±¡,¦Ó¬O­«©ó½Í·í·R¤w®ø¥¢¤£¦b®É,¹ï¸Ö¤H
ªº«ä©À³o¤@¤è­±.¥þ¸Ö¥Î¤F¬Û¦P¥y¦¡ªº±Æ¤ñµ²ºc,§Î¦¡¤W¾ã»ô,´I©ó¬ü·P.
¥þ¸Ö¨S¦³¤@¥yª½±µ§ç±¡ªº¸Ü,¦Ó¬O³q¹L¤TºØ¨Æª«Å¨¦«¥X¨Ó,³Ì«á¨â¦æÂIÃD.

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³ë,¶i¦ÓÁp·Q¨ì·R±¡.·t¥Ü³oºØ«ä©À±N·R§ó¬°±j¯P.
³·µÜ³o¸Ö¨S¦³¤Ó¹Lµh¤£±ý¥Íªº±¡·P,¥L¥Î¤F­µ¼Ö,ª´ºÀ,ªáªºªÚ­»³o¨Ç
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ŪªÌÁÙ·|·P¨ì,³·µÜ¸Ö¤¤ªº·R¦³¤@ºØºë¯«©Ê,²z·Q¤Æ©M§¹¬üªº¥úÀô.¦³¤@
ºØ¯ÂÏ¡ªº¹Úªº¦â±m©M±¡½Õ,¦³¤@ºØ¤£ªg¹Ð¤gªº·L§®©M»´ÆF
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Infant Sorrow
( William Blake )

My mother groaned ! My father wept .
Into the dangerous world I leapt ,
Helpless , naked , piping loud ;
Like a fiend hid in a cloud .

Struggling in my father's hands ,
Striving against my swaddling bands ;
Bound and weary I thought best ,
To sulk upon my mother's breast .

³o¬O¤@­Ó­è¥X¥Í¤£¤[ªºÀ¦¨à»¡ªº¸Ü,¦ý«o¬O¤@­Ó¦h»ò­~µM¤£¦Pªºµe­±!
¥Lªº¥À¿Ë¦b¶ã«|,¤÷¿Ë¦b©âª_.¥L©Ò¬Ý¨ìªº¤£¬O¤÷¥ÀªºªY³ß.¥L¤p¤p¦~¬ö
³º·NÃѨì¦Û¤v¨ª»r»r¨Ó¨ì³o­Ó¦MÀIªº¥@¬É¤W;¥LÀz°Þ¤j­ú,µL¨ÌµL¾a.¥L
¦b¤÷¿Ëªº¤â¤¤±Ã¤ã,ÁٺܤO±Ã²æ»q¦b¨­¤Wªº¥¬±ø,¦ý®{³ÒµL¥\.¥L¨S¦³¤Ñ
¯uªº¯º®e,¨S¦³©¯ºÖ,¨S¦³¦¨¤Hªº«OÅ@,¹ï¥@¬É¥Rº¡®£Äß,¥Í¨Ó¦Û¥Ñ,«o¨ü
¨ì­­¨î.°ß¤@ªº¦w¼¢©M¿ï¾Ü¬O§m¥¤.¾ã½g¬yÅS¥X¤@ºØ²Y«èªº»y½Õ.­È±oª`
·Nªº¬O,¸Ö¤H§âÀ¦¨à¤ñ§@¸úÂæb¶³¤¤ªºÅ]°­,·t¥ÜÀ¦¨à¥»¨Ó¤£¨ü¥ô¦óªk
«hªºÑèÕÀ.¦b¥¬µÜ§Jªºµ§¤U,Å]°­ªº§Î¶H¦³¤@ºØ¿n·¥·N¸q,¬O¯à¶q,¦Û¥Ñ,
«q°fªº¶H¼x.¦]¦¹¦b¦¹¤ñ³ëÀ¦¨à,¦ü¥G¨S¦³¤°»ò¶S¸q.

 

 

Infant Joy
( William Blake )

"I have no name ,
I am but two days old ."
What shall I call thee ?
"I happy am ,
Joy is my name ."
Sweet joy befall thee !

Pretty joy !
Sweet joy but two days old ,
Sweet joy I call thee ;
Thou dost smile ,
I sing the while ,
Sweet joy befall thee .

