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    洛威爾經(jīng)典詩(shī)歌欣賞

    時(shí)間:2024-10-08 10:33:54 詩(shī)歌 我要投稿
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    洛威爾經(jīng)典詩(shī)歌欣賞

      經(jīng)典洛威爾經(jīng)典詩(shī)歌:The Pleiades

      By day you cannot see the sky

    洛威爾經(jīng)典詩(shī)歌欣賞

      For it is up so very high.

      You look and look, but it's so blue

      That you can never see right through.

      But when night comes it is quite plain,

      And all the stars are there again.

      They seem just like old friends to me,

      I've known them all my life you see.

      There is the dipper first, and there

      Is Cassiopeia in her chair,

      Orion's belt, the Milky Way,

      And lots I know but cannot say.

      One group looks like a swarm of bees,

      Papa says they're the Pleiades;

      But I think they must be the toy

      Of some nice little angel boy.

      Perhaps his jackstones which to-day

      He has forgot to put away,

      And left them lying on the sky

      Where he will find them bye and bye.

      I wish he'd come and play with me.

      We'd have such fun, for it would be

      A most unusual thing for boys

      To feel that they had stars for toys!

      經(jīng)典洛威爾詩(shī)歌欣賞:The Fruit Shop

      Cross-ribboned shoes; a muslin gown,

      High-waisted, girdled with bright blue;

      A straw poke bonnet which hid the frown

      She pluckered her little brows into

      As she picked her dainty passage through

      The dusty street. "Ah, Mademoiselle,

      A dirty pathway, we need rain,

      My poor fruits suffer, and the shell

      Of this nut's too big for its kernel, lain

      Here in the sun it has shrunk again.

      The baker down at the corner says

      We need a battle to shake the clouds;

      But I am a man of peace, my ways

      Don't look to the killing of men in crowds.

      Poor fellows with guns and bayonets for shrouds!

      Pray, Mademoiselle, come out of the sun.

      Let me dust off that wicker chair. It's cool

      In here, for the green leaves I have run

      In a curtain over the door, make a pool

      Of shade. You see the pears on that stool --

      The shadow keeps them plump and fair."

      Over the fruiterer's door, the leaves

      Held back the sun, a greenish flare

      Quivered and sparked the shop, the sheaves

      Of sunbeams, glanced from the sign on the eaves,

      Shot from the golden letters, broke

      And splintered to little scattered lights.

      Jeanne Tourmont entered the shop, her poke

      Bonnet tilted itself to rights,

      And her face looked out like the moon on nights

      Of flickering clouds. "Monsieur Popain, I

      Want gooseberries, an apple or two,

      Or excellent plums, but not if they're high;

      Haven't you some which a strong wind blew?

      I've only a couple of francs for you."

      Monsieur Popain shrugged and rubbed his hands.

      What could he do, the times were sad.

      A couple of francs and such demands!

      And asking for fruits a little bad.

      Wind-blown indeed! He never had

      Anything else than the very best.

      He pointed to baskets of blunted pears

      With the thin skin tight like a bursting vest,

      All yellow, and red, and brown, in smears.

      Monsieur Popain's voice denoted tears.

      He took up a pear with tender care,

      And pressed it with his hardened thumb.

      "Smell it, Mademoiselle, the perfume there

      Is like lavender, and sweet thoughts come

      Only from having a dish at home.

      And those grapes! They melt in the mouth like wine,

      Just a click of the tongue, and they burst to honey.

      They're only this morning off the vine,

      And I paid for them down in silver money.

      The Corporal's widow is witness, her pony

      Brought them in at sunrise to-day.

      Those oranges -- Gold! They're almost red.

      They seem little chips just broken away

      From the sun itself. Or perhaps instead

      You'd like a pomegranate, they're rarely gay,

      When you split them the seeds are like crimson spray.

      Yes, they're high, they're high, and those Turkey figs,

      They all come from the South, and Nelson's ships

      Make it a little hard for our rigs.

