解析:
雪萊（1792——1822）英國浪漫主義詩人，1811年發表《無神論的必然性》，不久參加愛爾蘭的民族解放運動。1818年被迫離開英國，1822年遇風暴，溺死在海中。他的作品有長詩《麥布女王》、《 *** 的起義》；詩劇《解放了的普羅米修斯》是代表作，這是他創作的高峰，是雪萊積極浪漫主義詩歌的典範；抒情詩以《雲雀頌》《西風頌》為代表。馬克思稱其為“徹頭徹尾的革命家”，恩格斯稱其為“天才的寓言家”。
致 雲 雀
妳好, 歡樂的精靈!
妳壓根兒不像飛鳥,
妳從天堂或天堂附近
毫不吝惜地傾倒
如同行雲流水壹般的心靈的曲調。
妳就像壹朵火雲,
從地面升騰而起,
上升呵又復上升,
飛到藍色的天際,
歌唱中不斷翺翔, 翺翔中歌聲不止。
沈入西山的夕陽,
噴散金色的光焰,
把朵朵雲霞映亮,
妳像無形的歡顏,
剛剛踏上征途, 飄浮而又飛旋。
淡淡的紫色的暮雲
在妳航程周圍消溶,
妳像天空的壹顆星辰,
在明亮的白晝之中,
雖然隱形, 我卻聽到妳強烈的歡騰,
就像銀色的天體
射出壹支支利箭,
在清朗的曙色裏,
它的明燈漸漸變暗,
直至看不見, 可我們感到它就在眼前。
整個天空和大地
響徹著妳的歌聲,
恰似夜空明凈之時,
月亮透過壹片孤雲,
灑下銀光, 讓清輝漫溢於整個天庭。
我們不知妳是什麽;
什麽東西最像妳?
從彩虹般的雲朵
瀉出的晶瑩雨滴,
也比不上妳的甘霖壹般的旋律。
就像是壹位詩人
藏身於思想之光,
以心甘情願的歌吟,
來把世界激蕩,
讓它去同情它未曾註意的憂患和希望。
就像是名門閨秀
居住在深宮高閣,
為排遣愛的憂愁,
壹到幽靜的時刻,
便讓閨閣蕩漾著甜如愛情的音樂。
就像金色的螢火蟲
棲身凝露的山谷,
它在花草叢中,
擴散空靈的光束,
它不為人們所見, 因為被花草遮住!
又像壹朵玫瑰花,
她在綠葉中安睡,
遇到熱風的糟蹋,
直至她的芳菲
以過分的甜蜜灌醉了魯笨的飛賊。
春雨聲響清脆,
落在閃光的草地,
被雨滴喚醒的花卉,
還有其他的東西,
雖然明澈、清新、歡愉, 卻不及妳的樂曲。
無論妳是精靈還是鳥雀,
都請妳把美妙的思想
教給我們; 我從未領略:
對愛情或美酒的贊揚
會傾瀉出潮水般的心蕩神馳的歡暢。
無論婚歌的歡快,
或凱旋曲的豪放,
比起妳的歌來,
不過是空洞的誇張,
只讓人們感到, 其中缺乏真情實感?
什麽樣兒的物體
是妳歡歌的源泉?
何種波濤、山巒、田地?
怎樣的天空或平原?
是出自獨特的愛情, 還是與痛苦無緣?
有妳清朗的歡欣,
不會再有倦怠,
煩惱郁悶的陰影
決不會向妳襲來;
妳愛, 但永不知道令人厭膩的愛的悲哀。
無論沈睡還是蘇醒,
妳對死的理解,
比我們這些凡人
更加透徹、真切,
否則, 妳的歌怎會流得這般晶瑩清澈?
我們左顧右盼,
渴求虛無之物,
我們最真誠的笑顏
也包含幾分淒楚,
我們最甜美的歌曲傾訴最悲哀的思緒。
縱然我們能夠擯斥
仇恨、傲慢和恐懼,
縱然從出生之日,
就不曾拋灑淚滴,
我也不知怎樣才能夠貼近妳的歡愉。
壹切詩歌的韻律
都比不上妳的音響,
壹切書本的知識
都比不上妳的寶藏,
地面的蔑視者啊, 妳的詩藝舉世無雙。
妳必定熟知的歡愉
哪怕教給我壹半,
那麽, 和諧的狂喜
就嵩諼掖獎咼致?
世界將會側耳細聽, 就像我現在這般。
TO A SKYLARK
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of Heaven
In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear
Until we hardly see--we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud.
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.
Sound of vernal showers
On the inkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus hymeneal
Or triumphal chaunt
Matched with thine, would be all
But an empty vaunt--
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should e near.
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow
The world should listen then, as I am listening now!