³o­º¸Öªí²{¤F¤@­ÓÀ¦¨àªºÅw¼Ö¤§±¡.©M<<Infant Sorrow>>¤@¼Ë¤]¬O¤@­Ó
­è¥X¥Í¤£¤[ªºÀ¦¨à»¡ªº¸Ü,¦ý¬O©M«eªÌ«o¬O¤j¤£¦P.¸Öªº¤º®eÌå¨ä²³æ,
³q½g¬v·¸µÛ¤@ºØ¤Ñ¯uµL¨¸,µL©ëµL§ô,¦Û¥Ñ¦Û¦bªºÅw¼Ö®ðª^,¨S¦³µ·²@ªº
«s¶Ë,®£Äß,³s¦¨¤H³£³Q³oºØ®ðª^·P¬V¦Ó¥Ñ°J¦a¯¬ºÖ.¬°¤F»P¤Ñ¯uªº¤º®e
¬Û©M¿Ó,¸Ö¤H¨Ï¥Î¤Fµuªº¸Ö¦æ,¥Îµü°£¤F"befall"³o¤@¥¿¦¡ªºµü¥~,¤]³£Ìå
¨ä²³æ©ú¤F,µ´¤j³¡¤À¬O³æ­µ¸`ªºµü.¯u¥é¦ò¬O¤@­Ó¤ú¤ú¾Ç»yªº«Äµ£­Ê
¦b·O¥À½¥¤U,¥þµM¤£¾å±o¥@¨Æªº³±·t©MÁ}¨¯,¨I®û¦b©¯ºÖ¤§¤¤»¡ªº¸Ü.¬°
¬ð¥X¦ÛµM¬yºZªºÅw¼Ö®ðª^,"joy"¤@µü­«ÂХΤF6¦¸.¾ã­º¸Ö³£·t¥Ü¥X¤@ºØ
¹çÀR,¬X©M,®®¦Õ,´r§Öªº®ÄªG.

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<<Farewell , Love>>

Farewell, Love, and all thy laws forever,
Thy baited books shall tangle me no more;
Senec and Plato call from thy lore,
To perfect wealth my wit for to endeavor.
In blind error when I did persever,
Thy sharp repulse, that prickth aye so sore,
Hath taught me to set in trifles no store
And' scape forth since liberty is lever.
Therefore farewell, go trouble younger hearts,
And in me claim no more authority;
With idle youth go use thy property,
And therein spend thy many brittle darts.
For hitherto though I have lost all my time,
Me lusteth no longer rotten boughs to climb.

¥X¦ÛSir Thomas Wyattªº¤âµ§.
³o¬O¸Ö¤H¨å«¬ªº¤@­º·R±¡¸Ö.¸Ö¤¤ªº"§Ú"©ê«è·R¤Hªº´Ý§Ô,¦y¨èªº¶Ë®`
©MÀ¸§Ë,¥H¤ÎµL¥ð¤îªº§Nºz©M©Ú¥¸,·þ«P¦Û¤vÀ³·í¥R¹ê¦Û¤vªº´¼¼z,¬Ã±¤
¥ú³±,¬Ãµø¤ßÆFªº¦Û¥Ñ.¥D¤H¤½±¡ºü§C¸¨,¤ß±¡µ´±æ,´÷¨D±q·R±¡ªº·Ð´o©M
§é¿i¤¤¸Ñ²æ¥X¨Ó.¸Ö¤¤·t¥Ü¥X¥L¬O·R¤Hªº¥£Áõ,³B©ó¨ä±±¨î©MÅv«Â¤§¤U.
¸ÖªºÅÞ¿è²Õ´µ²ºc©ú´·:«e4¦æª½±µÂI©ú¦Û¤vªººA«×;5-8¦æ¦^¾Ð¤F¦Û¤v¥H
«e·MÄø¦a§Ô¨ü·R¤Hªº°µªk;9-14¦æ,¥H¬è¨Ï¥yªº§Î¦¡,½Ð·R¤H¤£­n¦A¦b"§Ú"
¨­¤W®{³Ò¦a³x«Â,¦}ªí©ú¨M¤ß:"§Ú"ÁöµM¤wµM¤£¥i®¾¦^¦a®ö¶O¤F¥ú³±,¦ý¬O
±q¤µ±N±µ¨ü±Ð°V.³oºØ·R±¡±¡µ²¬O¥ìÄR²ï¥Õ®É¥N¸Öºq±`¨£ªº¥DÃD¤§¤@.·t
¥Ü¥X·R¤HÀ³¸Ó¤Î®É¦a¨É¨ü¥@«Uªº·R.ÁöµMÃh¯S»·¨S¦³¥È¾Ç¬£¸Ö¤¤©ÒªíÅS
±o¨º¼Ë¤jÁx,¦ý¦b¥DÃD¤W¤w¸gªìÅSºÝ­Ù.¸Ö¤¤¹B¥Î¤F¥Í°Êªº¤ñ³ë.

