John Keats - God of the Golden Bow 汉译

1

God of the golden bow,

And of the golden lyre,

And of the golden hair,

Charioteer

Round the patient year—

Where, where slept thine ire,

When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath—

Thy laurel, thy glory,

The light of thy story?

Or was I a worm too low-creeping for death,

O Delphic Apollo?

2

The Thunderer grasp’d and grasp’d,

The Thunderer frown’d and frown’d;

The eagle’s feathery mane

For wrath became stiffened; the sound

Of breeding thunder

Went drowsily under,

Muttering to be unbound.

O why didst thou pity and beg for a worm?

Why touch thy soft lute

Till the thunder was mute?

Why was I not crush’d—such a pitiful germ?

O Delphic Apollo!

3

The Pleiades were up,

Watching the silent air;

The seeds and roots in earth

Were swelling for summer fare;

The ocean, its neighbor,

Was at his old labor,

When—who, who did dare

To tie for a moment thy plant round his brow,

And grin and look proudly,

And blaspheme so loudly,

And live for that honor to stoop to thee now,

O Delphic Apollo?

                                1816.