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楼主 |
发表于 2016-7-8 20:13
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【六】
Dark, dark be reed and rush,
The white dew turns to frost;
What manner of man is this?
Lost?
Gin I rin up,
Gin I go down,
Up stream heavy, there he’d be
In mid water distantly.
Chill, chill be the reeds,
The white dew not yet dry;
What manner of man is he
Under the hanging bank?
Up stream heavily,
Gin I swim down,
On tufted isle
Distantly.
Ever falls dew on bright reeds.
What manner of thing is he
Who seems to be there on the marge
Up stream, to the West, at large?
Hard to go up, to swim, tho’ he seem
There on the isle, mid-stream.
Translated by Ezra Pound (The Confucian Odes, 1954) |
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