 

 

¡@

My Pretty Rose Tree
(William Blake)

A flower was offered to me ;
Such a flower as May never bore ,
But I said , " I've a Pretty Rose-tree , "
And I passes the sweet flower o'er .
Then I went to my Pretty Rose-tree ,
To tend her by day and by night .
But my Rose turned away with jealousy ,
And her thorns were my only delight .

¦³¤H°e"§Ú"¤@¦·5¤ëùز±¶}ªº³Ì¬üªºªá,¦ý"§Ú"¥H®aùؤw¸g¦³¤@´Ê¦n¬Ýªº
ª´ºÀ¾ð¬°Äy¤f,©Úµ´¤F³o¦·ªá.©ó¬O"§Ú"¦^¨ì®aùØ,¤é¤é©]©]ºë¤ß¦ø­Ô¨º
´Êª´ºÀ¾ð,¨ã¦³¿Ø¨ë·N¨ýªº¬O,ª´ºÀ¾ð¦]¬°¶ú§ª©MÃhºÃ¦Ó¹ï"§Ú"¤£²z¤£
¸B,¥¦ªº¨ë³º¬O"§Ú"±o¨ìªº±©¤@§Ö¼Ö.³o¬O¸Öªºªí¼h·N¸q.¥¦¹ê¦b¤WÄ­²[µÛ
²`¨èªº¶H¼x·N¸q,¤]¤£¶È¶È¯A¤Î¨ì¤F¶Ç²Îªº·R±¡,±B«Ã¤¤ªº©¾¸Û³o¤@­Û²z
°ÝÃD.¸Ö¤¤ªº¨º¦·ªá¶H¼xµÛ¤@¦¸Àò±o¤HÃþ¯Â¼ä¬ü¦nªº·P±¡©MÅw¼Öªº¾÷·|.
¦Ó³o´Êª´ºÀ¾ð¬O¨S¦³·R±¡ªº,»ø¦ºªº±B«Ãªº¶H¼x."§Ú"¥X©ó¥¿²Îªº¹D¼w,¥X
©ó®£Äß©M²Û®¢·P,¾÷±ñ¦æ¨Æ,¥¢¥h¤F¤@¦¸¾÷·|,µ²ªG"§Ú"ªº¬ü¼w¤£¦ý¨S¦³±o
¨ìÀ³¦³ªº¦^³ø,¤Ï¦Ó¨ü¨ì®O¸¨,¼J§Ë©M¶Ë®`.¸Ö¤H·N¹Ïªí©ú,»ø¤Æ¦a«ö¾÷±ñ
ªº¤èªk¦æ¨Æ¬O¨S¦³·N¸qªº.¥¬µÜ§Jªº¥»·N¬O¤Ï¹ï·í®ÉºØºØ§ô¿£¤H¤ßÆF¦Û
¥Ñµo®i,§ã±þ¤H¯à¶qªº±ø±ø®Ø®Ø.

 

 

The Coat
(William Butler Yeats)

I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat ;
But the fools caught it ,
Wore it in the world's eyes
As though they'd wrought it .
Song , let them take it ,
For there's more enterprise
In walking naked .