      They must be forever giving the slips

      To the cursed English, and when men clips

      Through powder to bring them, why dainties mounts

      A bit in price. Those almonds now,

      I'll strip off that husk, when one discounts

      A life or two in a nigger row

      With the man who grew them, it does seem how

      They would come dear; and then the fight

      At sea perhaps, our boats have heels

      And mostly they sail along at night,

      But once in a way they're caught; one feels

      Ivory's not better nor finer -- why peels

      From an almond kernel are worth two sous.

      It's hard to sell them now," he sighed.

      "Purses are tight, but I shall not lose.

      There's plenty of cheaper things to choose."

      He picked some currants out of a wide

      Earthen bowl. "They make the tongue

      Almost fly out to suck them, bride

      Currants they are, they were planted long

      Ago for some new Marquise, among

      Other great beauties, before the Chateau

      Was left to rot. Now the Gardener's wife,

      He that marched off to his death at Marengo,

      Sells them to me; she keeps her life

      From snuffing out, with her pruning knife.

      She's a poor old thing, but she learnt the trade

      When her man was young, and the young Marquis

      Couldn't have enough garden. The flowers he made

      All new! And the fruits! But 'twas said that

      he

      Was no friend to the people, and so they laid

      Some charge against him, a cavalcade

      Of citizens took him away; they meant

      Well, but I think there was some mistake.

      He just pottered round in his garden, bent

      On growing things; we were so awake

      In those days for the New Republic's sake.

      He's gone, and the garden is all that's left

      Not in ruin, but the currants and apricots,

      And peaches, furred and sweet, with a cleft

      Full of morning dew, in those green-glazed pots,

      Why, Mademoiselle, there is never an eft

      Or worm among them, and as for theft,

      How the old woman keeps them I cannot say,

      But they're finer than any grown this way."

      Jeanne Tourmont drew back the filigree ring

      Of her striped silk purse, tipped it upside down

      And shook it, two coins fell with a ding

      Of striking silver, beneath her gown

      One rolled, the other lay, a thing

      Sparked white and sharply glistening,

      In a drop of sunlight between two shades.

      She jerked the purse, took its empty ends

      And crumpled them toward the centre braids.

      The whole collapsed to a mass of blends

      Of colours and stripes. "Monsieur Popain, friends

      We have always been. In the days before

      The Great Revolution my aunt was kind

      When you needed help. You need no more;

      'Tis we now who must beg at your door,

      And will you refuse?" The little man

      Bustled, denied, his heart was good,

      But times were hard. He went to a pan

      And poured upon the counter a flood

      Of pungent raspberries, tanged like wood.

      He took a melon with rough green rind

      And rubbed it well with his apron tip.

      Then he hunted over the shop to find

      Some walnuts cracking at the lip,

      And added to these a barberry slip

      Whose acrid, oval berries hung

      Like fringe and trembled. He reached a round

      Basket, with handles, from where it swung

      Against the wall, laid it on the ground

      And filled it, then he searched and found

      The francs Jeanne Tourmont had let fall.

      "You'll return the basket, Mademoiselle?"

      She smiled, "The next time that I call,

      Monsieur. You know that very well."

      'Twas lightly said, but meant to tell.

      Monsieur Popain bowed, somewhat abashed.

      She took her basket and stepped out.

      The sunlight was so bright it flashed

      Her eyes to blindness, and the rout

      Of the little street was all about.

      Through glare and noise she stumbled, dazed.

      The heavy basket was a care.

      She heard a shout and almost grazed

      The panels of a chaise and pair.

      The postboy yelled, and an amazed

      Face from the carriage window gazed.

      She jumped back just in time, her heart

      Beating with fear. Through whirling light

      The chaise departed, but her smart

      Was keen and bitter. In the white

      Dust of the street she saw a bright

      Streak of colours, wet and gay,

      Red like blood. Crushed but fair,

      Her fruit stained the cobbles of the way.

      Monsieur Popain joined her there.

      "Tiens, Mademoiselle,

      c'est le General Bonaparte,

      partant pour la Guerre!"

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