一种艺术
失落的艺术不难掌握；
那么多事物充斥在一起
失去并不是灾难。
每天都失去些什么。因为丢掉门的
钥匙而失魂落魄，时间白白地熬过。
失落的艺术不难对付。
接着又失去得更远，更快；
地址、姓名，你本来要到那里
旅游，这一切不会给你带来灾难。
我丢了母亲的表。看！我最后的，
我几乎最后的可爱的归宿也已失去
失落的艺术不难对付。
我失掉两个可爱的城市。更远一点
两个我拥有的王国，两条河，一片大陆。
我想念他们，但这不是灾难。
—即使失去你（幽默的口气，
我爱用的手势）我也不会说谎。
这是事实失落的艺术不难对付
虽然它看上去象一场灾难。
One Art
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Elizabeth Bishop
秋之歌
不久，我们将沉入黑色的寒冷。
别了，短暂的夏之明灿！
我已听见槁木坠落，以肃杀之冲击，
于院中的石子路上。
整个的冬将深入我的体躯：愤怒、憎恨、
战栗、厌恶，艰难的、被强迫的工作。
如极地阴府中的太阳，
我的心将是一个红色的冰凉块垒。
我战栗地聆听萧萧落木，
磔架的构筑也没有如此低沉的回响。
我心如一个斜塔，
倒塌于沉重而不休止的锤击之下。
聆听这单调的冲击，
我仿佛觉得有人在急促地钉着一具棺木。
为谁？——昨天是夏，而秋季已临！
这神秘之音宛若骊歌。
Song of Autumn
Soon we shall plunge into the cold darkness;
Farewell, vivid brightness of our short-lived summers!
Already I hear the dismal sound of firewood
Falling with a clatter on the courtyard pavements.
All winter will possess my being: wrath,
Hate, horror, shivering, hard, forced labor,
And, like the sun in his polar Hades,
My heart will be no more than a frozen red block.
All atremble I listen to each falling log;
The building of a scaffold has no duller sound.
My spirit resembles the tower which crumbles
Under the tireless blows of the battering ram.
It seems to me, lulled by these monotonous shocks,
That somewhere they’re nailing a coffin, in great haste.
For whom? — Yesterday was summer; here is autumn
That mysterious noise sounds like a departure.
Charles Baudelaire FR/EN
一百首爱的十四行诗94
假如我死了，请你以纯粹的力量继续存活，
好让苍白和寒冷怒火中烧；
请闪动你那无法磨灭的眼睛，从南方到南方，
从太阳到太阳，直到你的嘴歌唱如吉他。
我不希望你的笑声或脚步摇摆不定，
我不希望我的快乐遗产亡失；
别对着我的胸膛呼喊，我不在那儿。
请你像住进房子一样，住进我的离开。
离开是如此巨大的房子，
你将穿行过墙壁
把图画挂在纯然的大气之中。
离开是如此透明的房子，
即便死了，我也将在那里看着你，
倘使你受苦，亲爱的，我将再死一次。
Sonnet XCIV
If I die, survive me with such sheer force
that you waken the furies of the pallid and the cold,
from south to south lift your indelible eyes,
from sun to sun dream through your singing mouth.
I don’t want your laughter or your steps to waver,
I don’t want my heritage of joy to die.
Don’t call up my person. I am absent.
Live in my absence as if in a house.
Absence is a house so vast
that inside you will pass through its walls
and hang pictures on the air
Absence is a house so transparent
that I, lifeless, will see you, living,
and if you suffer, my love, I will die again.
Pablo Neruda ES/EN