³o­º¿Ø¨ë­õ²z¸Ö,³q¹L¤@­Óµuµuªº´J¨¥¬G¨Æ(Allegory),¼J¿Ø¤F¨º¨Ç¾÷±ñ¼Ò
¥é§O¤H,§Ëµê§@°²,¤£¸Û¹êªº·MÄøªº³Ã¥ë."coat"¦¹³B¬O­Ó¤ñ³ë,«ü»P¤º®e¦³
¾÷µ²¦X¦b¤@°_ªº§Î¦¡.¸Ö¤H»{¬°,»P¨ä¼Ò¥é,ÅѨú§O¤Hªº³Ò°Ê¦¨ªG,ÁÙ¤£¦p
¤jÁx¦a¥H¥»¨Ó­±¥Ø¥X²{¦b¥@¤H­±«e("Walking naked"Åý¤H·Q°_<<³ò«°>>
¤¤"¯u²z¬O¨ª»r»rªº)¦]¬°³o»Ý­n§ó¤jªº«i®ð.¸Ö¤H¥Î·¥¬°ºë·Òªº¥­©öªº
»y¨¥,«ÕÀqªº»y½Õ,§â¤@­Ó¤H¤H³£À´ªº¹D²z,¥H·¥¬°¶K¤Áªº,¿W¯Sªº§Î¦¡,
§Î¶H¦a¦L¦bŪªÌªº¸£®üùØ.³o­º¸Ö¥H¬¡¥Í¥Íªº¨Ò¤l,µý©ú¤FÃÀ©Mªxªx»¡
±Ðªº¤£¦P.

 

 

John Anderson , My Jo
(Robert Burns)

John Anderson my jo , John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld , John,
Your locks are like the snow,
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson , my jo!

John Anderson my jo , John,
We clamb the hill thegither
And mony a canty day , John,
We've had wi' ane anither;
Now we maun totter down , John ,
And hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson , my jo!

³o¬ORobert Burnsªº¤@­ºµÛ¦WªºÃh¤§§@¡C¥¦¥H¦Ñ°ü¹ï¦ÑÀY¿Ë¤Áµ¶»yªº
¤f§k¡A¦^¾Ð¤F¥L­Ì®¦·Rªº¤@¥Í¡Aºq¹|¤F¤@¹ï¦Ñ¦~¤Ò°ü¥ÕÀY°º¦Ñªº©¾­s
·R±¡¡C

¥Lµ½©ó¦b²½mªº§ç±¡µ§¾¥¤¤¡A¨è¹º¥XÂA©úªº¤Hª«§Î¶H¡C¥L¤£¬O¥H¸Ö¤H
ªº¦Û¨­·P¨ü¥h§ç±¡¼g´º¡A¦Ó¬O³]¨­³B¦a¦a²`¤J¨ì§@«~¤Hª«ªº¤º¤ß¥@¬É
¡A¨Ì¾Ú¥L­Ì¨ãÅ骺©Ê®æ¡B³B¹Ò¡B¦~ÄÖµ¥®t§O¡A¼g¥X¤£¦P¤Hª«ªº¯SÂI¡C
³o­º¸Öµuµuªº¨â¸`¡A´N¨Ï§Ú­Ì¥é¦ò¬Ý¨ì¤@¹ï¥Õ¾v¦Ñ¤H¡A¬Û¿Ë¬Û·R¡A¦}
ªÓ¬Û§ß¡A½w¨B®}¦æªº§Î¶H¡C¤×¨ä¬O¨º·Å¬X¦h±¡¡A¹ï¦Ñ¦ñ¦Ê¯ëÅé¶Kªº¦Ñ
°ü¡A§óµ¹¤H¯d¤UÃø§Ñªº¦L¶H¡C²¼äªº¹ï¤ñ¡A²E¾ëªº¸Ü»y¡A¥Rº¡¤F³Ò°Ê
¤H¥Á²`«pªº±¡½Ë¡C¤W¤s¡B¤U¤sªº´y¼g¡A¬J¥i¹ê«ü¡A¤]·t¥ÜµÛ¤Hªº¥Í©R
»P·R±¡ªº©l²×¡A´J·NÂùÃö¡Aµo¤H²`«ä¡C

