门掩斜阳， 满院里、零花瘦草。 疏帘卷、纸窗风紧，玉炉烟袅。 天末数声征雁过， 林边几点归鸦噪。 悄无人、落叶冷空阶，红谁扫。
题不尽， 伤心稿。 消不尽， 闲烦恼。 算眼前愁境， 又添诗料。 翠影自怜双袖薄， 病魂已约三秋老。 待巡檐、索笑问寒梅， 春还早。
Man jiang hong Wu
Zao
A
gate shut in twilight, A
yard full of forlorn flowers, thinning grasses! The
sparse shades rolled up, The
wind presses the papered window As
smoke from the jade urn curls out. A
few cries from the sky’s edgemigrant geese pass; Some
specks by the forest-homing crows caw.
Still
and vacant Fallen
leaves trembling on empty steps. Who’d
sweep their red? There’s
no end to writing This
grief-stricken draft; There’s
no end to routing This
idle distress. I
reckon such sad scenes before my eyes As
added matter for verse. My
shadow pities its two slender sleeves. My
sick soul contracted three autumns’ age. Let’s
round the eaves To
ask in jest the freezing plums: Spring’s
too early yet?
（Antony C. Yu 译）
Tune: Man Chiang hung (Full River
Red) Wu
Tsao
Shut
the door against the setting sun The
yard is full of broken flowers, faded glass! Sparse
shades rolled up, the wind blows taunt the paper window Smoke
curls from the incense burner From
the sky’s end cry the migrating geese that have passed From
the edge of the forest caw a few spots of disappearing crows … There
is no one-softly, leaves fall on the cold empty step— Who
swept away the petals?
I
set down endlessly The
draft of a broken heart Words
don’t keep pace With
idle sorrow Whatever
I see Adds
to the stuff of poetry. Even
my own shadow pities me—thin sleeves, Sick
soul already three autumns old— Wait!
Inspect the eaves! Absurd—but ask the freezing plum: Is
it still too soon for spring?
（Julia Landau 译） |
