Category: Humanities >> Foreign Literature
Analysis:
Shelley (1792-1822) British Romantic poet, published "Atheism" in 1811 Necessity" and soon joined Ireland's national liberation movement. Forced to leave England in 1818, he was caught in a storm in 1822 and drowned in the sea. His works include the long poems "Queen Mab" and "The Uprising of the ***"; the poetic drama "Prometheus Unchained" is his representative work. This is the peak of his creation and a model of Shelley's positive romantic poetry. ; Lyric poems are represented by "Ode to the Skylark" and "Ode to the West Wind". Marx called him a "thorough revolutionary" and Engels called him a "genius allegorist."
To the Skylark
Hello, happy spirit!
You are not like a bird at all,
You come from heaven or near heaven
Pour without hesitation
The melody of the soul that flows like clouds and flowing water.
You are like a fire cloud,
rising from the ground,
rising and rising again,
flying to The blue sky,
keeps soaring while singing, and keeps singing while soaring.
The setting sun sinks into the Western Mountains,
scatters golden flames,
illuminates the clouds,
you are invisible The happy face,
just embarked on the journey, floating and whirling.
The faint purple dusk clouds
dissolve around your voyage,
You are like a star in the sky,
in the bright In the daytime,
Although invisible, I hear your strong joy,
Like a silver celestial body
shooting sharp arrows,
In the clear dawn,
its light gradually dims,
until it is invisible, but we feel that it is right in front of us.
The whole sky and the earth
are resounding with your song,
just like when the night sky is clear and clear,
the moon shines through a lonely Clouds,
shed silver light, letting the clear brilliance overflow the entire heaven.
We don’t know what you are;
What is most like you?
Crystal raindrops pouring from rainbow-like clouds
,
It can’t compare to your rain-like melody.
Like a poet
Hiding in the light of thought,
Singing willingly,
to stir up the world,
Let it sympathize with worries and hopes that it has not noticed.
Just like a lady from a famous family
Living in a deep palace and a high pavilion,
To relieve the sorrow of love,
Whenever there is a quiet moment ,
Let the boudoir be filled with music as sweet as love.
Like a golden firefly
living in the valley of condensation,
it is among the flowers and grass,
spreading the ethereal beam,
It is not seen by people because it is covered by flowers and plants!
It is also like a rose,
She sleeps peacefully among the green leaves,
Encountered the destruction of the hot wind,
Until her beauty
drunken the stupid snitch with excessive sweetness.
The sound of spring rain is crisp,
falling on the shining grass,
the flowers awakened by the raindrops,
and other things,
Although it is clear, fresh, and joyful, it is not as good as your music.
Whether you are an elf or a bird,
please teach us your wonderful thoughts
; I have never understood them:
< p> Praise for love or winewill pour out a flood of heart-wrenching joy.
Regardless of the joy of a wedding song,
or the boldness of a triumphal song,
is nothing compared to your song.
Exaggeration,
only makes people feel that it lacks true feelings?
What kind of object
is the source of your joyful songs?
< p> What kind of waves, mountains, fields?What kind of sky or plain?
Is it the result of unique love, or is it unrelated to pain?
With you Clear joy,
will no longer be tired,
the shadow of trouble and depression
will never attack you;
You love, but never know the sorrow of tiresome love.
Whether you are sleeping or waking up,
your understanding of death is more thorough and real than that of us mortals
p>
Otherwise, how could your song flow so crystal clear?
We look left and right,
Longing for nothingness,
We most A sincere smile
also contains a bit of sadness,
Our sweetest songs pour out our saddest thoughts.
Even if we can reject
hatred, arrogance and fear,
even from the day we are born,
we have never shed tears ,
I don’t know how to get close to your happiness.
The rhythm of all poetry
is not as good as your sound,
All the knowledge of books
is not as good as yours Treasure,
O despiser of the earth, your poetry is unparalleled.
The joy you must be familiar with
Even if you teach me half of it,
Then, the ecstasy of harmony
will be rewarded What?
The world will listen, just like I do now.
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;
< p> Like a star of HeavenIn the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:
Keen as are the arrows< /p>
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,
p>
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 joy
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,< /p>
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;< /p>
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!