¦b·R±¡¸Ö¤¤¿ï¥Î¦Ñ¦~¤H¬°ÃD§÷¡A¦}¤£¦h¨£¡C³o­º¸Ö¥iºâ¬O§O¶}¥Í­±¡C

Burns³o­º¸Ö­ì¨Óªº¥Á¶¡ºqµü¡A·¥¨ä·Æ½]¡B»´¨Ù¡A¦³¤@¨Ç»À«UÃø³ôªºµü
¥y¡C¥L§â¥¦§ï¦¨¤@­º¯u审B©e°ûªº±¡¸Ö¡A¥R¤ÀÅã¥Ü¤F¥L´­ªø±óµu¡B±À
³¯¥X·sªº³Ð³y¤~¯à¡C

 

 

 

Sonnet ( 29 )
(William Shakespeare)

When in disgrace with forture and men's eyes,
I all alond beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, - and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

³o¬O¤@­º¹ï·Rªº¼ö±¡¹|ºq¡C¸Ö¤H¥R¤Àµo´§¤F¤Q¥|¦æ¸Öªºªø³B¡A±Ä¥Î
¤F"¥ý§í«á´­"ªº¤âªk¡A¼h¼h±À¶i¡AªiÄi°_¥ñ¡A¼g¥X¤F«ä·Q·P±¡µo®i
Åܤƪº¹Lµ{¡C¶}ÀY¥|¥y¡A¥ý¬O·P¼Û¦Û¤v³B¹Òªº´dºG¡A¥Í¤£³{®É¡A¨­
¥@Äƹs¡C±µµÛ¥|¥y¡A¶i¤@¨B¦RÅS¦Û¤vªº¦Û¨õ·P¡A¦P§O¤H¬Û¤ñ¡A³B³B
ı±o¦ÛºF§Î©¡A¦Û¼É¦Û±ó¡A§â«è¤Ñ¤×¤H¡Aµh­W¸Uª¬ªº±¡ºü±À¨ì¤F·¥
ÂI¡C¥i¬O¡A±q²Ä¤T¬q°_¡A¸Öªº±¡¶ÕÆJÅÜ¡A¸Ö¤H¬ðµMºë¯«®¶¾Ä¡A¯«ªö
­¸´­¡A¤@¤U¤l°Û¥X¤F³ß®®¡A©ú«GªºÅwºq¡G"¹y®É¹³¯}¾åªº¶³³¶±q³±
Æ{ªº¤j¦a¡A½Ä¤W¤F¤Ñªù"¡C¬°¤°»ò·|µo¥Í³o»ò¤jªºÅܤƩO?¦]¬°"·Q
¨ì¤F§A"¡C¬O·RªºÅ]¤O¦b§áÂà¤F¸Ö¤H¤ß¤¤ªº°®©[¡C³Ì«á¡A¸Ö¤H»¨ÁÚ
¦a°Û¹D¡G
§Ú°OµÛ§Aªº²¢·R¡A´N¬O¬ÃÄ_¡C
±Ð§Ú¤£®h§â³B¹Ò¸ò«Ò¤ý¹ï½Õ¡C
¨â­Óĵ¥yµe¡AÀsÂI·ú¦aÁ`µ²¤F¥þ½g¡A¦P¶}ÀYºc¦¨ÂA©úªº¹ï·Ó¡C¸Ö¤H
±q®ø¨I¨ì®¶¾Ä¡A±qïÊÆ{¨ìªY³ß¡A±q¦Û¨õ¨ì¦Û»¨¡A³o¤@¨ÇÅܤơA¥þ³£
»¡©ú¤F¯Â¯uªº·R¯à¡A²£¥Í±j¤jªº¹ª»R¤O¶q¡Aµ¹¤H«i®ð¡A«H¤ß©M§Æ
±æ¡C³o¤]¥¿¬O³o­º¸Öªº¥DÃD¡C³o­º¸Ö¾ú¨Ó²`¨üŪªÌÅwªï¡A¬O²ï¤h¤ñ
¨È¤Q¥|¦æ¸Ö¤¤³Ì±`³Q¤H¿ï¤Þªº¤@­º¡C

 

 

From Pippa Passes
(Robert Browning)

The year's at the spring ,
And day's at the morn ;
Morning's at seven ;
The hillside's dew-pearled ;
The lark's on the wing ;
The snail's on the thorn :
God's in His heaven------
All's right with the world !

Pippa Passes¬O¥¬®Ô¹çªº¤@³¡¸Ö¶°,¨ä¤¤¥]¬A«Ü¦h¬G¨Æ.Pippa¦b¤@­ÓÀ£º^
¤u¤H¦å¦½ªº¤u¼t°µ¤u.¤@¤Ñ©ñ°²®É,¦o¦b¤jµó¤W°Û°_¤F³o­ººq.Pippa¹ïªÀ
·|ªº³±·t­±¤@µL©Òª¾.¦oªº¤Ñ¯uµL¨¸»P·í®ÉªÀ·|ªºÁà­®§Î¦¨¦y¾Uªº¹ï
¤ñ.³o­º¸Öªº»y¨¥·¥¨ä²³æ,¥i¥H»¡®Ô®Ô¤W¤f.¸Ö¤H³s¥Î±Æ¤ñµ²ºc,¨Ï¾ã­º
¸Öµøı¤W¾ã»ô,²³æ,³o¥¿»P¨àµ£ªº»y¨¥¤@­P.±qÅÞ¿è¤W¬Ý,³o­º¸Ö¤]«Ü¦³
·N«ä.¶}ÀY¤T¦æ,¬O±q®É¶¡¤W±q¤j¨ì¤p¦³³W«ß¦a±Æ¦C,ºò±µ¤U¨Óªº¤T¦æ¥D
­n¬O±q¦aÂI¤W±q°ª¨ì§C¦³§Ç¦a±Æ¦C.Pippa§uµú¤F©u¸`,¤Ñ®ð©M®É¶¡,ÁÙ§u
µú¤Fªá³¾¯óÂÎ.¦o²´«eªº´ºª«¤«µM¦³§Ç,§e²{¥X¤@¤ù¥Í¾÷©M¬¡¤O,¦P®É,¸U
ª«©M¿Ó,¦U±o¨ä©Ò.³Ì«á¨â¦æ¬O¸Öªº¤ÉµØ.Pippaªºµø½u±q¨ãÅ骺´ºª«Âಾ
¨ì¤F¤Ñ¤Wªº¤W«Ò,¦}¥B¶i¦ÓÂkµ²¥X"¥@¬É¸Uª«§¡µL®~".¸Ö¤¤¬v·¸µÛÅw§Ö¤§
±¡.¦ü¥G¥@¬É§¹¬üµL¯Ê,¸Uª«³£ªYªYµM.¦ý³o¥u¬OPippa¦Û¤v¤Ñ¯uªº¤Û·Q,¦}
¤£¬O¸Ö¤Hªº¯u¹êºA«×.¥L¥ÎPippaªº³æ¯Â»P²{¹ê¥@¬Éªº¨¸´c©M¤£©M¿Ó¬Û¹ï
·Ó,¥Øªº¬O­n¼ÉÅS©MÃ@¾ØÁà´cªº¥@¬É.

 

 

 

From The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
(Samuel Taylor Coleridge)

...........
Farewell , farewell !But this I tell
To thee , thou Wedding-Guest!
He prayeth well , who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast .

He prayeth best , who loveth best
All things both great and small ;
For the dear God who loveth us ,
He made and loveth all .

... ...

Wedding-Guest : «ü¸Ö¤H¦Û¤vµêºcªº¤@­Ó¤Hª«,¦b¸Öªº¶}ÀY,¦Ñ¤ô¤â¹J¨£¤F
¤T­Ó­n¥h°Ñ¥[±B®bªº«È¤H,¦Ñ¤ô¤â¯d¦í¤F¨ä¤¤ªº¤@­Ó,§Y³o¸ÌªºWedding-
Guest,³o¦ì«È¤H¦b»P¦Ñ¤ô¤âªº²´¥ú¹ïµø«á,¹³µÛ¤FÅ]¤@¼Ë,¤£±o¤£¨Ä¨Ä¦a
Å¥¥LÁ¿¥Lªº¸g¾ú.

³o¬O¦Ñ¤ô¤â¦b¦V«È¤HÁ¿§¹¦Û¤vªº©_¹J«á,©Ò§@ªºµuµuªº¹D¼w°V»£.¥Lĵ¥Ü
«á¤H,­n¹ï¤W«Ò©Ò³Ð³y©M·Rªº¥ÍÆF¤ßÃh·R©M´L­«,­n¬°¤@¤Á¥Í©R¬èë.¤£
ºÞ¬O¦Û¤vªº¦PÃþÁÙ¬O³¾Ã~,¤£ºÞ¬O°ª¶QªºÁÙ¬O§C½âªº¥Í©R,³£¦³¦Û¤v¥Í©R
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She Dwelt among the Untrodden ways
(William Wordsworth)

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove ,
A maid there was none to praise
And very few to love :

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye !
---Fair as a star , when only one
Is shining in the sky .

She lived unknown , and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be ;
But she is in her grave now , and oh ,
The difference to me !

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©h®Q.²Ä¤@¸`»¡©úÅSÓ}¦í¦b¦h¦ò¬u¯`,¬O¤@¦ìµL¤HºÙ¹|,·¥¤Ö¤HÁé·Rªº©h
®Q.²Ä¤G¸`,¬O¸Ó¸Ö³ÌµÛ¦Wªº¤@¸`,¸Ö¤H¥Î¨â­ÓÂA©ú,¿W¯Sªº¤ñ³ë,¨Ó¬ð¥XÅS
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³ë,¤@­Ó¯A¤Î¦a¤Wªº§Î¶H,¤@­Ó¯A¤Î¤Ñ¤Wªº§Î¶H.³£§é®g¥XÅSÓ}¤º¦bªº¬ü
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ªº,¦Ü°ªµL¤Wªº(´N¹³¤Ñ¤W±©¤@°{Ä£ªº¨ºÁû¬P).²Ä¤T¸`»¡©ú¤FÅSÓ}¥Í®É¤£
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¤@§Î¶H,¥i¥H»¡¬O¤£¦P©ó¨ä¥L¸Ö¤H©Ò¶ì³yªº·R¤H§Î¶H:ÅSÓ}§¹¥þ¥Íªø©M®ø
³u¦b¤j¦ÛµM¤¤,´X¥G©M¤H¥@¹jµ´,»·Â÷¹ÐÄÛ,»P¥@µLª§,»P¦ÛµM¦X¬°¤@Åé,¯Â
¼ä,·S¤H¼¦·R,°Ê¤H¤ß©¶.¸Ó¸Öªº»y½Õ¬O®¾ºq¦¡ªº,·R±¡ªº¥DÃD»P¦º¤`,µh¥¢,
©t¿W,¦ÛµMªº´d¶ËÁpô¦b¤@°_.

 

 

A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal
(William Wordsworth)

A slumber did my spirit seal ;
I had no human fears :
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years .

No motion has she now , no force ;
She neither hears nor sees ;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course
With rocks , and stones , and trees .

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¥Î²{¦b¦¡.¨â­Ó¸Ö¸`ªº¤º®e§Î¦¨¤@ºØÂA©úªº¹ï·Ó:·í¹L¥h¤@°}²¢¹Ú«Ê¦í
"§Ú"ªº¤ßÆF,"§Ú"¨S¦³¤H¶¡ªº®£Äß;¦]¬°¦o¬¡µÛ®É,´N¹³¤@­Ó·P¨ü¤£¨ì¤H¥@
·³¤ë¼vÅTªºª«Åé¤@¼Ë,¥Ã»·¥Rº¡«C¬K¬¡¤O,¤£·|ÅܦÑ.¦b³oºØ¤ßÆF«é±«ªºÂa
Ägª¬ºA¤¤,"§Ú"¨S·Q¨ì·NÃѨì¤Hªº¥Í©Rªº¯Ü®z.¨S¦³·NÃѨì¤@¤Á¥Í©R³£­n
ÁÍ©ó»G¦´,°k²æ¤£¤F·³¤ëªº¼vÅT.²Ä¤G¸`¤¤,"§Ú"ªº¹çÀR¤£´_¦s¦b,¸Ö¤H´y­z
¤FÅSÓ}²{¦bªºª¬ºA:¨S¦³·P©xª¾Ä±;¿Ä¤J¦ÛµMªºÃh©ê,¦¨¬°¦ÛµMªº¤@³¡¤À,
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"¦o"¦º«á¤w¦¨¬°¦ÛµM¥Ã«í¤¤ªº¤@³¡¤À.¦b²Ä¤@¸`¸Ö¤H¹B¥Î¤F¤@­Ó¥Í°Êªº
¤ñ³ë:¥L§â®É¶¡¤ñ³ë¬°¤@­Ó¦³¥Í©RªºªF¦è,¬Ý¤£¨£ªº·³¤ëªº¬y²I¥é¦ò¬O¤@
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­Ì³£»P¦º¤`¦³Ãö;³£ªí¹F¤F"§Ú"ªº´d¶Ë¤§±¡;¤k¥D¤H¤½³£¦º¦b¦ÛµMªºÃh©ê
¤¤,³£±j½Õ¤F¦ÛµMªº¹çÀRªº¤è­±.³­¦ñ¤k¥D¤H¤½ªº¦ÛµM§Î¦¡¤]¬O¨Ç«ù¤[ªº
¨Æª«.¸Ö¤H³q¹L¦ÛµM»P¦º¤`ªºÁpµ¸,±j½Õ¤F¦ÛµM¼¾¼¢¤H¤ßÆF³Ð¶Ëªº¤O¶q,
¦P®É¤]ÁקK¤F¹L¤Àªº¶Ë·P.

 

 

 

The Eagle : A Fragment
(Alfred , Lord Tennyson)

He clasps the crag with crooked hands ;
Close to the sun in lonely lands ,
Ringed with the azure world , he stands .

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls :
He watches from his mountain walls ,
And like a thunderbolt he falls .

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®£©È¨S¦³²Ä¤G­º¸Ö¤ñ¥¦§ó¦¨¥\¡B¶Ç¯«¦a¨è¹º¤FÆNªº§Î¶H¡CÆN¬O¤H­Ì¤ñ¸û
¼ô±xªº³¾¡A¸Ö¤H¨S¦³ªxªx¦a´yø¨e¦p¦óº}«G¡A¦p¦ó¦a¦³¤O¶q¡A¦Ó¬O§ì¦í
¤FÆNªº¨å«¬¯S¼x¡A¨ÏÆNªº§Î¶H¥Ã«í¦a©w®æ¦b¸Ö¤Hµ§¤U¡C¸Ö¤¤ªºÆN¥Î¦³¹_
ªºÂù¤ö§ì¦íÄ󩥡A±q¤sùÙ­Áµø¡A¤S¹³¹p¹q¤@¼Ë°~­¸¤U¨Ó¡A³o¤@§Î¶H°ÊÀR
µ²¦X¡A®Ý®Ý¦p¥Í¡A¸Ö¤H¹G¯u¦a¨è¹º¤FÆN®É¦Ó¯«ºA¦Û­Y¡A­ÁÀý¤j®ü¡A¬yÅS
¥X¤@ºØÄà¤Hªº«ÂÄY©M»¨ÁÚªº®ð¾z¡F®É¦Ó¤SÃzµo¥X¹p¾^¸U¶v¤§¶Õ¡A¡§like
a thunderbolt¡¨³o¤@¥Í°Êªº¤ñ³ë¥R¤À®i¥Ü¤FÆNªº¨³±¶ªº°Ê§@¡A¹G¤Hªº®ð¶Õ
©M¤O¶q¡A§âÆNªº³Ì¤£´M±`ªº¯SÂI¬¡ÆF¬¡²{¦a¦A²{¥X¨Ó¡C¤£¶È¦p¦¹¡A¸Ö¤H
ÁÙ¥ÎÆNªº¥~³¡Àô¹Ò©M¨­Ã䪺´ºª«¡A¨Ó³­Å¨ÆNªº®ð¶Õ¡G¨e¦b¯î²D¤§¦a»P¤Ó
¶§¬°¾F¡A»a¤Ñ¶¦b¥|®Ç¡A¨e­ÁÀýµÛ¤j®üªºÄ¯°Ê¡C³o¬O¤@´T¦h»ò§§Æ[ªºµe
­±¡I¸Ö¤H³Ð³yªºÆNªº°¶¤j§Î¶H¡A¤@Àþ¶¡²`²`¦L¦bŪªÌªº¸£®üùØ¡A屦í¤F
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